The Words Remain

I come from writers. My mother was my first influence as a writer; when my brother and I were very young, she wrote stories about our adventures with the neighborhood children. When I was a little older, she wrote novels and poetry.

She had an electric typewriter, of course—but not the ubiquitous IBM Selectric. We had an older, hardcore beast: a gray 1950s-era IBM Model B. The 1960s-era Selectrics were dainty by comparison: available in colorful plastic and self-contained, with their jam-proof golf-ball type head that eliminated the table-shaking carriage returns of the Model B. Mom punched out words by the thousands, through the 1970s and 1980s, while I slept: the clack of the keys, the “ding” and shudder of the carriage return were the lullaby of my childhood.

On such machines, a legacy was crafted. My Papaw Clark wrote his World War II memoir in longhand before having it typed by professionals. I do not know what specific model of typewriter my Grandma Mamie used; I’m told she had a small, gray, portable typewriter. My father recently had her writing scanned and digitized; it runs to hundreds of pages.

My mother, my father and I are working on preserving and publishing this family legacy. We have, at present, ten volumes of nonfiction spanning two centuries and four generations—my grandfather’s World War II memoir, two (possibly three) books’ worth of essays, poetry and diaries written by my Grandma Mamie, a book of letters and another of essays by my mom, my dad’s memoir, and four volumes I have written about my daughters (the fourth generation) and my family–two of which are already available for purchase.

As the project progresses, I’ll share snippets—from my lightweight laptop. The keys still click, just a little, and it does ding—but not for carriage returns. My grandparents are gone, and their typewriters are collector’s items now.

The words remain.