The Typissed . . . . .

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Well, it wasn’t THAT long ago that I learned to type, but it was a long time ago.  I learned on a Royal typewriter, at school.  In fact, as a senior I was typing over 100 words a minute and competed in contests as a member of our high school typing team.  Hard to believe that we had to raise our hand at the end of each line and whang the roller back to the beginning of the line.  And then to do it fast . . and never lose the rhythm.

I didn’t own a typewriter until about my third year in college.  I had saved Christmas money and bought a used small portable typewriter for $25.00.  It wasn’t the best, but I used it for years.  It was on this machine that I typed all the poems I wrote for Hallmark in the 60’s and 70’s,  And then I was able to buy an electric typewriter.  What a thrill that was.  I typed a Christmas letter and it ran off copies.

But when the computer came along, I sold my typewriter, knowing I would never use it again.  I still deal with a keyboard.  That has not changed.  My little carpal tunnel problem is proof.

Another of my old silly poems that daughter Sara found and sent to me this week, was this one.  Obviously it was written back in the days when typing mistakes were very difficult to correct.  Even more difficult were mistakes we made on a blue jel-like sheet that we typed on and then ran through a mimeograph machine to make copies. This had to be a teacher’s nightmare.

So, perhaps after some day of typewriter stress, I wrote this silly verse:

 

My typist has gone on her holiday

My tylist hav gone on a spree

My tyist has gine on hur hooliday

Oh fring back my typist to me.

 

Bring back, bring back,

Oh brung back my tyspist to mer to me

Bring back, bring back,

Oh br*ng bak  nY  i7 57-8w# to mer.

 

For Better or Verse . . . . .

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Sometimes our words follow us.  Yesterday my daughter sent me some things she found tucked into her childhood diary.    I’m guessing I wrote these poems about 60 years ago.  The first one, I’m sure, was written for my mother to thank her for watching the kids while we took a vacation.

THANK YOU, GRANDMAR
       ( A Poem)
Thank you for coming
As sitter and cook;
Thank you for thumbing
Through book after book.
Thank you for mussing
With artwork and messes;
Thank you for fussing
With pigtails and dresses.
Thank you for keeping
The house nice and neat;
Thank you for sweeping
John out of the street.
Thank you for staying
On discipline stern;
Thank you for praying
For our safe return.
               — Doris
Sara also sent this one, which I must have written for the kids:
The Pajama Parade
At eight o’clock sharp
Every night when it’s dark
We have a pajama parade.
We take off our sneakers,
Jump into our sleepers
And march in pajama parade.
Out to the kitchen
With Mother’s permission
We go for a sandwich raid.
Our story’s been read
And we’re hungry for bread
With plenty of marmalade.
Then stack up the dishes
And line up for kisses;
When all of our prayers have been said
The patter of feet
Marks pajama retreat
Parading away to our bed.
         ======================================
         Things from my past, I guess could be worse.
         I think that I’ve always seen life as a verse.
                                            – D. M.
 Note:  Please forgive the way this page looks.  The site keeps changing my spacing.