I was about 9 years old when my dad took my mom and I on a business trip to Seattle, Washington, and we stayed in a high-rise hotel. I had never been in a high-rise hotel before, and I was fascinated with the view. Especially since directly across the street giant cranes with wrecking balls were smashing away at an old building.
What is so fascinating, I wonder, about the sight of a building being torn down? Especially to kids. I watched for hours upon hours. The huge ball of metal would swing, smash into concrete and brick. Dust flew, debris fell. I waited breathlessly for large sections to break loose and tumble to their doom. We went out to dinner, went shopping, I got some toys (I think that’s when I got my first Spirograph and “Barrel Full of Monkeys”) and visited the Space Needle. But all I wanted to do, really, was watch the wrecking balls tear down that building.
Back then, you could open high rise windows. You can’t do that anymore, they’re all bolted shut. When I found I could open the window, a whole new world of fun blossomed. I proceeded to take all the hotel stationary, fold it into paper airplanes, and send them flying through the air toward the deconstruction site across the street.
Again, why is this so fascinating? But to a small boy such as I was, I couldn’t imagine anything more fun. Every scrap of paper I could scrounge flew out that window as one type of airplane or another. And then, watching one, it flew right into a window across the street, right into the doomed building being torn down. In my excitement, I forgot the window was wide open, and I leaned forward and fell out.
We were about 20 stories up.
I heard my mom scream and my father jump. He caught my legs as I was going out the window. I have a very vivid memory of seeing the gray sidewalk below, my hands stretched out in front of me. Little people walking on the sidewalk and small cars driving on the miniature street. Then I was flying backwards as my dad yanked me back to safety.
That was close. I mean, if my dad hadn’t had such quick reflexes, you wouldn’t be reading this right now.
This is what Midjourney thinks a vintage 1960 clothes washing machine looks like.
While I was growing up, my parents had two deadly kid traps in the house. One was the refrigerator, which wasn’t that bad because I had no intention of crawling into it. It was never empty enough to do that anyway. The other trap, however, was much more tempting…
As a child in the 1960’s I was a big fan of shows like Star Trek and Lost In Space. The cartoons I watched also had space or science fiction themes: Johnny Quest, Space Ghost, and the awesome Herculoids. So, when I saw that gleaming white, front-loading 1960’s washer of my mom’s, with that big round glass porthole in front, I could only imagine one thing:
A spaceship!
It seemed to be designed specifically to trap kids such as myself inside. Why else would they engineer the latch handle the way they did? It could close and latch itself, but you had to yank on the handle to open it. And there was no way to open it from the inside. Also — and this is the part that convinces me — the damn thing was nearly soundproof. It was obviously designed to be a trap. Its primary purpose was to wash clothes, but the insidious real purpose was to capture kids and suffocate them to death.
One of my best friends at this age was a black Poodle/Cocker Spaniel mixed dog named Pepper. He looked like a black Poodle with hair that was just a little too long and too straight. My constant companion, he endured whatever boyhood tortures I administered to him and still loved me completely, with no reservations, still willing to go where I went and do what I did. Needless to say, Pepper was my co-pilot when I decided to take the washing machine spaceship on a trip to Planet 12.
I climbed in first, and he jumped in right after me. Then the glass door swung shut of its own accord and locked. I don’t recall if I panicked immediately or if I built up to it, but it was clear to me that I was in deep trouble. You see, I was perfectly aware that a kid I knew when I was even younger had been found suffocated to death in a refrigerator being stored behind an apartment building. I guess it didn’t occur to me until right then that it could happen in a washing machine as well.
I banged and screamed and yelled for quite a while, but Mom didn’t hear me. Dad wasn’t around, because he was at work. It was just me and Pepper there in that space capsule, marooned and running out of air. I don’t really remember what I was thinking. I just remember being very frightened in an I-might-really-die kind of way. I also remember beginning to feel sleepy, and that means (though I didn’t know it then) that suffocation was starting to take place.
