Typewriters
A few of the famous had their preferences. Jack
Kerouac went on the road with his Underwood early thirties
portable Royal Standard. Isak Dinesen, the Danish Dinosaur,
(said with love, she was my hero) used a 1918 Corona No. 3
to serve up "Babette's Feast". An Underwood Standard
Portable was William Faulkner's choice. And, Hemingway?
A portable feast, He! He chose The Corona #3.
Mine was a plain old ordinary Royal, circa 1947,
punched with vigor on its stepladder keys in typing class
under the watchful eye of Ms. Marguerite, whose
married sister shared an infatuation with my wildly handsome
teenage brother. Though no suspicious spouse aborted
his apprenticeship of love, brother and I--Thank you
Republic of Korea-- were tapped by Fate. Off to the Navy,
dallying sibling, while I, young wife two years out of school,
bereft of spouse, my life in limbo, honed my craft
under the Sisters of Saint Joseph (those voluminous
black birds) on hot summer afternoons in
a second-story convent classroom.
In the courtyard below, lantana bloomed,
buzzing with the adoration of bees, and butterflies
flew free from the straitjackets of their cocoons
to an unfettered life, like me, the Army wife.
Korea, being my betrothed.
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