Type

In high school I typed my essays on an old, old typewriter. I suppose it had been my dad's. Not sure, though. He, by the way, was a typist with capital T. I will always remember the fast sound of his typing.

I took a typing class during the summer after 7th grade, so I knew how to type. But mistakes were inevitable. And in college, a messy, erased paper is not to be desired. Thank heaven for the computer we finally got some time in the 1980s. Yes, married with seven children, I was back in school.

In the interim, I had a little baby blue Olympic typewriter. Portable, with a gray case.

My mother had one, too. Same color, same kind of carrying case. The typewriter clicked in and stayed put, and you could type with the machine in or out of the case.

My type was regular; my mother's was script, kind of like this but more so. Almost like someone's very neat handwriting.

When I worked at the Rand Corporation, I used an Electric typewriter. I may have thought that was the epitome of typing luxury. But nothing beats a computer.

I thought of these typing matters the other day in these terms: I wish I still had that little blue Olympic. Or my mother's. Or both. Not for any $ value. Just because. Maybe we get rid of certain things before we recognize their place and value in our lives.

However, I think if I had kept everything I sometimes wish I had kept, my house would be fuller, even, than it is now.