I like typewriters. I don’t know why, but I do. It could be the sound they make when someone is feverishly typing away. I used to hear my mother typing late into the night when I was young – often on my father’s dissertation for his Ph.D.. Or, it could be the romanticism for the likes of Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Faulkner forming the classics of their age without the aid of automatic spell-check and grammar correction. There are a lot of connections to these old machines.
Whatever the reason may be, I have a thing for these old beasts. I only have two at this point, which is actually two more than I need – there is no need for another collection in the house. I already have enough cars and trains and books and … or at least some would say I have enough. But is too many ever enough?
The most recent addition to my typewriter fetish came this weekend at a friend’s estate sale. It is a late 1950s Remington Travel-Riter complete with its carrying case. Maybe early ’60s? It was a bargain. How could I resist?
The first typewriter I bought a few months back is a 1940s Underwood. I saw it advertised on Craigslist nearby so went over just to take a look. I found it sitting there in a little flea market on its own typing table looking wonderful in its aging black and gold finish. It spoke to me. Hell, it called to me. Again, How could I resist?
I promise though, I am going to try to stop at two. I really don’t need a bunch of old typewriters cluttering up the house. Besides, I still need to work on my pen collection. And did I mention belt buckles? So I will stop at just two … unless I find a really old one.
