It came home with me. Once it was cleaned up, it seemed to whisper a silent "thank you" and I could see how it used to shine with importance.
I love to look at it. The keys make a satisfying clickety-clack sound if you tap on them, and children are drawn to it like it is a magnet. There is just something about it that begs touching.
I can't help but wonder what was written on it in a time long ago, and by whom. Love letters? A great novel? Poetry that moves the soul? Profound words to live by?How many hands tapped those keys, and at which point did it become a dinosaur? How on earth did it ever wind up in someone's garage sale, all covered in dust and grime and begging to be taken home, cleaned up and loved? These are questions I will never have answers to, but that doesn't really matter anyway. The Little Black Typewriter will have a place here at Chickadee Lane Lodge as long as I live. It serves as a reminder of a time when everything wasn't push-button-automatic, a time when life was lived more deliberately, thoughtfully. It serves as a reminder of the kind of life I want to have.
So welcome to your forever home, Little Black Typewriter. You are here to stay.