The Circle of Family

CIrcle of Family

A child dying before a parent is something that no mom or dad should ever face. Whether that child is six months, six years, or fifty-six years, the agonizing heartbreak is the same.

My nephew Greg died recently. He was born when I was fifteen. I left home at nineteen, and Greg also moved out of state as a young man. So my only recollection of him was as of a little boy.

Seeing my brother Gene’s son lying in a casket, no longer a little boy but a man of middle age, brought forth feelings of deep regret for not having kept in touch with him across the many years and miles.

But deep-seated feelings of contentment and peace outweighed my regret. Because from his mother’s side of the family, Greg’s brother, many cousins, aunts and uncles and friends came and stayed for the two viewings and the funeral service in Pennsylvania. Greg’s two grown daughters drove from Ohio to attend as well. The girls, now with young families of their own, cried when they saw the outpouring of love for their dad.

His daughters hadn’t even known about their aunts, uncles, and cousins from their paternal grandfather’s side of the family. When I held open my arms and said, “I’m your Aunt Norma,” together they fell into my embrace. My sisters and others shared that they had similar encounters over the two days.

Yes, I know there are schmaltzy Hallmark movies about “instant families,” but this was the real deal! It was a perfectly lovely experience shared by many in the midst of a tragedy.

The day I returned home I took the dog for a walk at a local park. I happened upon this view of three trees in a triangle shape about twenty feet from each other. As you can see, one tree branched into two trunks, another into three, and the third into many. I knew it was a perfect metaphor for the funeral experience.

The trees are separate, yes, but joining them together are their roots which have reached out across the expanse almost like hands extending out to reach another’s hands. At first glance, they may appear gnarly. But look closely and admire the beauty of their endurance.

Our individual families may consist of a few members or many. But joining our individual families together are our roots…our family ties. Our family roots run so deep. Sometimes they are deep underground. Other times they reach the surface for all to see. Our roots are strong. They are resilient, withstanding neglect, and years, and miles. Our family roots help us carry one another through sorrowful times.

There is a print that hangs over my son’s bed that says this:

Our family is a circle of strength and love.

With every birth and every union, the circle grows.

Every joy shared adds more love.

Every crisis faced together makes the circle stronger.

 

 

Rock, Scissors, Paper

Paper matters

Photo courtesy of Freestocks.org on Unsplash.com

The television show featured a young woman having an argument with her dad. The father was urging her to write down some important information. Her reply was something like this, “My generation doesn’t write stuff down. By posting photos and videos, we SHOW what we’re doing, where we’re going, what we like.”

Okay, I get it, but only in a small way. They’re young, have active and busy lives, so if they can make a statement by snapping a picture and posting it, then they’re done, ready to move on to something else.

But it just feels so fleeting. Some postings, such as Facebook’s My Story, disappear into the ether after 24 hours. Gone, baby, gone.

This is so different than the advice from Joan Didion, journalist and screenplay writer. She advised aspiring writers to carry around notebooks to record moments of inspiration.

Marina Keegan, a young journalist who at 22 died in a car accident just days after college graduation, kept notebooks of what she termed “interesting stuff.” These were things she noticed that would likely have found their way into a story had she lived.

Thoughts and ideas are so fleeting. And there’s a permanence to paper that gives me comfort.

This point was driven home in the last few weeks when I finished a scrapbook of the life story of my son Tim who died ten years ago, also at the age of 22.

From paper calendars, I’ve been able to chronicle the everydayness of his life from birth up through middle school. How could I have ever simply recalled so many details?

By reading his elementary school writing assignments, I can tell you that his typical pattern was to write about four aspects:

a) what he was wearing (“Today I have on a camoflog shirt. It’s cool.”)

b) what he was doing (“My frend Daniel is coming to my house to play games.”)

c) something relating to super heroes or action figures or comic books

d) a snippet of what was happening at home (“My mom is away on a bizniss trip.”)

Because they were captured on paper, I’m reminded of words and phrases he mispronounced. For years he referred to last night as “yesterdaynight.”

And yes, the album contains many printed photos too, because pictures DO tell a story. But scrolling through photos on a phone’s small screen shot by shot is NOT the same as really looking at a spread of photographs on a page that you can hold as you read the notations I’ve added.