Then I remember my older brother, Hank, walking into the room, and he looked down to see Pepper and I staring back out at him. “What in the hell are you doing in there?” he said, amused. With a quick flip of his wrist he popped open the door, and I can still remember how unbelievably sweet and cool the outside air was. Pepper and I fought each other to get out first; Pepper won. I tumbled out onto the floor at my brother’s feet, saved, given a second chance. I would have been dead if it wasn’t for him. I would have been another one of those sad child-suffocation stories, a warning and a caution to others.
The really sad thing is, I’m not sure I ever thanked him for it.
In an earlier article I wrote about being diagnosed with prostate cancer and was considering all the options I’d been given for treatment, but at that point I hadn’t made a decision. I promised I’d post an update when I did.
My choice was to have a prostatectomy, and as I’m writing this I’ve gone through it and I’m currently sitting at home recovering from the surgery. This article is here to give anyone else facing this decision my personal experience so you can kind of know what to expect.
Prostate cancer is a serious health risk that affects numerous men worldwide. The treatments vary from radiation therapy, hormone therapy to surgical interventions, such as a prostatectomy. Each option comes with its unique challenges and potential side effects, but after careful consultation with my doctor, we decided that a prostatectomy was the best course of action for me.
Making the decision wasn’t easy. It involved numerous consultations, sleepless nights, and an emotional roller coaster ride. The thought of an invasive surgery and its implications was daunting, but after a full body scan that verified the cancer had not spread and was located only in the prostate, the prostatectomy seemed the most direct and absolute solution.
Here was the logic involved: If I’d chosen radiation treatment, that is what I would have been stuck with. Operating becomes very difficult after all the damage that radiation does to the internal organs. If I had been much older (I’m currently 62) radiation might have been a better choice, but being that I theoretically have 25 or so years left (maybe longer, I have multiple centenarians in my family) it’s best to go with surgery, get it over with, and still have radiation as a backup for cancer that may pop up in the future.
I met with the surgeon who explained exactly what would happen. He explained the risks involved. He also showed me the success rate. It was extremely high, and because there was a robot involved, very precise.
Treatment included a night in the hospital, recovery and monitoring the next day, and if all went well they would send me home. I would have a catheter for a while, and several interesting scars on my belly. And the cancer would be gone.
I gotta tell you, I didn’t want to do it. Part of me kept thinking, “Hey, is this really worth it? It will change the quality of my life from this point on.” Mainly I was dreading spending over a week with a catheter, and then months or years wearing adult diapers. I have an old friend who went through this years ago and he just yesterday told me it took him two years to get back control of his bladder.
I couldn’t let that sway me from the alternative: eventual death by cancer. That would be worse. Now, seriously, I had to convince myself of that, because I was feeling fine, I was not sick, nothing really seemed to be wrong except for these biopsy results that said I had cancer. It was not a tangible threat that I could see for myself — I had to take their word on it.
Ultimately I accepted the fact, and in preparation stocked up on about 4 months worth of Depends and “chuck pads.”
The Prostatectomy
This is how I remember it. I’m not sure how accurate this is, because anesthesia messes with your memory. Even now as I write this, my short-term memory is messed up and, as I was told, this is a normal side effect and will last about a week.
After checking in at the hospital, they escorted me to a surgery prep room where I met and talked with nurses, the surgeon, and my anesthesiologist. I disrobed, put on the dreaded hospital gown, and made myself comfortable on a bed as they took my vitals and installed an IV.
That took about two hours. I think. Not 100% sure because they’d already started giving me the drugs.
I remember being wheeled out and down hallways, into an elevator, down another hallway and into an operating room. It was very bright. Extremelybright. That’s when I got a good look at the robot, which unfortunately didn’t look anything like R2D2 or CP30. However, it did look extremely clean.
They physically lifted me off the wheeled gurney and onto the operating table, and the anesthesiologist gave me whatever it was that knocked me out, and it happened really fast. It only seemed a few minutes later that I was waking up in a … I don’t know where. I can’t remember where I woke up, but I do remember being wheeled on a hospital bed and into a room, and knew the procedure was over with — but I didn’t know much else. I think I drifted in an out of sleep for a while.
When I did start coming to my senses, that’s when I realized I had the catheter installed, and I was thirsty, and loved ones were asking how I was.
