I Finally Found It: A Treasure for the Ages

For about 8 months now I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled for a very special something; a something to take my writing to the next level. A something that may very well transform the consciousness within.

I knew I was waiting for the perfect one. Smooth but worn, like something beautifully eroded through the tenacity of time. All of a sudden, I found it.

An Underwood No. 5: an antique typewriter. This may seem silly to the average person, but to use a typewriter for my most profound thoughts has always been a desire of mine.

My first and only experience with a typewriter was one my grandmother kept. Nana and her husband Charles took a while to come around to the new technology of computers, so they had an old electric typewriter still sitting around from the days of yore (the 1960’s/70’s).

I remember the way it loomed under my fingers. Silky smooth individual keys slid easily under my finger pads. Tiny spaces, very aesthetically pleasing little rays of light bordered every single key. None of them touched. Under gentle pressure, each key gave a satisfying and slightly jolting ‘click’. I remember pounding away at the keys just to sooth my auditory need to hear the clacking hammers against the ink ribbon.

The coolest part was that the letters were instantly printed to the page. Your progress happened in real time, posted and dried. Pulling my first completed page from that typewriter was a feeling I would never again feel…until now.

The Underwood appeared unexpectedly in my Facebook newsfeed, almost divinely. I stopped to gawk at its beauty, thinking it was another stupid ad usurping my timeline. Then, I saw it. The $75 price tag. No, it couldn’t be. For sale? That cheap? Nearby? Before you knew it, I’d clicked on the listing and was sending a message to meet with the seller before I’d even fully read the details.

The gentleman selling the typewriter seemed nice enough. He relayed to me that he runs a small theater near here. I always love community theaters, and their clientele. We agreed to meet at the theatre at noon.

Noon came quickly, and we met at the beautiful community building in the center of town - only, I parked in the parking lot which was at the back an uninviting and deserted scene. However, by the time I checked to see if the third door I found was locked, a truck pulled up.

Out stepped an older gentleman, a man I assumed middle aged.

“Are you selling the type writer?”

“Yes. Are you Sunny?”

“Yep!” I replied somewhat timidly.

He led me to a locked door, took out a key, and opened it. He gestured for me to go in as he said, “We’re going downstairs.”

A dark, sunken staircase lay before me leading to an ever darker basement. I quickly texted my husband the address of where I was in case this now suspicious meeting should go sideways and I ended up on the evening news. Luckily within a few seconds, the nice man stepped in front of me, opened another door, turned on a light and shuffled through ahead of me. Once the fluorescent lights spilled out onto the room, it became clear where we were: a store room.

“So what do you write?” the kindly long haired man asks.

I respond that I write most everything, but scriptwriting (and comedy) is my favorite.

He leads me through a minefield of wonderful, colorful items. Old sets still stand all over the room, brightening the blackened walls. Props lay here, there, and everywhere - relics of old times.

We chat for a moment and I start to feel myself at ease. Then, he shows me the typewriter and immediately I melt.

He explains that it was a donation to their acting group 20 years ago. A woman came in wanting to donate the typewriter to a good cause, somewhere it may get a little use. She tells him that her mother was a writer and it was her typewriter before she passed. Evidently this woman’s mother was an avid writer, and used it to write British mysteries on for years and years. Unfortunately, he didn’t think to ask the mother’s name. In that moment, to me, her name didn’t matter. To know that someone loved writing enough to spend years of their life creating proliferate works of art all from this one machine tugged sorely at my heartstrings. I was sold on it before I knew for sure it even worked. As a storyteller myself, nothing hooks me quite like a good non-fiction retelling. Even beyond that, I could feel, could see that this typewriter had been loved. An instrument of someone who existed before’s genius, and I’d love nothing more than to honor that dedicated genius by restoring the tool and continuing the tradition of putting more of our collective humanity out into the world.

The man continues to say he’s wished he’d learned more about the piece, but he’d been so busy at the time that he just didn’t think twice. I told him it was alright, that what he did know made me fall in love with the typewriter anyway.

Bonding over the art of storytelling and this particular history of the typewriter, we continued into deeper conversation. An actor for over thirty years and founder of this local theatre group, he recounted some poignant, entertaining tales of his life on the road and at home. As much as I got to learn about him, the theater, and the group, it didn’t feel like enough. Sometimes you meet people and you just know you’re cut from similar cloth; that you’ll jive well like pieces of a freshly cut puzzle. This was one of those times, and I found myself finding it easy to chat.

Before our conversations really got going, they came to an end with both of us having other engagements to attend. He kindly loaded the hefty, solid machine into my trunk for me and we each were off again, back to our lives.

He did leave me with one important saying that he learned from his mother following a conversation about the most important pieces of advice for raising children, “Never try to make a pig sing. It won’t work and you’ll only annoy the pig in the process.” I thought it quite droll and effective, worthy of a public share.

Unloading the Underwood at home was quite the task, but I managed. Once inside it became clear just how old (and dirty) this thing is! As I sat it down, I stared for a moment before really touching it. I wonder if it feels like it did before, when I was a child?

Stroking the first key, it did feel reminiscent, but different. The keys are round with the edges raised. The old electric I had typed on before had more modern squared keys. The carefully painted labels on this typewriter are worn, faded, well-loved. Nana’s typewriter had been almost pristine. The more I gaze at the Underwood, the more differences I see. Yet, the familiarly is also striking, bringing me right back to the memory.

Pushing the buttons feels so aggressive now after using a modern computer for most of my life. Ah, but the way those hammers strike the ink ribbon sounds like home. So satisfying and so surreal, a true blast from the past. Getting more and more curious with each button pressed, I pull out my phone to google ‘Underwood No. 5’.

As it turns out, the Underwood No. 5 is known for being the quintessential typewriter when people think of old school typewriters. It was also the most popular mechanical typewriter in history. Businesses and industries of all kinds used them everywhere between 1896 and the 1960’s. This little snippet of knowledge left me floored.

They *stopped* using them in the 60’s? This was obsolete by the 60’s? It dawned on me: This typewriter must be my Nana’s age!

At this, I fell into the google hole ever deeper and found out each typewriter had a serial number, uniquely identifying exactly which typewriter out of more than 3 million that it had been. My heart leapt as I found the spot where the number resided.

My typewriter is in the 1,050,000 range. It has an exact identifying number, but for now that knowledge will just be a special little secret for which only I may indulge. Using the identifying number, I was able to find out that this Underwood was produced somewhere in the year between 1917 and 1918. In short, my typewriter is over 105 years old. Older than my 92 year old Nana.

Something about owning this piece of history excites me in a way I’m rarely stimulated. Knowing I am embarking on a journey to restore this tool to its former glory to then use it to carry on the journey of my life, of my writing, like so many before me, is beyond inspiring. To know that I’m picking up the torch as a woman writer from another woman writer before me is mind-blowing, and a true honor. I feel such a connection to myself, to my womanhood, and to my humanity that I haven’t felt in so long. Finally I feel once again that our stories, no matter how small, are packed full of meaning. Storytelling isn’t the commodity that capitalism attempts to steal from us day in and day out. Storytelling is our spiritual core, our defining characteristic, and our liberation.

I intend to post updates on the restoration of this latest inspiration, but even if this typewriter never worked again, it’s already redeemed itself as a muse, and a link to the one and only, the end all be all - love.