Look for a new post of Sunday Brunch every month on the first Sunday. This column features Tripod Poems, poetic micro essays inspired by three randomly chosen words. These words become the title of the piece, are contained within the piece and are developed into observations on life in the Southwest and beyond.
Typewriter – Sway – Dust
My step-father, Johannes,
was a Dutch-born piano tuner.
He worked by ear and kept
a small shop where he refurbished
Steinways, Yahamas, Baldwins
and numerous pianos
of lesser-known brands,
both uprights, and lavish grands.
The shop was three blocks
from my elementary school,
Saint Emydius, the Patron Saint
of Earthquakes, situated as it was
in the foggy Ingleside district
of earthquake-prone San Francisco.
In the dark back office of the shop,
sat an old Underwood typewriter,
the heavy kind with the staunch
white keys stamped with black letters,
the metal strike bars, and an ink ribbon.
Johannes typed with his index fingers,
un-rhythmically, tic, tic-tic-tic, tic-tic,
invoices and occasional correspondence.
I coveted that clumsy Underwood,
a romantic icon of the writer’s life,
which I aspired to live, even as a child.
Sadly, that old, funky typewriter
never made its way to me.
I did my BA in Creative Writing
on an electric Olivetti, then spent
years as a secretary on various
IBM Selectrics, typing endless letters
of no import to me, to make money.
Now, my wireless keyboard and iMac
make writing and editing a breeze
by comparison, and I doubt
I would dust off the Underwood,
or go back to such outdated technology.
I rise and write early, and the violent
ticking of an antiquated machine
might wake up the household
and likely irritate the heck out of me.
I’ll admit, romance has its sway.
I have gone online to find
antique Underwoods on eBay.
They are collectors items now,
requiring a hefty outlay
of up to a thousand dollars.
As I don’t have the space
to display one as industrial art,
and the price is so surprisingly high,
I will leave the iconic machine,
dust-free, in my long-term memory.
