Stored away in the attic, in a sturdy black case, is a manual typewriter. I have held onto it all these years because of sentimental value. It is one of the only things I have left that my parents gave me when I was a teenager.
It was a gift for my 16th birthday. I was a sophomore and wouldn’t take typing until the next school year. My brother told my parents to put it away, to not let me use it at all until I was taught the correct method of typing. I eagerly awaited typing class, thinking I would be the queen of the keyboard.
It didn’t quite work out as I hoped. We were taught about home keys and which fingers were to press which key. Well, I have my own way of doing things. For instance, my husband says the only other person who holds a broom the way I do is Barney Fife. So what? Barney and I get the job done. So I typed my own way, which didn’t go over well with the teacher. Another problem was that I had no self-confidence. I knew where the keys were, but I still had to look to be sure.
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