100

by Lorin Michel Wednesday, June 1, 2011 10:55 PM

Tonight I’m celebrating. Sometime back in February I had an idea as I was supposed to be sleeping. I was laying there in my big bed, snuggled under the covers, warm and toasty, thinking about what I do, about the state of the world, about how everything always seemed so negative, especially in terms of news and politics. My mind was swirling and twirling, about everything and nothing, with the wonderful night-thoughts that nestle into the brain to take up nearly all of its space. One thought planted itself: Live Out Loud.

That sleepless night included subconscious thoughts of Betsy, my good friend Bobbi’s sister who had died of cancer in September of 2010, at the age of 42. I had only met her once, but her presence permeated my soul and her death affected me more than I could have ever guessed. Her mantra, as I remembered that sleepless night, came from the quote by the French writer Emile Zola: “If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.” She was a fighter.

My mind swirled and whirled and suddenly there it was. The idea to start a blog, to write something everyday that lived life out loud; to write about something I wanted to write about, to find something to celebrate.

Since February 19, I’ve been fairly true to that idea, that mantra. And tonight, I’m celebrating my 100th post. Most days I’ve posted only once; on the rare occasion, there have been two. But I’ve posted. I made a commitment to myself to do so, and I feel a sense of pride that I have accomplished that; I have lived up to my promise to myself. It’s a good feeling, something to celebrate.

I’m 100 percent invested, 100 percent owned. I’m not part of the Fortune 100 and that’s OK. I’m not 100 percent de agave, or pure tequila. This is important if one loves Arizona, and specifically Tucson, as I do. My IQ is actually higher than the bell curve that is set at 100. The current humidity level here in the OP is not even close to 100. My dog is over 100 in dog years.

One hundred is pure, in many ways complete. But for me, 100 means that I’m just getting started.

So tonight I’m celebrating all those who have read on a regular basis, and welcoming those who have perhaps just discovered me. I am humbled by your presence.

Live it out loud and celebrate something, anything, everything. Find something today and for 100 years.

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Dog is my shepherd; I shall not want

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, May 31, 2011 10:10 PM

Most days our lunchtime walk takes us past a house in Westlake that has two Australian Shepherds who come running to the fence as we approach. As soon as they get to the fence, they immediately sit down and move their heads in unison, watching us closely. There’s never a bark or a growl; just attention and fascination. We speak to them; they do not speak back. One is brown, black and white with expressive light brown eyes. The other is gray and black and white with icy blue eyes. It’s difficult for us to pull ourselves away but then we remember that a) we’re on a walk and b) we’re being disloyal to our own half Aussie back home.

When we adopted Maguire 14 and a half years ago, the shelter thought he had some German Shepherd in him. But it quickly became evident that he was probably more Australian Shepherd and Golden Retriever with some other bits and pieces mixed in for flavor. He has the eyes of a shepherd, and the coloring; the temperament of a golden. He did some herding of Justin when both were younger, but he’s always been fairly mellow, easy, almost docile. He looks more like a shepherd though, and has the shorter legs and the movements of one.

Interestingly, the Australian Shepherd isn’t even from Australia but rather from the Western U.S. No wonder Maguire feels so at home out here. They got their name because of the imported Australian sheep they were so good at herding. They also quickly got a reputation for being extremely intelligent; another reason that we’re sure Maguire is part Aussie.

We’ve become very partial to the breed, especially the mutt versions, for obvious reasons. But when I come across stories like that of Shep, I know that these dogs are truly blessed creatures.

In 1936, a sheepherder near Fort Benton, Montana became ill while tending his flock and was brought to St. Clare Hospital. In those days, the west was still untamed with cowboys riding across the high plains and through the mountains and shepherds tending to many different herds. Shepherds lived on the prairies, moving from place to place with their sheep, traveling in wagons and sleeping in tents. They would go for weeks without seeing a single person, and their best friends and constant companions were their dogs. When they did need to travel, they did what others of the time did: they went by train. A train is how this one particular shepherd was brought into Fort Benton, along with his faithful dog, an Australia Shepherd, who waited, the legend says, by the hospital door. Three days later, the man died. His family in Ohio requested that his body be sent home to them via train.