And in case you think I’m contradicting the recent advice I gave on clearing out stuff, I’m not and here’s why: The album contains a half dozen of the school writing assignments—just enough to paint a picture of the moment. And the rest I respectfully parted with. That’s how I worked my way through three boxes of papers, pictures, cards, and mementos: evaluating and choosing just enough to include and then parting with the rest.

It was not easy. And I’ll admit to retrieving two pieces from the floral trash can at my feet and finding a place for them in the book.

I have a meaningful end product that fulfills the mom-mission I set out to accomplish: joyously documenting the story of my son’s life.

Had I NOT kept paper records, would I have remembered that at age 3, Tim called bubblegum buddlebum? Or that at four he told an uncle, “Unk Bill, you have a ball head.”

Those are memories too sweet not to remember. We need to take action to preserve our memories because it’s human nature to forget stuff.

Write that down.

A Cutest Pet, By Any Other Name

Cutest Pet

Riley Thatcher, October 2018

If we’re personal Facebook friends, you saw my posts in early December soliciting votes to elect my dog Riley as Warrenton’s Cutest Pet. Sadly, he did not win.

I misrepresented him. He’s not actually cute. Cute dogs snuggle up, lick your face, nestle their heads in your lap to be petted, hog the bed, and curl up in front of the fireplace while you read a book.

Riley does none of that. Having had basically no physical contact during his formative first eighteen months of life, he’s pretty much a loner. He stays very much glued to my side at the dog park, and he’ll actually get up and move to the floor with a huff if you try to snuggle with him in the bed. I’ve gotten exactly two kisses from him in the five years he’s been part of our family, and they both occurred on an Easter Sunday. I’m not sure what that means.

So no, “cute” is not the right word to describe Riley. But he is the most handsome boy dog ever. “Tall, dark, and handsome” sums him up nicely. Or “gentle giant” is a good fit as well. And the “oldest soul” in a middle-aged dog would work too.

At the park today was a family with a passel of kids running and playing. When Riley and I passed three of them, they stared wide-eyed at my dog. One of the little girls asked, “What’s wrong with his face?”

Because my sweet dog, who was misdiagnosed for two months as having an upper palate injury affecting his eye, is fighting an aggressive oral mast cell tumor. The tumor pushes out as an egg shape on the right side of his face, causing that side to be swollen. The swelling has forced his third eyelid to stick out, rolling his eye back in his head.

I understand how a child might be frightened by his looks. It breaks my heart.

While mast cell tumors are one of the most common tumors in dogs, to have one inside the mouth is uncommon. Most canine mast cell tumors are found on the trunk or the limbs and are usually easier to treat. Riley is on two types of chemotherapy treatment with an excellent oncologist in a nearby city. He is not a candidate for either radiation or surgery due to the size as well as the location of the tumor. Frankly, there is just a tiny bit of hope that he can beat this.

We live on that tiny bit of hope.

My good friend Patti had also entered her little dog London in the cutest pet contest, and we had a friendly “big dog/little dog” rivalry going on. When I called Patti the other day to update her on Riley, I remembered to inquire if London had won the contest. She said no, but then she gave me a gift. She shared that when I told her about Riley’s diagnosis, she decided that moment that if London were to win, they would relinquish the title to Riley.

Really, with friends like that, bad times can be made a little more bearable.

Riley’s good looks as the world views him may be gone, but he still is and always will be my sweet handsome dog.

“Believe me, if all those endearing young charms…”

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My original post about the “Endearing Young Charms” song

 

Just Whose Children Are They, Anyhow?

Sad child

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com

The #1 marker of a superb speaker is not in the eloquence presented.  It’s not how smart she sounds or the effective body language he displays. It’s not in how many times she makes us laugh.

Nope. In my opinion, the #1 marker is how effectively the speaker can get you to think about an issue that you weren’t even fully aware was an issue.

I spent this evening at a live presentation by Robert Putnam, best-selling author of Our Kids, The American Dream in Crisis. What we have believed for years to be true (work hard and you can do anything) turns out NOT to be true for more and more children. Putnam refers to it as a “disturbing opportunity gap” between children from families that are financially secure and those that are not.

While I love stories in presentations (and he had some of those), I’m not usually fond of too many statistics, charts, or graphs. But his science was both captivating and compelling.

Using a study by the National Academy of Sciences, he reminded us that we continue to learn about ourselves and what powerful and long-lasting aspects affect us. It turns out that children are primarily shaped in the prenatal period through the early childhood years.

