In Daddy's Office

I never knew anyone who could type faster than my dad. When he was gone, off selling life insurance, I'd sit at his little black L.C. Smith and let fly my fingers, typing as fast as I could, now and then hitting the space bar the way he did, and usually without paper, although I had been told not to type on the roller.

I always looked for paper on his desk but rarely found a piece that appeared unimportant. Everything my dad did seemed important.

Once I took a clean white letterhead (I should not have done that) and carbon paper and the yellow copy paper Daddy used. I stacked them together and typed out a letter. I could have typed a few real words by then, like cat and snow and soap and dog and Carol, and some others, but I was trying for speed, like my dad, for something important, like my dad, trying for the fast click clack sound my dad could make.

I couldn't do it. I could never do it.

The keys would jam together, and if I couldn't get them untangled, I'd have to sneak away, and hope Daddy didn't know who had been playing in his office.

Now I can type fast, but I use a computer, and the keys fairly fall down for me. Not like his old typewriter.

I wonder what my dad would think of that.