The perfect crime

I had visions of creating one or more contributions for One Typed Page this past weekend, but that didn’t happen. My wife and I were staying out at our cabin near Oregon’s Mt Hood, where I happen to keep a typewriter on hand should I end up feeling inspired while there. This past weekend was the first time in a while that this actually ended up being the case. It seemed inevitable that I would be doing some typing, or so I thought.

I had remembered to bring along plenty of paper just in case we were running low. I even thought to bring some correction strips with me to have available. It’s a habit that I’m wanting to break one of these days, yet I still find to be comforting. It was nice and cool up near the mountain, which meant that the cabin was actually cold inside. The much needed rain had finally arrived and there was plenty of it. This all made for the perfect moment to make use of the fireplace for the first time this season. Autumn had swooped in quickly, might as well make the most of it.

I pulled my “Desert Sand” Smith-corona Silent Super from its case and sat it down on the old oak library table where I prefer to type. The table sits in front of a window looking out on the forest. It is located right next to the large fireplace, constructed of small boulders that were hauled from the bed of the nearby river many decades ago. Staring out through the window I could see that the moss-strewn branches of the trees were dripping with precipitation. Meanwhile, the nearby fire glowed and crackled as it generated some much appreciated heat. These were what I consider to be ideal writing conditions.

At that point.I proceeded to load two sheets of paper into the trusty Smith-corona, one serving as the backing sheet for the other. As I did this, I couldn’t help but relish the ratcheting sound being made as I wound the paper into position. The mechanical nature of the noises made by the typewriter starkly contrasted everything else that surrounded me, with the exception of the clock on the wall behind me — its gears and levers ticking away. Then I simply sat there for a few minutes, taking everything in as I contemplated what I might actually write about. Surely just one good sentence would be all that was needed to get my creative juices flowing under these circumstances. I sensed that I might be about to create something really special as I waited for inspiration to strike.

Then it hit me. I immediately began putting finger tips to keys, jabbing away at the rock-solid writing instrument designed for the purpose of relaying my thoughts. This was going to be good! Except that it wasn°t. The inspired words flowing from my mind down through my fingers weren’ t being laid down onto the page. After pondering this for longer than I care to admit, it dawned on me that the Smith-corona was without ribbon. It seemed that I had swiped it at some point earlier to use in another machine and had completely forgotten that I had done so. In effect, I had carried out the perfect crime against myself. Not only did I rob the Silent Super of its ribbon, but I robbed myself of the ideal writing moment.

Now back at home, I can’t even recall what great thing I was going to write about. Apparently, that’s gone too, maybe for good. Meanwhile, the Smith-corona (now more silent than super) remains at the cabin waiting for me to return with a fresh ribbon so that we might get back to work once again.

AFTERTHOUGHTS: The sad reality is that these awesome machines called typewriters are only as good as the people using them. Whether that comes down to their ability to type, or to keep the machine maintained, or simply to remember to keep it loaded with a working ribbon. Sigh.