The Typewriter

My mechanical skill level is so low, I consider opening an ironing board a mechanical act. But this typewriter is important to me. My Uncle Hebron gave it so me. In fact, he told me he was leaving it to me and then he did. It’s his 1940s Royal typewriter. Every note I’ve ever gotten from Hebron during my entire life was typed on this typewriter. He was still using it when he died at age 93. It’s a family icon, this typewriter. it doesn’t work without ribbon.

Determined, I went on YouTube and discerned the correct year and model of Hebron’s-now-my typewriter. Three different videos I watched to see how to replace the ribbon. I tried to implement what they were demonstrating (well, only two of them; one showed me how to do something I had no need of learning—isn’t that life?) I type and the ribbon hitches like a stuck cow. It’s beyond me.

But in the way of a kind and caring world, I’ve been rescued. The man who was Hebron’s caregiver and best friend for the last years of his life knows who worked on the machine for Hebron. Who, specifically, re-threaded his ribbon. My cousin—because it takes a village, right?—knows exactly where the man’s shop is located. He offered to take me there.

The typewriter weighs like a box of bricks. But I intend to put it in the car and take it to the man. I am imagining his face when Clay and I walk through the door, cradling the typewriter. He will know Hebron is gone. But he’ll know I go on.