The Reindeer Keeper

When I was a freshman, or maybe a sophomore in high school, one of my classes was typing. Sitting down, looking at the keys for the first time, I never thought I'd be able to master such a funny looking machine. But it wasn't long before I felt comfortable sitting in front of it. That was due to the instructor. She put me at ease. Once I learned where to place my fingers on the keys, I was ready to go. I can still hear her putting the class through drills that taught us the location of the letters on the keys.      "J-K-L-Semicolon." "A-S-D-F."  She'd repeat those drills like stanzas in a song. It wasn't long before I knew the keyboard. I loved sitting there typing with all my peers typing. It was a chorus of the keys. Humming and clicking along. When reaching the end of a line, the sound of bells dinging announced it was time to reach up, move the return bar and start all over again.  My love of typewriters and typing stayed with me long after compl...

I grew up using a typewriter. I must have been eight or nine when I'd take my brother's typewriter into my room-shut the door-and spend what seemed like hours at my pine desk my grandfather made me one year for Christmas typing my stories. The typewriter was the last stage of my process as I'd have the stories written out on lined paper and ready to go under my penname of Maggie O'Shea. I often wonder whatever happened to those early masterpieces or the notebooks with my scribbles. Or that typewriter my brother never knew I borrowed without asking. The use of notebooks continued as I grew up. And so did the use of typewriters. I loved the process-the art of typing. Loved the sound of keys hitting the paper and the bell dinging at the end of a line telling me to pull the shift arm to go back and begin another line. White out was a blessing. If I didn't have any I'd go looking for an eraser. If I couldn't find an eraser I would pull that particular sheet o...