I was fine. I was surprised by how fine I was. Only hours later, they coaxed me out of the bed and had me walking around, but they had a belt on me to keep me from falling in case I lost my balance. A heavy duty leash, basically.
To my surprise, the catheter didn’t bother me at all. At least not while I was at the hospital. More on that later.
I had a late dinner of clear broth, etc., and the same thing the next morning. One of the pain killers they gave me caused my blood pressure to go low, but not dangerously so. It wasn’t a narcotic, or at least that was what they said, as I’d told them I didn’t want opioids if at all possible — they said it wasn’t, that it was more like an ultra-strong intravenous version of ibuprofen.
I was able to get up and walk around, being very careful with the catheter bag, and when they brought lunch, I ate it standing up. One of the weird things I noticed, though, is I had a mild sunburn on my forehead. It took me a while to figure that out: the bright lights in the operating room. They must have been ultraviolet.
After a quick discussion with the surgeon, he gave the okay, and I was discharged.
Recovering At Home
I’m still in this process, but so far so good.
I’d had a drain tube in me which they pulled out right before sending me home. It’s an open wound and kind of freaked me out for a while, but they gave me a good supply of sterile gauze and tape and showed me how to keep it clean and covered while it continues oozing bodily fluids. Eventually it will close on it’s own, and at the time of this writing it’s down to just a little cut.
Besides that, there are five incisions on my stomach which are stitched up with dissolving sutures, and glued shut. I’m to keep an eye on them, watching for redness at the edges that are larger than 1/2 inch.
I have a tube coming out of my poor abused penis leading to a bag, all of which has to be kept very clean so as to not give me a urinary tract infection. I’m to watch for clots. Also I’m supposed to get up and walk a lot, and stairs are okay, which is good because I live in a three story house. I have a list of things which, if they happen, I’m supposed to go straight to the emergency room at the hospital.
So far none of those things have happened.
The catheter is not quite as bad as I’d feared, but it really is annoying and kind of humiliating. That comes out in a few days and I’ve been warned by friends who’ve had them to bring towels and maybe even a change of clothes for when they remove it, as it may be a mega urine splat fest.
I am both dreading, and looking forward, to this event.
Because of the aforementioned short term memory problem, caused by the after affects of the anesthesia, I have to write down my medications as I take them, and when I took them, because I keep forgetting if I took them. They did give me opioid pain killers but so far just rotating ibuprofen and acetaminophen has kept the pain at bay. When I wake up in the morning and the pain meds have worn off, it just feels like really sore muscles.
Depends adult diapers are actually quite comfortable, though I haven’t actually needed them. Yet. I’m wearing them, and sleeping on chuck pads, just in case.
So far, so good.
The pelvic floor muscle control that I was in danger of losing, and having to relearn, seems to still be under my control. I’ll find out exactly how under control after the catheter is out.
Going by the literature, I can regain full control in as little as a month, or in as long as a year, or … as my old friend experienced … even longer.
I suspect in my case I’m not going to take that long. Or at least that’s what I’m hoping.
Do I regret doing it?
Nope. It’s over with. I’m already functioning again. The worst thing about the ordeal so far is the catheter, but in the scale of awful things, it’s not that big a deal. There are things far, far worse, and I’m just grateful that I’m only dealing with a catheter and not cancer.
For those who needed to hear this, I hope it helps you.
Wrong kind of tractor, but Midjourney did a good job of imagining the moment.
When I was about 11 years old we lived in a duplex right on the edge of town in an area being developed. Directly across the street was a large empty field, a perfect place for us neighborhood kids to play. With this huge field of dirt, all we needed was a shovel.
I provided that shovel, and we took turns digging. We all wanted to see just how big a hole we could make.
The project took weeks. At first, we called it The Hole, as in, “Let’s meet at The Hole after school.” “Mom, we’re going to go play out at The Hole.” “I did more work on The Hole than you did!”
This hole became quite large, and then someone came up with the coolest idea. With all the construction going on in the neighborhood there was plenty of wood around (scrap and otherwise) so day by day we were able to start covering this hole with a roof. As the roof was built, dirt was piled on top of it so that it couldn’t be seen. It was at this point it stopped being “The Hole” and became “The Fort.”
