typewriter #1

I’m glad my mother insisted that I learn how to type, although the discussion- no, the exchange- was one of the few arguments we ever had. She had decided that I would take typing lessons at the local public high school the summer after my ninth grade year. The private school for girls that I attended definitely did not offer typing classes (or anything else fun and useful like home ec. or woodworking.) Typing sounded dreary and I finally told her I would not do it. I was used to getting my way. To my surprise at the dinner table with my father quietly watching, she leaned toward me and told me in a louder than usual voice that I would attend typing classes at Brookline High and that was the end of it.

I actually enjoyed the mindless work of learning to type; clacking away in a room full of tables each holding a heavy metal dark green manual typewriter. The basement room was cool on a hot July day. I liked being able to measure my progress, each day increasing my words per minute. Pretty soon the sentence that included every letter in the alphabet (or so we were told, I never actually checked) “the quick young fox jumped over the lazy dog” appeared effortlessly on the roll of paper in front of me as my fingers sped across the keys. Right pinky up to the letter P, left pinky up to the letter Q, thumb slamming the space bar. The ding at the end of the line came faster each day and I’d reach up and push the carriage handle with my left hand and start a new line. I felt powerful.

So, as I say, I am glad Mom insisted that I learn to type. I never asked her why she thought this was so important. She could never have imagined that what at the time was a training for being a secretary, now is a key to success at all levels. Maybe she just wanted to be sure I could type my own college essays.