The year was 1953. Mrs. Cook's typing class was in progress, and I can see myself now, her star pupil, sitting at attention, wearing the uniform of the day ... Black and white saddle oxfords, bobby socks rolled down three turns, circular poodle skirt over a crinoline petticoat, a boy's senior ring hanging from a brightly colored silk scarf around my neck. Hair in a ponytail. Tangee lipstick layered across my mouth. I was Indistinguishable from a hundred other girls in our school..
An old Underwood typewriter rested its clumsy weight on my desk. Daddy had bought it used. Several keys hesitated to strike. One flat out refused. Didn't matter. I loved that old machine anyway, and in spite of the high school sweetheart who sat behind me, pulling my hair and laughing when I made mistakes, I became quite proficient at operating the thing.
Out of school, into motherhood, the old Underwood remained faithfully by my side. Keys gathered dust as I stirred oatmeal and sewed curtains, but sometimes, in the dark of night, jumbled thoughts still poured from my head through fingertips racing across the keyboard and stories arranged themselves neatly on paper.
Shoe boxes collected rejection slips.
On rare sweet occasions, something sold.
As my children became young adults, they attempted to improve my lot in life.
"Mama," Patti said, " You've been crippling along with that old manual typewriter for more than 35 years now. You need an electric one."
"No!" falling forward, I wrapped loyal arms around my hopelessly flawed machine. "I don't want anything new. Leave me alone!"
"Mama," said Carmen, "You'd like an electric ..."
"Go away!"
"Mama," said Karen, "It's going to get harder to find parts ..."
"I'm not listening!"
"Are you still typing on that old thing?" Tony asked.
"Smith-Coronas, I just happened to notice, are on sale ..." Honey volunteered.
One day, Karen's prophesy came true. I could no longer find ribbons.
The sale was long since over but I bought a Smith-Corona electric anyway. I hated it when the clerk rang up the sale. I hated it when I installed it on my desk. I hated the way it clicked along as such a brisk pace my fingers could hardly keep up. I hated the damn thing.
Then, I began to love it. Boy! Did I love it! Grudgingly, I told my kids it was okay.
The problem with children is they never leave well enough alone. I had barely settled in to enjoy a long relationship with my new electric friend when Patti was back ...
"You at least need a word processor, Mama."
"Leave me alone, Patti! I will never give up this Smith-Corona. Never! NEVER!"
Two short years later I hurried into the local library looking for a certain book. Reaching to pull a card-file drawer from the cabinet, I was shocked to discover that not only was the drawer missing, the entire cabinet was gone. In its place sat a computer. I was ruined. I knew instantly. I was ruined.
The desk lady showed me how easy it was going to be to move a curser like this and click an arrow like that and, yes, there was the exact book I needed.
The year was 1992. Life, as I had always known it, was fast becoming a fond memory.
I bought a computer and registered for classes. Other students were younger. Their minds were quicker. I was hopelessly out of my depth. Finally, I said to the teacher, "I'm a backward first-grader who has stumbled into a college class here. I can't find a starting place."
"That's because there is no starting place," she explained. "There is no beginning and there is no end." The computer age is like a fast train coming around the curve from one direction ... racing past ... disappearing around a curve in the opposite direction ... never slowing down for a minute. You must jump on mid-stream and learn as much as possible as quickly as possible. There's no other way."
So, I jumped. Old and ill-equiped to learn new things, I hopped on mid-stream as instructed. It was either jump or be forever dependent on desk ladies to move a curser like this and click an arrow like that each time I needed a book from the library. It was either jump or be forever left standing at the station. I jumped.
The year is now 2012. I'm sitting before a new computer. It knows seven million tricks. I understand five of them. That's three more than my lifestyle requires.
Two grandchildren recently escorted me to the mall, picked out what I needed and exchanged technical words fluently with the person handling the sale. Back home again, those same electronically knowledgeable kids unhooked the old and installed the new. I tried not to watch. I refused to listen. They promised I would never even notice the change after they had it programed.
They were right. I didn't.
I love my computer. I admire the magic of a world my generation can never understand.
But sometimes ... gnarled hands forgetting their pain ... my fingers fly across the keyboard of a long-ago Underwood typewriter with sticky keys ... and I am once again seventeen.
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