With the fort in place amid all the weeds and tall grass, it was the best place on Earth to stage mock battles. We armed ourselves with cap guns, squirt guns, plastic battle axes and swords, and then filled that field with wars, insurrections, rebellions and general free-for-all mêlées. The fort was a nexus for our little battles until summer, when a rival gang of kids (older and meaner) took it from us. Our interest in it waned, as we’d discovered new places to play (a creek with a railroad bridge, God help us) and so we finally gave up on the fort. We let the bullies have it.
Then I remember the day we spotted a Caterpillar tractor out in that field, lumbering and squeaking through the tall grass. I stood on my front lawn with my friends, watching in fascination as the tractor pulled its plow back and forth across the field, edging closer and closer to the fort with each pass. Then there was this magic moment when the tractor completely disappeared from our view. From across the field came a terrific Wham!
Little did we realize that we’d created the perfect tractor trap.
The tractor driver came up out of that hole hopping mad, and we ran. Later someone came door to door, inquiring about whose kids had dug the enormous hole in the field. My mom kept her mouth shut, no doubt fearing a lawsuit or something. Later it came out that the bullies who’d taken it away from us got blamed, and were in big trouble.
Ah, karma.
They had to have a big semi-truck looking rig come out and pull the tractor out of the hole. We stood on my front lawn watching that, too. Come next summer, they’d started building more houses there and soon the field was a block of brand new triplexes. It didn’t take five years for the whole area to deteriorate into a slum.
Navigating the digital business world often feels like a construction project, with your website as the main edifice. The common approach? Hire a web designer, build the site, and you’re set. But truth be told, websites are more like gardens than buildings. They need constant care, nurturing, and attention to flourish. That’s where having an in-house webmaster comes into play.
Imagine having someone on your team who doesn’t just understand the coding language, but also speaks your business language fluently. This individual knows your business inside out because they’re part of it every day. They comprehend your vision, mission, and goals. As your in-house webmaster, they can tailor your website to meet your unique needs and grow with your aspirations.
A website isn’t a static entity. It needs regular updates to stay fresh, relevant, and efficient. Like a garden that requires constant weeding and pruning, websites need bug fixes and performance tuning. An in-house webmaster is always there, ready to roll up their sleeves and ensure your website runs smoothly and efficiently.
Maintaining a website goes beyond bug fixes and tweaks. There’s a crucial aspect called SEO (Search Engine Optimization). SEO is essential to make your website stand out in the crowded digital marketplace. And SEO isn’t a one-and-done job; it’s constantly evolving. Your in-house webmaster can keep pace with these changes, ensuring your online presence remains strong and gets noticed.
Then there’s the issue of design trends and user expectations, which also shift over time. Your in-house webmaster stays ahead of these trends, ensuring your website remains fresh, engaging, and user-friendly, whether your customers visit it from a desktop, a tablet, or a smartphone.
Now, let’s tackle the elephant in the room — cost-effectiveness. Hiring a web designer just to create your website might seem less expensive initially. But consider the long-term costs — hiring different people for updates, fixes, and a host of other tasks that will inevitably arise. Having an in-house webmaster can help avoid these additional expenses and keep your website updated and efficient over time.
Finally, one of the most compelling reasons for having an in-house webmaster is that they “live” with what they create. They’re not just building a website and leaving. They’re part of the ongoing journey. They’re invested in the website’s success, and that reflects on their own performance and dedication. Their motivation is to make the site the best it can be, now and into the future.
So, while the idea of hiring a web designer to build your website and then parting ways might seem like a quick and easy solution, it’s a short-term view that could lead to long-term headaches. An in-house webmaster ensures that your online presence grows with your business, adapts to changes, and provides constant support. It’s an investment that results in a robust, effective, and future-proof website — the cornerstone of your digital success.
This is what Midjouney thinks prostate cancer looks like.
I remember the first time I ever heard the word “prostate” I was watching Who Framed Roger Rabbit, and Roger had confused the word “prostate” with “probate” (it was also the first time I’d heard of probate — I had to have both terms explained to me before I got the joke).
