New Typewriter

I'm a lucky boy.

My good friend Zandria, in addition to having a marvelous name, has a generous spirit. Helping a friend clear out their deceased aunt's estate, Zandria came into possession of an old typewriter. Knowing of my love for typewriters, Zandria re-directed this machine's path from landfill to my collection. She brought it over last night (after weeping at the new "Wicked" movie) and gifted the time-traveling device to me. Enhancing the encounter we caught up with each other and Robin.

The machine is a Smith Corona Coronet Electric 12, made in America. It comes in a carrying case which obscures the fact that you need to be a body-builder to actually carry it. The object is a heavy 20 lbs.

Smith Corona is an American company founded in 1886. For a century it made typewriters and, in the 1960s, it pivoted to manufacture other office machinery as well (calculators; label-makers). Its typewriter business collapsed in the 1980s due to new word-processors and, later, personal computers.

Smith Corona started making portable electric typewriters the year I was born: 1957. Intended for traveling writers and business-people the machines were adopted by ordinary consumers and students because they were well-built and inexpensive.

Thus, this machine was made and sold during my childhood (1960s). I know this because Smith Corona later introduced ribbon cartridges, a feature this machine lacks.

Objects tell us about time. The first typewriters had manual keys and manual returns. (A "return" is how the typing-implement moves backward and down at the end of a line to start a new line.) On manual typewriters the return is a bar extending toward you which you grab and, with satisfying movement, swing to the right. On later electric machines the return is usually either automatic or button-activated. Interestingly, on this machine, while called an "electric" typewriter the return is manual -- which places the model in an interstitial period between manual and electric typewriters. It has both manual (the return) and electric (the keys) features. This frequently happens in technology when some improvement is developed but paired with other parts from the past.

This particular machine has two historical references on it. A commercial label indicating the machine was initially sold by an Elmont, NY company (City Line Business Machines Inc.) and a personal label identifying its previous owner as Jeanne Elaine Roberts. Thanks, Jeanne!

We don't "own" objects; we merely possess them for a while and then hand them off to a new lucky owner. All my artwork will exist and continue to please people long after I'm gone and forgotten. Well, hopefully not completely forgotten. :)

We're Jocks Now

Robin makes fun of the fact that I wear $9 pants (from Marshalls) with $430 shirts (Paul Frederick) and $720 shoes (Fluevog). There's an explanation to this sartorial eccentricity: priorities. Some things matter to me (the sky's no limit); some things don't (I'm super-cheap). I'll travel across town with a $5 coupon to save on pedestrian items while splurging the same day on a Montblanc fountain pen ($1,200). Priorities.

You know my health is important to me. It's what keeps me alive. Preserving my physical condition matters so, when it came to selecting a gym, I went for the best: Equinox. There are a dozen gyms in my neighborhood: I picked the one offering the best facility (eucalyptus towels!), most customized exercise options (personal trainers, specialized regimens, Pilates, yoga) and luxurious accommodations (private spa, steam room, health cafe and athleisure-clothing shop). 

Also elevating the importance of this choice is Robin: she plans to join me at the gym. Since particular things matter to her (like friendly staff and cleanliness), I looked for a place offering those comforts. Equinox does. 

We visited their Woodbury location and were impressed. Before we entered the building I told Robin about eucalyptus towels and she scoffed. Once inside, however, she smelled them and was instantly ensorcelled. Rubbing a fragrant towel against her face Robin smiled like a kindergartener.

Equinox is expensive (total cost for both of us is about $30,000/year) but, again, priorities. This matters.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Party Clothes

Robin and I hosted a party last week to celebrate my recovery and thank friends for their help during a difficult year.

Here are pictures from the event. Hey, new suit!

Stormy Weather

Please don't read this if it's not for you.

I'm currently hypnopompic and lugubrious. Which are not excuses for my blue mood but candid explanations. Normally when I feel this way I stay silent. Today, I can't. Again, leave if you want. Nobody's paying you to be here.

I try -- strive and struggle, in fact -- to look at the bright side of human behavior. Observe and celebrate what's good about us. Not what's bad. Pollyanna is my role model. Bonhomie is my aspiration. But when I woke up this morning I remembered perfidy from two decades ago that made me question trusting others. And then I foolishly turned on social media to be reminded of the tough row I hoe.

