I wrestled the typewriter from of its crate. I was pleased it had been so well protected, not the typical experience. The extra armor helped the venerable Smith-Corona Silent to resist a thousand dings as it bounced to my front porch.
The only ding I wanted was the brassy bell at the end of a typed line. Ding, is crisp authority as, “go to the next line”, then the metallic echo fades and the typist pauses. There it is; the meditation of typing with a manual typewriter, cacophony, followed by silence.
As well as I can tell this typewriter was created in 1951. Typical of a machine of its age it had accumulated grime, dirty typefaces (the letters), and had parts hidden in “gunk”. All of this required gentle cleaning and downright scrubbing. It was a usual day at the work bench.
After my ministrations I added a new ribbon and closed the cover with a snap. I cranked the platen knobs and the mechanism rolled a sheet of paper up into proper position. The Smith-Corona Silent was true to its name. It waited. It also inspired me. It propelled me into the realm of writing, and as transported on a new journey, I pressed the keys.
It was a day of joy when I typed a line about a jaunty fox over-leaping a drowsy canine. *
Such a delight. I could get used to it.
*”The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”