Since then, sadly, I’ve had to experience what a “probate” is, but only recently have I had to contemplate the fact that I have a “prostate.” Even now I still occasionally get it mixed up with the word “prostrate.”
As I get older, my doctor has been keeping an eye on my “PSA” levels (which I’d always joked was in relation to how loud I talk — the louder my voice, the more I’m like a “Public Service Announcement”).
Once it passed a certain level (or volume, as I continued to joke) my doctor started talking about a “biopsy.” Learning what that entailed, I wanted to avoid that at all costs, so I grabbed and held onto the fact that PSA levels often rose “in volume” as a man grows older. Also, after consulting Dr. Google, I learned there are certain foods known to help bring PSA levels down. Tomatoes, for one. And that is not a problem, because I love tomatoes.
Several months of tomatoes being part of all three daily meals did the trick. On my next blood test my PSA “volume” had gone down.
Huzzah! No horrid prostate biopsy for me. Back to life as normal.
The next year, however, it did not go down. It didn’t stay even, either.
It jumped.
My doctor referred me to a urologist. Fingers went up my butt. Yes, the prostate was enlarged, but the trained professional medical fingers did not feel signs of suspicious lumps or bumps.
Once again, a reprieve. No biopsy for me.
Yet.
But they were going to “keep an eye on it.” Now instead of checking my PSA levels once a year, it was going to be twice a year. And so they did, and my levels continued to rise. While the levels were not in the danger zone, nor even in the alarming zone, they unfortunately did land directly in the highly suspicious zone.
It was time for a biopsy.
I balked. I bargained. They’d described what this biopsy entailed and — forgive me, but — I wanted no part of it. So, they reluctantly agreed.
Okay, they said, we’ll check it again in three months.
Three months later, the PSA levels went up again. Reluctantly I agreed to the biopsy, convinced it was a waste of time. I’m a big guy. I have a big prostate. It goes to reason I’d have a big PSA level.
I’ll skip the details of the biopsy. Suffice to say it sounds like something that purportedly happens during a UFO abduction. It involves needles in places needles should never go.
The follow-up meeting with the urologist was set for two weeks later. I went into it fully confident that he’d tell me that the results were negative. That I was fine, it’s just an enlarged prostate, that at least we’d ruled out cancer as the culprit of the rising PSA levels.
Unfortunately, that is not the news I received. What I learned instead is that I have “favorable intermediate risk prostate cancer.”
So this biopsy was not a waste of time and money, and I probably should have gotten it done much sooner. Years sooner.
I was given three options for treatment:
1. Active surveillance, where we just continue watching it. (He does not recommend this at all.)
2. External beam radiation therapy. The advantages of this choice is that it avoids surgery, but the problem is that it damages a lot of internal organs, and will ultimately lead to complications and problems years later.
3. Surgery. Remove the entire prostate. It would be done by a robot, and would take care of the problem all at once. No prostate, no prostate cancer. There are downsides to this, too, not the least of which is that its surgery, but the picture he painted made it sound much better than radiation.
I’ve been given some time to think about it and to do my own research before I make a decision. And believe me, I’ve been thinking about it. And doing research.
Since then I’ve learned of some other options. There’s hormone therapy, and a drug called Provenge, and super targeted radiation.
Provenge is the option I immediately glommed onto. No radiation and no surgery? Sign me up! I had the feeling, though, it would be something my insurance wouldn’t cover. But in further research I learned the company that makes it has gone bankrupt. Supposedly you might still be able to get it, so I’ll be asking about it regardless.
Another treatment has to do with freezing the cancer, but that sounds so complicated that I might as well get surgery. I’ll ask him about that too.
I need to give my urologist an answer soon, and at this point I’m leaning toward surgery. It sounds like the most straightforward path that’s also the most proven. But then again, I have loved ones telling me to get a second opinion.
As we celebrate Earth Day, it’s important to recognize the clever manipulation by big corporations who’ve shifted the burden of reducing carbon footprints onto individuals, while they continue to produce the majority of emissions. It’s time for us to fight back and hold them accountable.
