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.