There’s no particular event in my life I can point to that explains why I love them so much. I just totally dig typewriters: antique, manual typewriters. I like the click clack of the letters. I love the bell on the return carriage.
I tried explain the charm of the clacking and the bell and letters, and he just kept looking at me. He does a really good George Burns act. All he needs is a cigar. I realize, this makes me Gracie Allen in these exchanges, but all the same, I was undeterred in my quest. I tried explaining I planned to type his birthday invitations to get a really great look. “Can’t you just use your shiny MacBook Pro over there and find a font to get the look you’re going for?” He really doesn’t get it.
I found a few on eBay I liked. Some needed more work than others. After a bit of sifting through the clutter, I finally got my very own typewriter.
When he arrived at our home, delivered via UPS instead of the stork, it was like a new puppy. I looked at the bottom of his feet to determine he was a boy. He obviously needed a name. Baby Daddy reminded me he does not participate in my shenanigans, and naming a typewriter falls into that category.
With the help of friends on Twitter, I decided his name should be Hemingway. It’s a sturdy, literary name and I like bourbon and Key West.
Hemingway has taken his place on my roll top desk. I hope he likes his new home.