So for those children who don’t have a great beginning, they are already too far behind to catch up before they hit fourth grade.

In the clip I’ve attached at the end, he talks about the scissor-type discrepancies in how the “haves” and “have-nots” raise their children. In everything from the amount of money spent on a child, time used eating dinner as a family, a child’s participation in school-based extracurricular activities, the amount of social trust a child feels, involvement with church…the gap gets wider and wider as time goes on.

I was especially taken with the gap shown involving the time spent by both parents in developmental child care. He referred to it as the “Goodnight Moon” time, based on the beloved children’s book by that title. Developmental time is time spent reading to a child, talking and playing with them, teaching them how to do something.

This time is absolutely vital to a child’s well-being. But just consider the lack of time with which a single parent working two jobs might have to contend.

So Putnam inspired me to read his book and continue to think deeply and broadly about what or where my part in the effort to fix this crisis is exactly.

And, of course, he influenced me to tell you about it so you can do the same.

He ended the program by saying we’re all in this together and that we will fix this. It’s not “my” children or “your” children. It’s OUR children.

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Interview clip of Putnam

 

This Much I Know

Tim at 18

Today is the tenth anniversary of my son Tim’s death at the age of 22. I’m sharing that with you because ten years is a milestone. It’s a time of reflection, a time to look back over a decade to see what I’ve learned that might help someone else.

I spent last Saturday with a mom new to the grief of losing a child. She’s just six months into her new life where one less person on earth calls her Mom.

Every person’s process of grief and mourning is unique. Even if you’ve lost a child yourself, you don’t truly understand what another person is feeling.

That being said, I’ve listened to enough personal sharings from grieving moms to know that there ARE strong similarities in our stories, regardless of how young or old our children were when they died or by how they died.

Sometimes just knowing you’re not alone in your thoughts and feelings and reactions can ease the pain just a little. And that’s what most of us are seeking initially. So I’m sharing three thoughts.

And if you’re on the outside looking in, wanting to help someone else who has lost a child, these ideas may help you be more truly empathic.

1) The first year of grief is the hardest. There are so many “anniversaries” to get through: the first birthday that your child isn’t alive to celebrate, the first Christmas, the annual family vacation, other holidays your child especially enjoyed, and of course, the anniversary of their death.

Believe me—it’s a flat-out horrendous first year filled with landmines. And it doesn’t even have to be a special day. It can be anything that reminds you of your child. For instance, hearing a song on the radio that your daughter was crazy for or scrolling though the tv menu and seeing your son’s favorite movie pop up…little instances like this can send you reeling.

I remember once in the first year driving behind a pickup truck with its windows down. Just the way the young man driving had his left arm resting on the sill with his fingers extended upward reminded me of Tim’s hairy arm and the long fingers on his hands. I dissolved into tears.

2) People mean well and they may be trying their best to show empathy, but you can count on some to say stupid, hurtful things. Just try to forget what they say because it will drive you crazy otherwise. Here’s a true sampling of what grieving moms have been told:

“I know how you feel about losing your son. My cat just died.”

“I feel sad like you; my 98-year-old grandmother died last week.”

“It’s been four months. Are you feeling better now?”

Some people will say nothing at. You may even have friends drift away from you because they don’t know how to be with you anymore. And that’s OK. The friends who stay are the true friends anyhow.

3) You may be angry. In fact, you may be furious. You may keep a list of people with whom you’re angry. Here was my list from ten years ago: God, Tim, my husband, the “friends” who helped propel Tim down a worsening spiral, and myself. Yes, the person I felt the most loathing towards was, in fact, myself.

My first and constant thought each day for several months was this: I was Tim’s mom. I should have been able to save him. If only I had done this or not said that or made a different decision anywhere along the road, things might have turned out differently.

No one else said those things; it was just me shaming myself. That is a terrible burden to carry. So if you are holding on to any thoughts like that now, please…just set them down and walk away. Because it’s just not true.

I know I just wrote about forgiveness, but I have to talk about it again here because it plays a huge role in my own story. Forgiveness was one of four savings graces on the lifeboat that buoyed me above the waters of despair and hopelessness and carried me to the shores of grief recovery.

