I have a typewriter. It’s sits on a bookshelf in my office next to a few of my favorite collected first editions. An old metal collapsible Corona, it’s a Spartan-looking machine with two tin spools that stretch an ink-laden ribbon across the face of its carriage. Individual metal keys labeled with the letters of the alphabet stand out from its frame. When pressed (more like punched), they lift a thin metal arm with the appropriate typeface out of the belly of the beast. The typeface strikes the ink ribbon to stamp its image onto a sheet of paper rolled around the rubber carriage. It still functions (“works” being too strong a word).
My mother gave it to me. The daughter of Polish and German parents, (which is a story all by itself) she grew up in Hamburg, a small town outside of Buffalo, New York. A bright, confident, athletic young woman, she was passionate about music and so impressed her piano teacher that the woman gave her an upright Krakauer piano to further her musical talent. Continue reading →