Despite the noble intent behind planting a tree on Earth Day, we must realize that the real power to protect our planet lies in taking action against the root of the problem: corporate greed and politicians who accept money from oil companies.
Oil companies and other large corporations are notorious for fueling the climate crisis. They’ve invested heavily in public relations campaigns that push the narrative of individual responsibility, driving consumers to change their habits. While personal choices are essential, focusing solely on our carbon footprints can be a distraction from the bigger picture.
So, this Earth Day, let’s stand together and demand change. Don’t just plant a tree — vote out every politician who takes money from oil companies. As citizens, we have the power to shape policies that prioritize our environment and demand that corporations take responsibility for the damage they cause.
It’s time to recognize the deception and demand real action. This Earth Day, let’s focus on voting for leaders who truly care about our planet and hold corporations accountable. We have the power to make a difference, and we must use it to protect the Earth for future generations.
Harold saw an opening in the crowd and made a break for it, hoping to slip past the overhead eyes that kept track of day-to-day humanity. They could see inside people, but it was hard, he knew, for them to see through people. The best place to hide was in a crowd.
From the grackles.
They were silly-looking black birds with long tails and yellow eyes — yellow X-ray eyes, as it turned out — and were armed with long, razor-sharp beaks. For four miserable years now they ruled as malevolent dictators, acting like some Hitchcockian nightmare when a human got out of line. The punishment was swift, sudden, and final.
Thou shalt not break the laws of the grackle.
No one had paid much attention as they migrated, spread, multiplied. An invasive species is all they were. Our own fault since we’d cut down their rainforest homes. They had to go somewhere, right?
To them, you see, we were the invasive species.
Even Harold had known, dimly, that they could talk — like a parrot could talk. He’d read about it somewhere. But no one, not even animal behaviorists on the extreme edge, had any idea the shiny black birds were plotting. Scheming. Positioning themselves for a strategic win.
Don’t dare call it “Bird Day.” Don’t refer to it, out loud, as “Avian Armageddon.” Refer to it by the proper name, the name they decreed we refer to it as: “Grackle Win Big, Mankind Stupid Day.” Make sure to pronounce it with the proper respectful inflection as well, or risk a beak hole in your cranium.
Harold had made it from the doorway and into the crowd. He kept his head down, his hands in his trench coat pockets. He heard the sound of fluttering wings pass overhead, and just as he feared, there came the piercing shriek of an alarm.
The noise they made. The noise. It would put a Moog synthesizer to shame. But it wasn’t just noise — it was their language. And not just their language, but also the language of other birds, other animals. The grackles were consummate masters of cross-species communication.
“Eggs stolen!” they began announcing in English. “Eggs stolen!”
“Egg thief! Egg thief!”
The words were punctuated with organ chords, bells, sirens, cell phone rings … a cacophony of alarms from a huge random library of sound bites. This was combined with more and more flapping of wings as the alarm spread and the grackles took to the air. Harold kept his head down and like everyone around him, just kept walking — pretending none of this was happening. The man next to him muttered the f-word under his breath. The woman in front of him, young with curly dark blonde hair and smelling of flowery perfume, echoed the sentiment.
One of the grackles swooped down from its perch on a streetlight and landed on her head. She made an “Eeek!” sound and froze, trembling. The bird however only used her as a perch — its yellow X-ray eyes were staring at Harold. First one eye, then after a turn of the head, the other.
“Human!” it said. “You smell of fear!”
“I’m afraid of beautiful women,” Harold told it.
“What is beautiful women?” it crawed at him.
“You’re sitting on one. She frightens me.”
“This woman is not beautiful!” The bird’s voice cracked and hit pitches so high that it hurt Harold’s ears. “She smells of bad flower chemical butt smell!”
“This is why I fear her.”
“Stupid human!” The bird bounded into the air, iridescent black wings flapping, yanking a few of the young lady’s hairs out as it flew off.
The young woman turned to look at Harold. Before he could say a word or mutter some sort of apology, she slapped his face. Hard. Then without further comment, she turned again and resumed walking, as did the others in the crowd around them.
