Keys to Wisdom (by Heather Kichner)

A monster-sized dusty old typewriter with chewed-up ribbon has become, for me, a symbol of both my past and my future and also a reminder of my grandfather’s deep wisdom. My Grandfather Hummel, who passed away in 2004, brought language into my childhood through a massive, black, Smith and Corona. I learned to spell and, eventually, to write silly stories and clumsy poems by pressing on those heavy keys, watching them sluggishly strike the inky ribbon. I love the permanence of those typewritten letters; it’s not like word processing today, where letters can so easily be deleted, discarded, replaced. Those letters were heavy; they had gravity, just like the typewriter that made them. Those letters formed weighty words.

In 2004, when my grandfather died, we were all asked to his house to look over his belongings and select keepsakes. I arrived feeling rather uncomfortable with the whole idea, wondering what I could possibly keep that would help me remember what he meant to me. I walked through the door of his house, wishing to see him sitting in the old chair in the corner of the living room, the orange recliner, worn threadbare by many nights of retiring there to watch Wheel of Fortune after a hard day’s work of caring for fruit and Christmas trees and fishing in the local stream. I yearned to see his wiry form under the ugly but familiar multi-colored afghan. What I saw was that typewriter sitting there, worn and neglected. I suddenly knew it would be a link to my past with the man who had taught me to read and to cherish language. We had spent time pouring over Dick and Jane and other books together, but I’m certain it was my time “playing” with the typewriter that shaped me into the writer—the professor—that I am today.

Now, the typewriter sits on a stand in my living room under a piece of artwork called “Hands That Write.” I teach English now, so the beast of a machine reminds me of how I came to love learning, and of all the opportunities ahead of me to share what I love as I teach. My only regret is that my grandfather wasn’t around to see me complete my doctorate. But he knows. Thanks, Grandfather Hummel, for the gift of words and for passing on to your granddaughter hands that write.