Typewriter and Winter Days

Christmas mornings feel extra magical when the gifts are toy-like. To me the best part of post-present unwrapping is cracking open a new book, unpacking a new toy, or creating something with new art supplies. This year felt like those childhood Christmas filled with toys to play with long after bows were stuffed in trash bags.

My sister got a typewriter for Christmas. She pulled from a box this heavy, black piece of machinery and set it down next to my new external hard drive. The irony. We both put our gifts to work. Clacking loudly and rhythmically, she inscribed phrases such as, “Happy Christmas Harry” and lines from “Fairytale of New York.” Simultaneously, I took pictures which would later find a home on the piece of machinery I pulled from a box containing a terabyte of digital memory.

The typewriter proves an inalienable truth: words will always remain. The art of story, of stringing sentences together in lines pilled on top of one another to communicate, has the ability to transport us or make us feel or allow us to escape from the monotony we inhabit. The item once devoid of purpose in a technically advancing world somehow reappeared as a useful tool to continue the practice of writing. Old and new. Black and white. Time comes and goes.

Winter days come every year, even if the types of gift beneath the tree are changing. Families will grow or shift and houses may look different. But, there are traditions standing through the ages : the tree, the songs, the warmth of a fire, the smell of coffee, and the joy of opening an anticipated gift. Probably flannel, too. Flannel will remain right next to Harry Potter. Maybe next year we can all get each other something old, something tried and true to help us remember the foundations of our lives, like story, family, and the truth things are always being repurposed for something good and new.