Forgiveness may take some time. Again, situations are unique and I understand emotions run deep. If you can’t forgive right now, how about if, just once a day for five minutes, you pretend to forgive. Imagine how your life would be if you could forgive.

Take that tiny first step.

And know that many others have walked that path before you.

This post is dedicated to Tim’s memory and in honor of all the courageous moms who have entrusted me with their stories.

 

 

 

 

Remembering Peaches

Peaches

Peaches and Tim

Peaches. Not the sweet fruit, mind you, but the sweet woman who blessed our family’s life for nearly ten years.

Her real name was Teresa Sharp, but everybody called her Peaches. Our paths crossed when she was working in the nursery of St. James’ Episcopal Preschool. Peaches had been hired to watch over the teachers’ children in the church’s nursery.

We were relative newcomers to Warrenton and when I enrolled my daughter in the preschool, I was ecstatic to learn I could add one-year-old Tim to Miss Peaches’ nursery class.

The following year the nursery class option was discontinued due to insurance reasons. One door closes, another one opens. Peaches became Tim’s daycare provider when I went back to work and Laura started full-day kindergarten.

It was a relationship made in Heaven. She stayed on with our family for years, transitioning from full-time daycare to after-school care.

We all loved Peaches. She was gentle in spirit and strong in her convictions. That sweet smile could melt butter. She was a hard-working, courageous, Christian woman whom I trusted completely.

My favorite story about her is this: Tim had a favorite blankie that he took everywhere. Peaches wasn’t aware that Tim had set his blankie on top of the pile of old sheets and towels that she was cutting up into window-washing cloths. Yep, blankie was suddenly several mini-blankies. Peaches was more upset than any of us was, including Tim. A piece of that blankie rests in my writing room, so that story is never far from my mind.

Peaches’ life ended abruptly on December 13, 1998, when her ex-boyfriend shot her five times as she sat in a car with her children. He shot her teenage daughter and grown son several times as well, but both of them recovered physically.

My husband, a paramedic on duty at the time, responded to the 911 call, but our beloved Peaches was beyond any life-saving help.

The ex-boyfriend fled the scene as well as the state. Of course, the children could identify him as the person who killed their mother, so we were all hoping he would be quickly captured. America’s Most Wanted included his photo and the story in a show that month.

But it wasn’t until mid-February 2001 that Michael Reese was arrested in Daytona, Florida, on another charge and his fingerprints tied him to the Virginia charge.

At the trial, the jury found him guilty and Reese was sentenced to life imprisonment in the charge of Peaches’ murder and an additional 23 years for shooting and wounding the children.

The twenty-year mark of Peaches’ death will roll around in two months. She was one of the most remarkably kind and compassionate people I have ever known. I will never forget her.

People live on in the stories that we tell about them. We have a responsibility to be good storytellers.

Loneliness Isn’t Just About Being Alone

Loneliness

Photo courtesy of Sam Austin on Unsplash

My mother-in-law Rosalie once told me, “I wish I had learned how to drive. That way I could go visit the lonely people at the nursing home.”

She was around 90 when she made that statement.

Until she took her last breath, Rosalie had a full life with plenty of loving family nearby, neighbors she cherished, and a church family to support her. But she recognized that many people, especially as they grow older, do not have that supportive circle.

Loneliness isn’t just an aging problem though. It affects us at any age and any stage of life. Researchers now consider loneliness a disease and warn that we are smack dab in the middle of a loneliness epidemic.

Loneliness can creep up on us slowly or be brought about more swiftly by a life change such as divorce, the death of a loved one, a move, a change of jobs, unemployment, retirement, a different school, or an alteration of a relationship (such as drifting away from a spouse or a breakup of a friendship).

A common misconception is that loneliness happens just because we’re alone…living in isolation. While being alone can be lonely, new research studies have demonstrated that a feeling of rejection or disconnection that we internalize is the core of the problem. So we can be lonely even when we’re with other people.

What’s so bad about loneliness that we should talk about it? Because the silence is killing us. According to a recent article in Psychology Today, loneliness is directly connected with:

  • A high-risk factor of premature death from many causes. It’s a higher risk of early death than obesity is.
  • A higher susceptibility to viruses
  • Depression
  • Increased risk for Alzheimer’s, dementia, and depression
  • More frequent bouts of stress, anger, and anxiety
  • Poor sleep patterns
  • Inflammation
  • Suicide

That is a scary list.