Shep

The dog, who had become known as Shep, followed the casket to the train station and watched as it was loaded into the baggage car. He whined when the door was shut and as the train pulled away from the station, he ran after it until he could run no more. He watched until it was long gone, and then returned to the station. He dug a hole under the train depot and he waited for the train bearing his master to return. He waited for five and a half years, rising to meet each train. People fed him and cared for him; some tried to adopt him. But he wanted none it.

The long vigil took its toll on Shep. His legs became stiff, and he was hard of hearing. Perhaps that’s why he failed to hear Train 235 as it rolled into the station one cold winter morning. When he moved to get out of the way, he slipped on the icy rails and his long wait was finally over.

I’m not religious, but I do find a lovely synergy in the idea that dog is god spelled backwards, or perhaps it’s the other way around. Like that wayward shepherd in 1936, I too believe in the loyalty of a dog, and put my faith in one daily and for the rest of his life. And mine. 

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Workin' at the car wash

by Lorin Michel Monday, May 30, 2011 10:51 PM

It has been a perfectly lovely weekend. We had friends over on Friday for an official Fritini kickoff. We had martinis and wine, a big bowl of farfalle – bowtie – pasta with marinara sauce, garlic bread, a wedge salad with blue cheese and candied walnuts and chocolate lava cake for dessert. Yes, it sucked.

Saturday we did some house stuff, priming the trim on Kevin’s studio to paint; painting the pillars, the side panels inside the Range Rover that hold the seat belts in place. Then we went for a long motorcycle ride before meeting some friends for a beer. They have a little boy who’s about 19 months old. He sat in his high chair, chomping on cheerios, edamame, and banana, and playing I-can’t-see-you with the cloth napkin draped over his face. He would giggle every time his mom or dad would pull the napkin away. There’s nothing more intoxicating than the rolling, rollicking, uninhibited joy of a small child. You just can’t help but laugh along.

Afterward, he wanted to sit on the motorcycle. He’s an Angel in the making.

Chance Cline and Kevin Michel, biker dudes

We came home, made a nice dinner and watched the last two episodes of the first season of The Borgias on Showtime.

Sunday was all about painting and laundry and then … wine tasting. We went to one of our favorite local places, Cornell, an old western establishment whose building has been there since the late 1870s. It was jammed but once it settled down into itself, the wine was pouring freely and it was lovely. Dinner, Treme and The Killing.

Cornell Winery

And today, Memorial Day, was a day of relaxing and puttering about. We placed the finished pillars in the Rover, and then decided to wash it. After last week’s rain, it was filthy. Then we washed the Porsche because it felt left out, and yes it needed it as well simply because it hadn’t been washed for quite some time.

We always joke that Maguire likes to wash the cars. We started this when he was young. He’s always been very smart and has quite an extended vocabulary, or at least he did when he could hear. He seemed to understand when we told him what we were doing. He would stand on his rug in the foyer and watch us, head cocked just to the right as he waited to be asked if he wanted to “wash the car.” Then he’d start to dance, feet bouncing off the tile, ready. Ready! I’d open the door, he’d bolt out into the front yard and sit, waiting, patiently, quivering. Ready to jump out of his fur. I’d bring out his leash, the extended one, hook it first around the tree in the front yard and then around his neck. He’d thrust his head out, waiting for the choke collar that was only used when we washed the car. We never needed it otherwise. Once in place, he’d settle down to a nice long nap, half in the sun, half in the shade while we actually did the work of washing the cars.

He helped again today. He can’t hear us anymore but he seems to know when we’re washing the cars and he stood in the same place, on his rug, head cocked, anticipating the leash and the front yard and all of the work of napping while Kevin and I … washed the cars.

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It was a good weekend, a good day. I hope everyone else had a good one as well.

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Portrait of a boat in a field

by Lorin Michel Sunday, May 29, 2011 10:56 PM

It sits in a field surrounded by rolling hills on the south side of Kanan Dume as you drive toward the beach. Small and rotting, it looks both completely at home and horribly out of place amidst the canyons of Malibu. I’ve noticed it for years, ever since I’ve lived here in Oak Park and have had occasion to drive Kanan both north and south. It has a dark hull and a lighter rim. Weeds have grown up around it and through it. It points aft toward the road as if watching for someone to come, to visit, to welcome it into port.

