Yesterday I ducked into the antique shop I drive by everyday on my way home from clinic. My brother is getting married next summer, and his fiance mentioned she would like to use vintage mason jars as part of the centerpieces. I made my way to my favorite part of the store past all the glass cases with shiny treasures, all the way at the back to the room with housewares. I entered and there on an antique mahogany dining table was a robin's egg blue vintage typewriter with white keys. I have always, always wanted one.
When I was fourteen, my grandmother gave me a lend of an old type-writer she had been holding for a friend. I barely came out of my room. I wrote stories. I wrote journal entries. I typed up a phone list with all my friends numbers. When I ran out of things to type I cataloged every book in my bookcase, taped a corresponding numbered, lettered tag to the spine of each one creating my very own library.
It was classic, made with heavy metals that gave it a trusty dependability. Nothing like flimsy plastic keyboards of our time. Yes, I know it's not practical. There's just something so dreamy about it to me. Think about all the stories those keys have told over the years! This was Lois Lane's typewriter. This was Nancy Drew's typewriter. I loved the sticky clack-clack of those keys. There's something romantic about a letter typed on an old typewriter. When loved ones of yesteryear were forced to be apart, they received letters typed by the ones they love. Paper they touched, maybe sprayed with perfume and with a picture tucked into the folds.
I didn't even see the clerk walk up to me until he asked me if I needed help and shook me back to reality. I picked up six mason jars, all sizes, and drove home. I won't lie though, the whole time I've been sitting here writing, I've been wishing it was on that heavy, old blue typewriter. Curled up in my chair, soft glow of the lamp, just clack-clack-clacking those keys all night long.