In a world overrun by social media where it often seems like everybody is connected to everyone else, we need to consider what that means really. Loving someone’s post on Facebook does not replace sitting down with that friend just to talk. An emoji does not feel like a hug or a high five. Ten tweets a day about where you are, who you’re with, and what you’re doing is not a solid basis for a real connection with another person.

I worry about our world…our lack of empathy, our seeming inability to really talk to each other, our focus on shallow issues when we do talk.

I’m asking myself tonight, “I wonder how many people with whom I’ve had brief contact this past week were lonely?”

And if they were lonely, I wonder if they would have told me.

 

 

Just How Many Kodak Moments Can There Be?

Whale Moment

Photo courtesy of Abigail Lynn on Unsplash

The woman next to me on the whale watching tour had three cameras of various sizes strung around her neck. It was as though she was wearing the world’s most cumbersome necklace, part of which was digging into my side.

When the whales appeared she raised one camera after the other taking shot after shot after shot. She never actually looked at the whales; she simply snapped photos.

After an hour of this, I gently asked her, “Don’t you want to see the whales for yourself?” She lowered the camera and gave me a look of incredulity as if I had just said, “Did you know I’m a unicorn?”

“No,” she replied. “I can always look at my photos.”

A research study by Linda Henkel in 2014 offered that the more photos we take of an event or of objects (such as paintings in a museum), the less likely we are to remember the actual event or paintings. Our brains say, “Relax…I’ve got this covered. You don’t actually need to make a memory here since I will remember that there are photos stored on your camera.”

Henkel’s study suggested that the effort spent on taking an excessive amount of photos has a detrimental effect on how we make our memories.

A blog post by Robert Chen of Embrace Possibility reinforced this very message. He told of a vacation trip where he was his family’s designated photographer. A lightning bolt of understanding hit him as he was focusing on capturing just the right moment as he was sitting on top of an elephant. He found himself asking, “If I don’t experience this moment because I’m busy taking the picture, exactly what memory will the picture bring me in the future?”

Compare the time before digital cameras to now. We used to take photographs to remember people and places and special times. Now, as we snap a shot of the terrific meal our waiter just delivered so we can post it on Instagram or Snapchat, we’re often using our photos as a means of communication instead of memory.

Excessive documentation of our lives via photo posting/sharing may cause us to feel as though we’re narrating our own lives in the third person. And research shows that as a third person, we have less emotional connection to the memory.

I’m as guilty of “too many photos” as the next person. Don’t think I’m pointing fingers. It becomes a bad habit. With our phones, it’s so easy to take just one more.

The best advice I found is this: Smash your smartphone to bits and buy a non-camera flip phone.

Not really. It’s this: Enjoy the real life in front of you with all your senses, including your eyes. Of course, take a few pictures. Just don’t be like the whale watcher, having only her photos and no real memories of those glorious humpback whales bursting up from the water for just an instant.

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An explanation (for those who need it) of what a “Kodak moment” meant and what it means today.

 

 

 

 

Doilies, Brown Furniture, and Good China

doilie

Photo by Marat Gilyadzinov on Unsplash

The most highly viewed post on NextAvenue.org was written by Richard Eisenberg. It was titled, Sorry, Nobody Wants Your Parents’ Stuff.

It garnered one and a half million views.

Eisenberg is a baby boomer who was faced with clearing his deceased father’s apartment after his dad died at 94. His difficulties in this undertaking led to the article which has the subtitle of Advice for boomers desperate to unload family heirlooms. I’ve included the link at the end of this story.

The article hit a vulnerable spot for many people, generating over five thousand comments. It had 32,000 shares on Facebook and was printed over three thousand times.

Most of the responses were from baby boomers who had recently faced the same challenge or who knew they would be facing it soon. And of course, eventually, they would have their own household items’ disposition to consider. But there were also comments from millennials on whom baby boomers are trying to burden with not only their stuff but also the stuff from the boomers’ parents. Yikes…It sounds like the title of a children’s book: The Berenstain Bears and TOO Much Stuff.

Many of the comments about “nobody wanting prized family possessions” contained words such as these: daunting, overwhelming, heartbreaking, ordeal, depressing, sad, and difficult.

One woman wrote that her own elderly mother, before passing, had extracted a promise from her daughter to ALWAYS KEEP MY STUFF.

