When I was seven, I asked Santa Claus for a typewriter. A REAL typewriter, not a toy — on that point, I was very specific.
I remember feeling sure I needed a typewriter. I had no plan as to what I’d do with it. Oh, I’d “play secretary” and type letters or maybe write stories. Somehow, I had the notion, if I had a typewriter, that the words would just flow, unlike the laborious process of penciling block letters on lined newsprint or the faux-cursive I was experimenting with (real handwriting was not in the curriculum until the third grade).
My parents repeatedly asked me if a typewriter was what I REALLY wanted? I matter-of-factly assured them a typewriter was EXACTLY what I wanted and while Santa more commonly brought toys to good little boys and girls, I was confident he’d deliver on my request and was pretty sure I was on the “good” list.
Christmas morning, I awakened first. Tiptoeing down the hallway, my excitement bursting, I rounded the corner and there, under the tree, it sat. Atop its own black leather case was a REAL typewriter. Years later, I would learn that it was a military surplus training typewriter. The keys were different colors to teach learning typists which fingers to use. It also typed only capital letters. My dad paid $5 for it. He’d had quite a challenge finding an affordable real typewriter, just days before Christmas.
I sank to my knees and ran my fingers over the machine, holding my breath. A sheet of paper protruded. MERRY CHRISTMAS, CAROLYN. ENJOY YOUR TYPEWRITER. LOVE, SANTA. This was more than I could keep to myself. Rushing back down the hall, I shouted out, “Santa brought me a typewriter AND HE WROTE ME A LETTER!”
Later that morning, after presents had been opened, pictures taken and breakfast eaten, Mom showed me how to roll a fresh sheet in my beloved typewriter and I was ready to begin. I stared at the white sheet of paper. Frozen. I could not think of a single thing to type.
Writer’s block at seven.
I do not remember you having a typewriter! That’s a great story though.
When I was seven, you were one! Of course you don’t remember. I wish I knew what happened to it. I’ve been browsing antique stores hoping I can find another.