The particulars of the first insult are unimportant. At the turn of the century I belonged to a motorcycle club into which I threw effort like a hot hippo jumping in cool water. My contributions were generally rewarded: I won an award for "Most Enthusiastic Member" and was twice elected President of the club. The feedback was nurturing. I endeavored to make participation in the group joyful. Under my leadership, membership surged, growing from a small handful of uninspired riders to several dozen excited ones. Everyone benefited, so I thought.

One member, who exploited our club's fellowship, sold me a car in a deceitful manner that breached the trust I assumed existed between us. He lied to my face about the vehicle's condition. I believed him, naively relying on trust. I quickly learned the car was so damaged as to be worthless. He compounded the injury by insisting I pay cash for the transaction, further insisting on counting bills in front of me because "you can't be too careful" with people. I was insulted by his overt mistrust.

Enough. An isolated event from long ago. Let's move on.

After recoiling from vivid memory of this sad affair I mistakenly turned on social media this morning and was exposed to hateful reactions to yesterday's Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR). Started in 1999 the Day is intended as a memorial for victims murdered with transphobia. If you don't know, the number of those victims is staggering.

When I grew up in the Sixties nobody unaffected knew about transgenderism. Rare instances were reported as a subject of surprise and ridicule. Actual people, like Christine Jorgensen, were fodder for widespread derision.

I hoped understanding and attitudes would improve in the future. Sixty years later I see they haven't. A decade ago invisibility turned into visibility which soon morphed into negative attention. Cynical politicians realized ignorance and hatred toward trans people can be weaponized the way ignorance and hatred toward other groups (gays, immigrants) always had. Now transgender is more frequently a term of opprobrium than description.

I used to annually mention the TDOR on Facebook to educate friends about it -- but I stopped when this topic became controversial. Seeing horrible things on my computer screen this morning had their intended effect. I have nothing further to say.

Dog Tale

A friend's dog ate a bunch of wooden Scrabble tiles. He had left the game on his coffee-table overnight and woke up to find tiles missing. Worried, the friend called me and asked if I thought he should be scared about the situation.

I considered it a bit and then said, "Let's wait until the dog starts pooping. Either everything will be alright or it might spell disaster."

Good Fortune

Do you want to hear a story about how I -- and most of my family -- almost didn't come to be? The tale is true and illustrates the randomness of life.

My grandfather, Albert Hummel, was a soldier in World War I. He fought in France for the German Army. During battle Albert got shot in the head. A bullet blazed into his noggin and lodged there.

Obviously this was serious. Soldiers on the battlefield believed the bullet had killed Albert. He laid motionless on the ground showing no sign of life. They started to bury him when one alert medic noticed Albert's body was still breathing. They rendered immediate medical aid and, miraculously, Albert survived. The bullet caused permanent paralysis to part of Albert's face but he went on to live a long life. Several years later Albert got married and had two children, one of whom was my father.

If a conscientious soldier hadn't intervened at a critical moment, Albert would have died. Even with that fortuity Albert was lucky to survive a serious head wound at a time when medicine was primitive, especially on chaotic battlefields. 

If Albert hadn't survived this event, my father would not have been born. Which means I would not have been born. Nor my brother Richard who later had three children who are now having babies of their own. An entire branch of our family tree would have been severed before it had grown.

Europe was a dangerous place to be during the first half of the last century -- but the Hummels endured. We're tenacious. :)

(Here's a photo from Albert & Mary's wedding.)

A Milepost

Whew! Minutes ago I finished my last PT session (physical therapy). In the therapists' expert opinion I've returned to "normal" and don't need more rehab.

I'm now migrating to a gym where I'll continue getting stronger on my own. That is the path I want to travel. It's hard to exercise regularly but, when you do, you see results. When I soap up in the shower now I'm amazed feeling hardened muscles in my body. Just a few months ago I was an atrophied, skinny mess -- unable to even stand up from a chair.

As Yogi says, that's the thing about life: "it ain't over 'til it's over."