When I left Milwaukee to go to seminary at the end of 1981, I took 2 suitcases of clothes and a portable Royal Typewriter.
I had used that typewriter in high school after I learned to type. All the girls took a mandatory course in which we were taught how to use a typewriter in the 1960’s (that along with being required to wear a skirt). Being able to type with some proficiency – and accuracy, which I can prove now, as I write these words – was expected. And so, using index cards with carefully written notes, along with sources, properly described, I wrote my first term papers on that Royal typewriter. I was good at the writing, which came easily to me.
And I used that typewriter in college. I majored in English literature, and my typing skills came in handy. I was quiet in classes, but I made up for being quiet by being able to write sentences and paragraphs. And I made up for being quiet by being interested in literature: my interest showed in the papers I wrote.
It was Mom’s typewriter. Most of the time, the typewriter sat, covered and locked, on the desk Mom used when she wrote checks or did other business – until I took it over. If I needed to use the typewriter, it was mine. Most of the time, the typewriter took up what was left of the space on the desk – the desk which now sits in the small office my nephew Rainier has for himself at his home in Seattle. When his little girl, Celeste, was an infant, the desk served as a changing table in her bedroom. I’ve told Rainier that his Grandma would be happy to know that her desk was still in use – and by her grandson, of whom she would be proud.
When I left to go to seminary, the typewriter became mine. It sat on the desk in my dorm room, and later in my studio apartment, a third floor walk up in North Berkeley, where my kitchen window overlooked the patio of the Franciscan Seminary next door. On Friday nights, the smell of alcohol drifted up to my window, along with the sounds of laughter and muffled conversation of the aspiring monks below. When I used the typewriter in my studio, I moved it to sit at the table in the kitchen.
When I left seminary and started to serve as a pastor in downtown San Jose, the typewriter moved with me and my husband to Pleasanton. There was a typewriter – an electric typewriter! – in my office in downtown San Jose, and I used that when I was in the office. But shortly after our move to Pleasanton – this being the 1980’s – we purchased our first computer – a little box that had a separate keyboard, and a printer that used a roll of paper to churn out our writings.
And that first computer signaled the end of a long and worthy life for the little Royal typewriter that had served me so well.
Now, that little Royal portable typewriter sits on a shelf in the garage. I rarely take it out, and if I did, it would be to take a look at it again. Instead, it gathers dust. I expect that little Royal portable typewriter to outlive me. It’s a relic from another time, for sure.
