...to my typewriter!
...it seemed appropriate to pull out the old typewriter for this adventure.
It wasn’t easy—such a big klunker to carry down from the attic—all the cobwebs that had accumulated. But now that I’ve started typing it’s all coming back to me. It just wouldn’t be the same typing on a sleek, streamlined computer keyboard.
I remember just where it sat—on the dining room table when the table wasn’t being used for mealtime.
I recall many evenings running into the dining room and finding my dad deep in thought, his mind off in another place another time, the smoke from his pipe swirling gently over his head to the chandelier above. His hands would move swiftly, fingers decisively over the keys stopping only to ponder his next approach. He would lift me up onto his lap and let me know that I had his full attention for that few moments.
"Good night, Mame-doll!" he'd say, and I'd slide down his knee and run upstairs to bed. He would go back to work and I would fall asleep to the rhythmic sound of his typewriter as he worked well into the night.
My Dad was a writer—an ad man, an idea man—and he could create copy that could sell just about anything. That's because he wrote as colorfully as he spoke—he typed faster than anyone I had ever seen type, because he just couldn't wait to get his next idea down on paper. He was excited about life—about creating and it came through in everything he did.
My dad gave me the nick name "Mamie" when I was three years old, a very appropriate name for a Baby Boomer at that time—I was named after Mamie Eisenhower. We had something in common—bangs.
So now you've been introduced ...
to my typewriter,