WHEN I WAS

Admission: I save things. I hoard. Everything that “could” be thrown away, I picture having another purpose, that there still might be some life left hidden within that seemingly useless object.

This 1950s typewriter belonged to my mom. It’s green plastic cover has a large slit. I won’t throw that away either.

I remember my mother typing on this monster, but what she typed remains a mystery. Addresses on letters, perhaps. My older sister used it for school work.

I, too, typed on this (30 pound?) machine – a bit of poetry, a collaborative “screenplay” entitled It Comes From the Heart when I was around fourteen. (It’s awful, but I still have that, too). Each finger-plunk was a major workout and heaven forbid if I ran out of white-out liquid.

Now I have a real, live, computer with easy keyboard action. I don’t need that old typewriter anymore. Am I getting rid of it? Hell, no.

(Besides, it’s too heavy to carry downstairs and out the door.)

Written in Nature

Ripe, the words,

in skies and seas

in sunset’s linger

in summer’s breeze.

Plump, the words,

in rain-filled clouds

or mist-less air

the view surrounds.

the thoughts arouse.

Spiced, the words,

in rushing streams

in forests deep

with endless dreams.

Find them, hold them, smell them, taste!

Interweave what nature’s graced.

**

(The handwriting in the above photoshopped image belongs to John Steinbeck, author)