The Typissed . . . . .


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.


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