I’ve often wondered about this boat sitting in a field, alone. Wondered how it got there since it’s so far from water, wondered who owned it, wondered how long it has been there and how long it would stay. It’s a forgotten vessel, something that was once sea worthy or at least lake worthy. I can imagine it floating out on a body of water, a man and his son safely on board, a red and white cooler stowed safely under the wheel, out of the sun, away from the birds. In the cooler: tuna fish sandwiches with lettuce on wheat bread, apples, chocolate chip cookies and cokes. Enough for a day of fishing. A transistor radio played the local baseball game, probably the Dodgers; maybe the Angels. A pail of fresh caught trout or catfish resting under a tarp; a bottle or two of sunscreen tossed on the deck. The boy would laugh at dad’s lame jokes about go fish and leading a fish to water.

I’ve often wondered….

This tiny little boat, forgotten in the middle of a field on the way to Malibu, looks so lonely. Perhaps it got left behind accidently, when someone parked there with it on a trailer and it rolled off, unnoticed. Perhaps it was left on purpose, no longer needed. Maybe it was a source of contention between a husband and wife. Maybe it’s haunted.

I’ve often wondered who owned the boat, if perhaps the person who owns the property left it there to mark the territory. But I’ve never seen it move, never seen any evidence that anyone has been there recently. It hasn’t moved; it has remained anchored even as thousands of cars drive by. I wonder how many notice the odd little boat sitting awkwardly in the field. I wonder how many wonder why it’s there, or if they simply take it as it is. A boat in a field, alone and adrift in a sea of flowing grass.

I celebrate the boat on this Memorial Day eve, for its loneliness and its haunting beauty. It’s a portrait of a past forgotten, a portrait of the canyon. A portrait … of a lost soul.

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The hunchback of noter don

by Lorin Michel Saturday, May 28, 2011 11:27 PM

When Justin was little he was a talking machine, a ball of energy as most kids are but he was never silly. He was a Capricorn, and Capricorn’s are serious by nature, even when small. I, too, am a Capricorn, so I know this first-hand.

Kevin would pick him up from pre-school when he was in Montessori, buckle him into his car seat and then get into the driver’s seat, adjust the mirror down just a bit so as to see the little redhead with the enormous glasses, and then off they’d go. Kevin had only to ask: How was school? A litany would follow. As Justin spoke very matter-of-factly, he’d slouch down in his car seat, slurping from his sippy cup filled with juice, his right leg bent, the ankle lazily slung over his left leg. He looked like a little old man. All that was missing was the cigar and newspaper as he discussed the day’s news.

He would chat about artworks accomplished, aquariums, and books, what he had for lunch, what he wanted for dinner, and what movie he wanted to see. It was invariably a Disney flick, one that he would watch wide-eyed in the theater amidst shrieking children, and then once released on video, watch it again.  And again, and again, and again and again, and so on. One more time, daddy.

In 1996, Disney released The Hunchback of Notre Dame, an animated musical about the famous hunchback Quasimodo, charged with keeping the famous Paris cathedral’s bells ringing true, as well as other things, including loving the beautiful gypsy Esmeralda. Justin was fascinated and wanted nothing more than to see this ancient story by Victor Hugo as interpreted, much more nicely, by the mouse.

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He wanted to see the hunchback of noter don. Kevin pointed out that he thought it was, in fact, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, pronounced dom.

Justin thought about it for a moment, sipped his juice and shook his head. Then he sighed heavily.

“No, daaadddd,” he announced definitively. “It’s noter dooonnnn.”

There was no convincing him, just as there was no convincing him that the cartoon Chip ‘n Dale was not chip, chip and dale.

Message: Kids know what they know when they know it, and they are seriously convinced of their knowledge.

So tonight I’m celebrating the wonder of childhood and the seriousness of its convictions. I’m not sure there’s anything better.

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On and about this Friday

by Lorin Michel Friday, May 27, 2011 11:10 PM

It’s the day before a long weekend, the official kick off of summer even though summer doesn’t officially start for three more weeks. Still, barbecues all over the country are getting fired up, and every aisle in the grocery store begins and ends with some sort of chip. Last night we went into Albertsons in Westlake and they had built an awning over the entrance that consisted entirely of potato chips, corn chips and sun chips. At the base of the awning and traveling up through the fake posts were bottles of salsa and cheese dip. It was a virtual smorgasbord of cholesterol.

