I remember being a little girl and going to my Grammy & Papa’s house. The house was in general pretty uninteresting – besides that I knew Grammy always had some sort of chocolate goodie hidden in a cupboard somewhere. Reese’s? I think.
The house was always in good order. It felt lived in, in that 20-year-old decor kind of way. The basement walls were wood – because that was the in thing back then. It’s where I found the clarinet I ended up playing as my first ever instrument.
The entire basement was finished. It had been my father’s room. There were tons of things down there – but what I remember most is the typewriter.
The typewriter came in a little light blue-gray suitcase. You flipped it open, and there it was.
Grammy taught me how to use it. I would tap, tap, tap on the keys until, ‘Ping!’ The typewriter let me know I was near the edge of the paper. Then I’d zip it back to the other side and keep on writing.
Those were my first stories, my first letters, my first taste of creating my own worlds instead of just reading the ones I found in books.
My Grammy passed away my junior year of college. As we grew up, we grew apart. Her two daughters, my aunts, each had kids much younger than me. It wasn’t a surprise they were closer, even though I have three younger siblings that came after me. Daughters and mothers always are close like that and my father’s relationship with his parents growing up had always been a bit strained.
My Grammy loved us, and we loved her. Life just happens.
Years ago, my Grammy and Papa moved from their rural ranch home to a smaller adult community up in New Hampshire. My Papa, who sometimes calls himself Grandpa when he leaves messages on my phone, is an incredible carpenter, the work he did to their smaller new home is beautiful. We would visit and play Scrabble at the dining room table. Papa and I would talk history. He loves books and he reads the newspaper. He’s hard of hearing now though – though I don’t blame him should he ever turn it off when we fill the room.
Life changed, as it does. My father left. I barely see Papa, no one’s fault but my own at this point. I never saw that typewriter again. It’s probably long been tossed or given to one of the kids, but I’ll always remember that little suitcase was like opening the closet to Narnia. It was freedom, creativity, it was beautiful.
Yesterday, a friend told me to add the ‘Fab’ app to my iPhone. It’s basically like a discounted high-end shopping network. When I opened the app, there it sat looking at me.
The very sight of it made me wistful. Nope, it’s not in a suitcase, and it’s keys aren’t worn from use – but they do have the white-tinged-yellow-from-age look.
Yes, it’s a bright pink, that anyone would look at and think, ‘Really? A pink typewriter?’
Hey – you can get almost anything in any color you want nowadays. I saw actual rainbow roses at a cart the other day. Life’s possibilities are limitless.
I want that typewriter. I need it.
It’s $525 on sale.
I asked Mrs. Claus if she’d go halfsies on it with me for my Christmas gift.
‘You have a computer, what do you need a typewriter for?’
I hummed the song, ‘Parents just don’t understand.’
Add Fab on your iPhone/Android/iPad. You won’t regret it – but your bank account may.