Lucinda Guard Crofton
Once Upon A Typewriter
Alexander Guard l. and Sam Guard Guard r., at home, photograph, 1963
When you look at the two of them, you see a sweet moment captured between father and son. She sees something entirely different. Outside the frame of the picture she waits impatiently, still wearing pyjamas like her brother and big sisters, but hers are the kind with footies that mean ‘Don’t forget to hold on to the banister!’, ‘No running!’, and ‘You’ll slip and fall again.’ She can’t wait to use her long-promised Christmas gift of a typewriter–just like Grandma’s. She can’t wait until that moment when she inserts the first sheet of paper into her shiny, cherry-red machine, rolls it up, and begins to form black words on the white page, one keystroke at a time.
She bounces from one foot to the other in front of the ancient wood-burning fireplace hung with green and red stockings painstakingly sewn by her mother. Each one bears a name spelled out in capital letters. Happy reindeer, snowmen and snowflakes adorn the felt. Most of their goodies have been devoured leaving the stockings half-empty. Smoky peppermint, orange, and melting chocolate tickle her nose, making her hungry for the big Christmas brunch they will soon eat.
In front of the living room windows stands a tree so tall it touches the high ceiling and bends over at the tippy top to fit the shimmering star. Underneath gobs of tinsel are homemade ornaments, paper chains, glass balls from the dime store, and blinking coloured lights. The girl thinks it is the most magnificent tree ever. You don’t see their old black cat in the photo because he’s wandered under the fir tree where he bats at a low hanging angel.
Her middle sister is curled up on the window seat, nose buried in a brand-new book. Every now and again, she takes a break from reading to peer over the top of the pages and check on her family. The eldest sister’s nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, she’s upstairs in the room she doesn’t have to share with anyone, writing in a brand-new diary, before locking up her secrets with its tiny key, or maybe she’s happily cooking with their mother in the kitchen.
Father and son’s new haircuts are stiff with Lucky Tiger ‘not for girls’ Cru-Butch Hair Wax. The little boy rips open the cellophane package and the smell of fresh ink draws the girl closer to the footstool. The father drops the spools into the round slots of the typewriter, then painstakingly feeds the black ribbon through the guides. She watches them try out the platen and make the carriage ding. She can’t believe how long it’s taking. Her father reads the manual aloud while her little brother points at the pictures. He’s just learning his letters, but she…she can already read. She reads the name on the plastic typewriter body–Tom Thumb, turning it into a sing-song while she continues her waiting.
Over their heads, on the ceiling is a water stain shaped like a dragon from that time she was a mermaid swimming in the ocean until the bathtub overflowed. On the far side of the blue armchair a sheet of elegant white marble serves as an end table while hiding the hissing radiator. The DADDY stocking lies atop a stack of newspapers, between a cup of black, sugary coffee and a misshapen ceramic ashtray holding a smouldering cigarette. If you look underneath, you’d see the hole the girl made dotting the i in her name.
When she’s certain she will bust if she has to wait one more second, she hears ‘Ask Mommy for typing paper.’ She tries hard not to wrinkle the onion skin pages while the ‘fix-it guys’ test each and every one of the gleaming white keys. Finally, she’s directed to ‘type slowly and carefully, or the keys will tangle.’
She hunts and pecks out the words ONCE UPON A TIME. Her delight turns to dismay. Unlike Grandma’s off-limits Smith-Corona, which is ‘for grown-ups and is not a plaything’, HER TYPEWRITER IS A TOY–IT ONLY HAS CAPITAL LETTERS! How can she be an Author? Everyone knows Authors need all twenty-six letters in both upper and lowercase.
If there was a photo from a year later, you’d see the father in his armchair reading the local newspaper. Outside the frame of the picture, she stands in her pyjamas bursting with pride. He’s reading her words aloud; words she wrote for the local paper’s annual contest. He announces her poem about SANTA is the first prize winner. In the excitement of the moment, she blurts out her secret–she wants to be an Author. He points out joy doesn’t rhyme with toys and reminds her the family already has a writer. The middle sister publishes a house newspaper and is the designated Author, the eldest sister is the Artist and the boy will be a repairman. Despite the girl’s aversion to blood, her father believes she’d make a fine nurse. Her shoulders slump as her father offers her a tender smile and pats her on the head like she’s a kitty cat.
You cannot see her as she climbs the stairs past the overflowing bookshelves and enters her shared bedroom. She opens the typewriter case and sets a once beloved dolly with its hands on the keys. It will sit there until both the typewriter and doll are covered in dust and the ribbon dries up.
If there was a recent holiday photo, you’d see the girl as an adult. Her eyes hold a trace of the child she once was. She’s dressed in a red sweater adorned with a green shimmering Christmas tree covered in blinking lights. She sits in front of a keyboard typing busily. After the picture is taken, she puts on her headset, slides over in front of the console, turns on the microphone and in a clear voice reads the news she has written. Over her head, a red and white ON AIR sign is lit up. AQ