It's not an HP or a Dell or a Mac-anything. It has no operating system, no battery or cord. It doesn't hum with the rhythm of some electronic power source. It's not portable or mini, and it has no screen. If you tried putting it on your lap, it would probably break your legs, and lifting it requires Herculean effort.
But this piece of machinery––this beautiful piece of equipment made of shiny black steel and studded with keys, their round white faces poking up from the hulking inkiness of this colossus––just as thoroughly represents industry and creativity and communication as any of the most up-to-date gadgets on the market.
Maybe more so.
After all, this antiquated mass of metal is the precursor, the harbinger of things to come.
It is a typewriter.
And not just any typewriter. A Remington, from sometime in the early 1930s, when writers sat in offices heavy with smoke and thick with sarcasm. When women were "gals" and men were "fellas," and the closest thing to an email was a telegram. When "cut and paste" was done with actual scissors and glue, when the end of a page margin required the swift movement of hands to shove the paper drum back into place until a magic bell dinged. Fingers were well-muscled from aggressively typing keys, fingertips blackened with the ink of a thousand ribbons.
True, I might never have plans of actually ever using this wonderful piece of history, but as it sits proudly on the shiny white surface of my desk at home, my typewriter is a reminder.
It speaks of progress, of innovation. Of respect for the written word. Of the importance of communication.
More personally, for me it also represents an affirmation. An unspoken show of support for me and my dreams of being a writer. A confirmation that the people I love believe in me and see talent in me.
This Remington might not be on the leading edge of innovation; but for me, it's priceless.
To Uncle Michael, Kevin, and Grandpa––how can I thank you enough for the joint effort made in finding my treasure? I love you all.
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