Today, in celebration of the long weekend, we decided to take off early from work. We had planned on 11; naturally that didn’t happen. I’m convinced that it would be better to not plan and to be spontaneous in deciding to play a bit of hooky. We got out of here around 1:30, went to the store, got a couple of turkey wraps, a couple bottles of water and yes, a bag of chips. Then we climbed on the motorcycle and off we went to have a little ride and an even littler picnic.

It was an absolutely beautiful day. The sky was blue, the sun as warm but not hot, a nice breeze but no wind to speak of. The main roads were already getting crowded but the canyons and side roads were completely open. We headed out Lindero Canyon, south to Agoura Road, then we wound our way to Kanan Dune toward the beach, hung a left on Cornell and cruised out toward Paramount Ranch.

Paramount Ranch is best known around here for its old west town and its pumpkin festival in the fall. They do a lot of filming there. TV shows like Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman was filmed there, as were Gunsmoke, The Rifleman, and countless television episodes from non-western genres like The X Files. Movies from Gunfight at the OK Corral to Reds were also filmed there. Paramount Studios bought its 2700 acres in 1927, and in addition to the ghost of a town whose facades and signs change with the film, there are trails, streams, canyons and the ghost of a racetrack. That’s what we went to see today.

The 2.0 mile figure-8 like chicane was designed by Ken Miles and built in 1956, surrounded by cliffs, hard banks and rocky terrain. Only a few races were actually run because the track was quickly deemed too dangerous. There were three fatalities in just 18 months and the insurance company cancelled the policy. The track closed and has been rotting into the landscape for 50 odd years now. Some of it was supposedly still visible; hence our little adventure.

Surprisingly, almost all of it can be found if you walk it and follow the map I discovered online. The bridge is even still there where the track crossed under, dangerously close to the concrete walls, but then the track disappears under the trees and brush and into a new stream. The other twists and turns are still there, though. We hiked the whole of the track, or what we could find of it, drinking our water and munching on chips.

And then it was back on the bike for the journey home. Hot, dusty, a little sun-drenched but we had such fun. I don’t know if it was playing hooky for the afternoon, celebrating something years past, or just enjoying the incredible freedom of being on the bike. It was a good day.

Here’s to a wonderful weekend for all. 

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Let the wind be with you

by Lorin Michel Thursday, May 26, 2011 10:08 PM

I have long been fascinated with the windy city, even before I met my husband who is from the Chicago area. I first visited it with him before we were married when we went to celebrate his birthday in early December and to see a football game. Bears v. Bills. That year, probably 1996, the Bears sucked as they do so many years. But they beat the Bills. It was a good game, sitting outside at Soldier Field. Mostly dry, with a couple of flurries and the ever-present wind. It was cold but not bitter. I would get warm by going to stand in the restroom where blowers blasted hot air.

This past December 2010, we were again in Chicago. This time we went to celebrate both of our birthdays. It was cold, windy, rainy and finally delivered white-out blizzard conditions. Once again we sat outside at Soldier Field as we prepared to watch the Bears and the Patriots. Both teams were having a great year, though the Pats kicked the Bears furry little butts all over the snow-covered field. Still, it was a fabulous trip.

I’ve never been to Chicago when it’s not winter and cold unless you count flying through O’Hare to change planes. I remember doing that years and years ago, before I knew Kevin. The weather was descending right behind the plane. The sky was black with a storm and light flashed behind the dark clouds. Lightning was approaching and fast. I was probably flying United because in those days all flights on United with a final destination of the east coast meant touching down in O’Hare, a United hub. I was on my way to Boston. As the sky got blacker, the board showed many flights being canceled. We got out; we were the last flight.

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My luggage stayed behind and arrived some time the next day.

I know it’s windy; I know they’re partial to storms. But Chicago, founded in 1933, is one of the world’s top ten global financial centers. It is ranked by Forbes as the world’s fifth most economically powerful city. It is known for pizza, gangsters like Lucky Luciano and Al Capone, the great fire of 1871, and in 1885, the first steel-framed high-rise building, the Home Insurance Building. The Willis Tower (formerly Sears Tower) and the John Hancock Center are two of the tallest buildings currently. There is the Second City, and Grant Park, and Lincoln Park which is both a suburb and a band, and Lake Shore Drive and Michigan Avenue. And then, of course, there’s jazz. And there is nothing like Chicago jazz. Raw, expressive, sensual, sexual and completely, totally alive. It pulses through you like a heart beat.

