TYPEWRITER

My Mom was a secretary at the same steel plant my Dad worked at: Atlas Steels. Sometimes, Mom would have to do a little work at home. I was always amazed by how quickly my Mom could type, her fingers swiftly moving across the keys. The typewriter emitted a soothing hum, complemented by the rhythmic sounds of the keys being pressed, which sounded like music to me. As a procrastinating kid, I often slowly and inaccurately typed school assignments late on Sunday nights. After enduring my excruciating pick-and-search typing method and frustrated groans for a while, my Mom would inquire about the assignment’s due date and how long I had known about it. My consistent answers were “tomorrow” and “at least two weeks.” Then, she’d help me type while I translated my messy handwriting (which she called “chicken scratch”) for her. We both referred to it as a “typerwriter.” I didn’t know that was wrong until I created this photograph. Who knew that it was a typewriter and not a “typerwriter”? I guess we all make mistakes.