The Scent of Manual Typewriter Ribbon

by Jenny Powell MD

Twelve men sat around a large, round table.

I typed out the sentence, hunt-and-peck style, on my father’s manual typewriter. The paper was legal- size, the blank side of a form no longer used at my father’s office. He had brought stacks of it home, as suited a child of the Great Depression: never waste what can be re-purposed.

The manual typewriter had a manly smell, or so I believed. Its case was leather-bound and metal hinges locked the machine in place. The typewriter ribbon was striped black and red and when one struck a key, an arm would rise to strike the raised ribbon, leaving the imprint of ink on the paper, rolled into place on a cylinder. There were two very satisfying sounds associated with Dad’s manual: the sound of the slap against the paper and ding of the bell once you’ve typed near the right margin. Once you heard the ding, you were to touch the bar at the right side of the cylinder, returning it to the left margin.

I was probably twelve years old.

Typing was what had allowed my flat-footed father to be a Tech in the US Army when he volunteered after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. The typewriter represented Dad, and the fact that he allowed me to use it, to peck around and create silly little stories, demonstrated his deep love for me. My favorite bit to that point was about a man I named Arthur who was born on Leap Day, who could only celebrate his birthday every four years. He had suicidal tendencies but was very much a coward so he decided he would wait until he turned twenty and die at the old age of
eighty.

But I was twelve, and I was going to write my Great American Novel.

Twelve men sat around a large, round table.

But wait – is that practical? That would be a very large table. Maybe it should be oval?

Twelve men sat around a large, oval table.

But of course it’s large, if twelve men are sitting around it. They’re not boys or dwarves.

Twelve men sat around an oval table.

I could see the room they were in: it sported a wooden floor and dust danced in the sunlight as it poured through the windows. The room had a musty smell with the lingering hint of cooking grease. The table was an old, wooden thing and the straight back chairs scraped against the floor before the men sank into them.

Twelve men sat around an oval wood table.

What kind of wood? Oak? Walnut? Cherry? At twelve, that was about all I knew of types of wood people made furniture out of. Did I really have to say it is oval? That sounds dumb.

Twelve men sat at the old oak table.

Okay. I fed a fresh piece of scrap paper into the typewriter.

Chapter One
Twelve men . . . .

One year later, a book was released by the two Washington Post reporters, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, who broke the story of a Presidential cover-up of a little break-in of Democratic headquarters in the Watergate Hotel. Two years later, the film was released, starring Robert Redford and Al Pacino. And, just like that, I knew I was supposed to be an investigative reporter. For my high school graduation, I bought my own Selectric typewriter and began my short-lived undergraduate studies as Pre-Journalism major. I made it two semesters before God let me know that wasn’t what He had in mind for me.

I still own Dad’s typewriter, as well as my Selectric (you never know when you might need them). And I never got past the first page of that story. But I type every. Single. Day. Thanks, Dad.

Jenny Powell MD is a family physician, thanks to a call from the Holy Spirit, with a unique practice style and two busy offices, available to her patients 24/7. When not writing prescriptions, she works on her unpublished manuscripts, reads a lot of novels, and supports ACFW writers. Visit Jenny on her website and Instagram @jpowellmdauthor.