For no reason and every reason, I celebrate one of my favorite cities tonight. It popped into my head, though it is never far from my heart. 

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A brief history of wine labels

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, May 24, 2011 10:32 PM

I’m not generally a big fan of labels. We tend to use them to define people and I like to think that people are beyond such easy categorization. But labels do serve a very real purpose when applied to products and especially to wine. They allow you to know exactly what’s inside a bottle, where it came from, and may even tell you a story about how it was made. It’s called the marketing blurb. And it is there to make you feel good about what you’ve purchased.

When it comes to wine, the feel good part is fairly easy. I have been drinking wine long enough, and have learned enough about it through visits to wineries, discussions with winemakers, reading and tasting that I know what things I like to see on a label. I’ve mentioned that our current fascination is with any red sporting the year 2007 on its label, especially if it’s a Syrah or a Cabernet Sauvignon or Franc. I also look for wineries whose quality I know is superior. We’re partial to California wines, and Napa Valley and Santa Ynez specifically. Certain regions of Napa are best: Stag’s Leap and Rutherford produce great grapes. We always stay away from any labels saying Coastal because we know the grape quality is inferior.

Wine labels can be works of art. Colorful, expressive, and eye-catching which is key because most people are not wine connoisseurs. They like wine and they know what kind of wine they like. White wine drinkers like a Pinot Grigio or a Chardonnay. Then they begin drinking reds but start with lighter varietals. Pinot Noir, Merlot, Burgundy, Chianti and Shiraz before graduating to Bordeaux, Cabernet Sauvignon, Zinfandel, Syrah and Cabernet Franc. But they don’t always know specific wineries or vintages so a great label can make a sale.

Wine labels have been around for centuries. They first made an appearance in Greece around 4000 BC when wine was considered a gift from the gods, especially the god of wine, Dionysus. King Tutankhamen’s tomb contained wine jars with wine labels. They had enough detail to meet some present day label laws including the name, the year and amount. Many wine labels that came after consisted of writings on parchment tied to the neck of a bottle with twine. By the 1700s, labels were designed on a stone. Ink was then applied and a roller transferred it to paper. By 1798, lithography had been invented and wine labels could be printed in mass quantities. As winemakers gained more and more pride in the quality of their wines, creating the perfect label to show it off became more and more important. Designs and especially color became prevalent.

1950 was the year that things really began to change. Thanks to an Italian law dictating that certain information had to appear, each label began to show the wine producer or brand, the bottler, the region and country of origin, quality classification, vintage year, bottle volume, alcohol content, sulphite content and a warning label that pregnant women shouldn’t drink. Many also carry the marketing blurb though it's not mandatory.

Several years ago, Kevin and I started to dabble in wine making. We bought some rudimentary equipment including carboys, storage containers, a corker and more. Our first batch was a cab-merlot blend, the second was a straight cabernet. Each batch gave us about two cases. It wasn’t great, but it taught us a lot. Interestingly we’ve let several bottles age in the wine cellar and they’ve recently gotten much better.

Our wine needed a label. Our friends Roy and Bobbi designed one for us and it’s fabulous; all about the look, the color, and the shelf appeal. If we ever make the big time, we’re going to be in the running for label of the year. I just know it.

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A brief history of wine bottles

by Lorin Michel Monday, May 23, 2011 10:46 PM

When last we left our courageous wine drinkers – that would be Kevin and I – we were raising a glass and toasting the light after discovering the glorious history of wine. Today it only makes sense to continue that exploration by taking a look back at wine bottles and how wine came to be stored in those long, cylindrical, easily binned (stacked) works of art.

The first winemakers of Mesopotamia and Egypt used clay flasks to store their liquids. The oldest wine jar dates back to 5400 – 5000 BC and includes the vineyard’s name, the type of wine and the vintage. Wine jars were used for thousands of years, through the Grecian wine trades, until the Roman’s got into the game. Among the many things the Romans developed while in power was the art of glass blowing. Glass was quickly found to be a good medium for storing wine because it didn’t affect the wine’s flavor and was easy to see through so drinkers could see how much was inside. That part hasn’t changed. What was difficult was maintaining bottle size consistency. This explains why buyers would bring their own containers to market and buy a measured amount of wine to be carried away in their own container.

