My First Typewriter

My foray into writing began when I was in grade school. For my thirteenth birthday I asked for a typewriter, as I though this contraption would help me to write stories that would amaze and astound my friends. My parents, I think, lived to regret this gift.

Many nights I would be in my bedroom, typing away (actually pecking with two fingers in Hemingway style) into the wee hours, my father, periodically, poking his head through the door, squinting into the light and asking, "Can you keep it down? And what in God's name are you writing, anyway?"

Since I enjoyed writing more than many other pursuits, I'm sure my father may have wondered about my sexuality (Good Lord, Pauline, the kid's gay!). But my mother would have pointed out that I had a terrible crush on the creative writing teacher at school, Miss McGee, and I was infatuated with sending "sugar notes" to a girl in my class, trying to impress her with my basketball exploits and my ability to write "Roses are red..." poems on the back of my notebook.

That first manual typewriter, a cheap little Corolla that had to be hammered to make an impression on paper, has had a lasting impression on me.

I just wish I could find Miss McGee and tell her how much I still love her!