The shock of the pain and the stinging of the skin on his face didn’t bother him. The truth was women did scare him. That’s why the bird flew away — it didn’t detect a lie. Harold shook it off and deliberately put one foot in front of the other, falling back into the flow of the crowd, his head down as before. The cacophony and flapping wings continued above.
Harold made it out of the area, crossing a bridge over murky water, and then entered his apartment building without further confrontation. Once behind locked doors and closed curtains, Harold gently extracted a handkerchief from deep within his trench coat pocket and, holding it before him, gingerly unwrapped five tiny eggs. They were light blue with dark lines and spots as if someone had spilled ink on them. He held them, taking shaking breaths, his hands trembling.
These five delicate objects would fetch a fortune on the black market. It was the ultimate defiance. The eggs of the enemy. But Harold had no intention of selling them. They might be tiny, you see, but they were delicious.
Deep into last year’s lockdown I started writing a new novel, and a large part of the novel revolves around a typewriter. Not just any typewriter, but a very specific typewriter: A Royal “Gray Magic” Quiet Deluxe, the favorite of both Ernest Hemingway and James Bond author Ian Fleming.
So, for research, I decided I need to try and find one, and as luck would have it I was able to find a pristine specimen on eBay.
And what a specimen! This machine is a perfect example of how companies used to build products to last and last. This typewriter is over 70 years old and still works perfectly. It’s as solid as the proverbial tank.
But why a typewriter? What the hell?
This is why: it’s basically a character in my newest novel. Or, for those familiar with Alfred Hitchcock’s terminology, it’s the “McGuffin” for the story.
Not to be confused with a “McMuffin” which is what my word processor’s spell checker keeps trying to change it to.
The fantasy, set in 1982, features a protagonist who is a typewriter repairman, and is fated to fulfill a part in the gods’ plan to fix a problem created years before.
Let me just leave it at that.
But, if I’m going to write about a Royal Quiet Deluxe, I need one in my hands. I need to know what it feels like, how heavy it is, what all the parts do, how to change the ribbon, how to set the margins, etc. So, in my mind at least, I needed the genuine article in my possession for the sake of the story.
But that purchase sent me going further down the nostalgia rabbit hole. You see, way before word processors I used to write on typewriters, and for the longest time I used the venerable old IBM Selectric. But even before that I had the typewriter my parents gave me for my 12th birthday, way back when I had first announced to them that I was going to be a novelist. And that was…
I thought, hey, if I can buy the Royal Quiet Deluxe, just for fun I should see if I could get my old original typewriter as well. Not the exact one, mind you, but one exactly like it. The actual make, model, year, and even banana yellow color. However, this turns out to be a rather rare typewriter, probably because it didn’t hold up that well.
Because, you know … plastic.
My search turned up nothing, but at the very least I did set up an automatic search on eBay, just in case one ever did turn up. And didn’t cost an arm and leg.
About three COVID-19 seclusion weeks trundled past, and suddenly I get this pop up message on my phone from the eBay app. “Hey, we found your typewriter.” (It didn’t say that, exactly, but that was the gist of the message.)
I looked at it. Amazed. It was exactly like my original typewriter. It was in pristine condition. And it did not cost an arm and a leg.
Boom. Sold. Bought it on the spot. (eBay is dangerous that way.)
It even has the stickers that I remember. It’s so much like the original that I sometimes wonder if fate somehow handed me my actual original.
This is a pure nostalgia purchase. I made sure it works (to my surprise it types nicer than the Royal Quiet Deluxe), but UPS was not kind to it during shipping, and I had to gingerly piece parts of it back together. Still, it works, and it’s mine, and now it sits next to the replica of my original Canon FTb camera.
So, guess what I did? I wrote it into the story as well. After all, the protagonist is a typewriter repairman, so why wouldn’t he have a Montgomery Ward Escort 55 typewriter sitting on his workbench?
As a bonus, that makes both of them a tax write off as well.
Anyway, this new novel was finished later that year, sent off to my editor, and is now published and available. Here’s my box of author’s copies.
Just in case anyone is curious, here’s a link to it on Amazon: Typewriter Repairman