As time progressed, so did bottle making. Colored glass was introduced in different shapes and sizes. Many of the original wine bottles were onion shaped because they were the easiest to blow, but wine makers and merchants soon discovered that longer, flatter shapes were better for storing wine on its side. By the 1800s, standard-sized bottles were introduced. Depending on the region, 700 ml or 750 ml were chosen, with the maximum size standard bottle being around 800 ml. Magnums and other special sizes didn’t yet exist.

As for corks, we thank the Brits.

The word bottle comes from the old French word boteille by way of the vulgar Latin butticula and the late Latin buttis meaning “cask.” These casks eventually became more standardized in terms of specific shapes for specific varietals. Burgundy style bottles have sloped shoulders and are generally used for Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. High shouldered bottles, known as Bordeaux style, are used for Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Malbec. Hock style, very tall and thin with sloped shoulders, are for Reislings and Gewurztraminer. Then there is the Syrah shape. Big, fat, heavy, sitting low and steady, with shoulders that slope practically to the counter. This is my favorite bottle because it’s my favorite wine. Its bottle matches its personality perfectly.

“Good wine is a necessity of life for me.” I wish I could take credit for saying that because it’s how I feel. But it was Thomas Jefferson who gave voice to my feelings so many years ago. I like to think that one of the fathers of our country, the author of the declaration of independence and the third president, was drinking a nice red as he said that. Poured from a beautiful bottle.

Unfortunately it was probably French. But seeing as how brilliant he was in all other matters, and because California had not yet begun to grow grapes, I’ll give him his Bordeaux.

I celebrate the wine bottle. I celebrate its ability to transcend time, and to allow the most phenomenal wines to age beautifully without growing old. If only we were all so lucky.

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Just my type

by Lorin Michel Thursday, May 19, 2011 10:16 PM

I grew up at a time when high schools actually offered typing as a class. Granted, an easy class for an easy grade, which is why I took it. I wasn’t lazy in school and got mostly As. But typing just seemed like a quick way to get a credit toward graduation. So I took the class during my sophomore year. I think, but can’t remember if, we had electric typewriters.

I learned the home row, with the small dots on the F and the J. Even modern computer keyboards have those place-finders, because that’s what they are. It tells you by feel exactly where to place your fingers for maximum access to the upper and the lower rows. Left hand, from pinky in, has fingers on ASDF, right hand, pinky in is ;LKJ. I remember learning those letters/symbols and typing words using only those letters. FAD, SAD, DAD, then expanding to including the G and the H. HAD, GLAD. From there I learned where the other letters were, largely by memorizing. I also learned to type the words not just the letters. Once I could see a word in my head it became easy. In other words, I didn’t type I-T. I saw “it” and miraculously the word appeared. I use what I learned in that one semester class every single day. Who woulda thunk?

I type upwards of 100 words a minute and they’re mostly spelled correctly. With the computer and the delete key things are easier when I make a mistake. If it’s a common word I’ve miss-typed Microsoft Word is kind enough to fix it for me. If it’s a little more obscure, I simply hit the delete key and it disappears. How I ever lasted with an electric typewriter and a whiteout ribbon still makes my head hurt.

Pity the poor people who had to write everything by hand, at least prior to 1713 when the first typewriters were created. In 1741 British inventor Henry Mill got a patent for a machine designed to make impressions on paper. In 1829, American William Burt created a wheel that spun to the desired letter, and in 1833 Frenchman Xavier Progin came up with the novel idea of having each letter and symbol appear on its own type bar. Christopher Sholes created the first practical typewriter in 1867 when he arranged the keys into the modern QWERTY pattern. He sold it to the Remington Arms Company, a gun manufacturer, in 1873 and by the year 1900, the Remington typewriter was selling nearly 100,000 a year.

Fast forward to now when nearly every person deals with a keyboard in one form or another every day, sometimes multiple versions. I have my Mac as well as a PC. My smart phone has a full keyboard, as does my iPad. I have to resort to my pre-typing-class two-fingered method though when using the latter two. And it’s OK.

Typing is a great way to communicate efficiently. It helps me tremendously. And as I’ve always said, if this writing thing of mine doesn’t work out, it’s something for me to fall back on.

Somebody, somewhere needs a typist. Right?

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