The Quick Brown Fox

My friend Dayle put this picture up on Facebook this morning, and mentioned the turquoise portable model she'd used in college. Got me to thinking back in time.

Lynn lived around the corner from me and was my BFF for many years. She had a magnificent, albeit very shallow, in-ground pool in her back yard and her basement had a little stage. The people her family had bought the house from were apparently well-to-do, indulgent parents (Lynn's sister Jan's bedroom had "Barry" inscribed in the linoleum on the floor). Her mom was more easy-going than mine, more welcoming of friends, so our main indoor play area was that basement. We devised all kinds of games, re-enactments, and make-believes to fill the long summer days. 

Then there was the typewriter. It was a huge thing, a Remington Rand, and with paper I brought from home (my father was the source), we set up offices, wrote scripts, and generally had limitless creative fun.

I was heartbroken when, at the end of our elementary school years, Lynn's dad took a job in Florida and the family moved. I was at the house on the day before the moving van was to come, and Mr. Cooper said, "Nancy, you've always liked that typewriter. Do you want it?" Movers were paid by the pound, and transporting that RR hulk just wasn't worth the cost. 

I was almost consoled in the loss of my good friend. The typewriter! Mine! I borrowed a wagon from the boy down the street and hauled it home and somehow got it inside. I was so excited. "Look what the Coopers gave me!"

My father, a very wise man, responded, "That was very nice of them. It's too bad you aren't allowed to use it." 

Stopped in my tracks, I suppressed the building outrage within and did my very best listening. 

He continued, "If you play with a typewriter now, when you get to high school and take typing, it will be very hard for you because you'll have bad habits." His Smith-Corona was on his desk, and he was the fastest two-fingered hunt-and-pecker on the face of the earth, I was sure. Then he provided the escape clause: If I was willing to learn to type correctly now, I could have it. The next day he produced a little book about typewriting self-taught. It came with a pull-out chart that he taped on the wall above the machine; it showed the keyboard with the home row keys highlighted. 

And that was how I spent my summer without Lynn. Learning to type. I didn't miss my friend as much as I thought I would! I spent hours in our basement, and when the fox finally jumped over that lazy dog, I don't know who was prouder: me or my father