The summer when I was 12, my grandfather decided it was time for me to learn how to type. He gave me a book with exercises and permission to use his typewriter. Every day, he would make me work at it after lunch. He would sit on a chair in the garden, reading, and I would be upstairs, typing. If he didn’t hear the key strokes, he would call me out to continue.
I remember how I liked changing the paper, the frustration from a mistake at the end of the excercise, finger pain and feeling very grownup, sitting at his desk.
Typing this with my thumbs on the phone, those days seem far behind but I still can hear the key strokes and my grandfather’s voice.