While I would never do that, the thought of certain items of mine sitting on the curb or going to Salvation Army makes me a little sad.

The upholstered rocker I’m sitting in right now while writing belonged to my husband’s grandmother Mae-Mae. While that holds deep meaning to me, I doubt that anyone younger than 50 would want this chair. It looks old-fashioned and has the dreaded “brown wood” arms. (Apparently, brown wood furniture is disdained by many. There’s one designer who calls the amount of brown furniture in America an “epidemic.”)

This topic of “our parents’ furniture” was planted in my brain because of a yard sale last Saturday. I popped in on impulse, knowing I had less than $10 in my wallet so I figured I was safe enough from buying anything I didn’t need or love.

The home belonged to a 79-year-old wife and an 81-year-old husband. They had both been having some recent health issues and felt the house and yard were just too much for them; they were moving into a condo and so were seriously down-sizing. Items were priced to sell quickly.

You may know I like old dishes. I spotted a partial set of Syracuse China earthenware for $5. The wife, sitting with her legs resting on an ottoman, saw me looking at the plates and called out, “I’ve loved those dishes for 40 years. They’re just too heavy for me now.”

Yes, I bought them. Even though I don’t need one.more.plate.

As the woman’s grandson carried the dishes to my car, I knelt down by her propped-up feet and looked into her eyes. “I’ll take good care of the dishes,” I told her somberly as she nodded her head.

And those dishes went into the dishwasher that same day so that my family’s Mother’s Day dinner was served on them.

What will happen to my “new” Syracuse China earthenware when I’m downsizing or too frail to handle their weight or not in physical need of ANY dishes?

Who knows?

But for now, the original owner is resting assured that her beloved dishes have found a good home.

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Links to articles mentioned in this post:

Original NextAveneue.org article

Readers’ responses to the above article

A designer’s opinion on brown furniture

 

Definitely My Type

Type

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

Actor Tom Hanks has an unusual interest: typewriters. NPR actually refers to his interest as a “well-documented obsession.” Hanks wrote the forward to a book titled (appropriately enough) Typewriters: Iconic Machines from the Golden Age of Mechanical Writing by Anthony Casillo.

Hanks’ own book Uncommon Type is a series of short stories that have a common element: at some point, a typewriter plays a minor part. I’m about halfway through the book and so far all the typewriters have been manual ones.

Depending on your age, maybe you’ve never seen an actual manual typewriter as pictured above. You cannot compare typing on today’s keyboards to typing on a manual typewriter.

You had to press the keys sharply; otherwise the lever holding the metal letter wouldn’t reach the paper to imprint itself. Then you needed a good swing from your left arm to slap the carriage return lever when the bell sounded. The “ding” indicated you were at the end of the right-hand margin. If you want to know what typing on a manual typewriter sounds like, there’s a link at the bottom.

There was no auto-correct; errors needed to be erased or lifted off the paper by using correction tape.

In high school, both my sisters took the commercial course and that included three years of typing classes. The students were tested by use of a proficiency test. The testing allowed no correction of errors; for every error, a sum of five words per minutes was deducted from your score.

In the early 60s ONE electric typewriter was in that high school business classroom. Students were required to take turns using it one week of each grading period in order have at least some experience on the “new- fangled thing.”

Our parents bought my two sisters a Royal manual typewriter for Christmas 1960. It was baby blue and was contained within a large carrying case. On each side of the typewriter were mechanisms to lock it into place within the case.

So between the three years of business class and at-home practice on the manual typewriter, my sisters headed to DC to find work as secretaries.  Joining a secretarial pool in the federal workplace in DC, my sister Beverly discovered that manual typewriters were a thing of the past. “It’s electric, baby.”

In 1978 there was another big shift in the typewriter saga from electric to electronic. As with all electronic gadgetry, the price for the latest thing is hefty at first. Amazingly, in 1983 the list price of an electronic typewriter was around $795 according to a New York Times archive article from 1984. In 2018 dollars that would be around $2000.

How did businesses afford to keep up with the times?

When I got to high school half a dozen years after my sisters, my mother insisted that I include at least one year of typing in my class selection. I remember my mom saying that if I could type, I could always get a secretarial job.

She was right; I did initially follow in my sisters’ paths, although I didn’t end up in the metropolitan DC area until years later.  And I’m still here!

I have never regretted taking that typing class. Thanks, Mom.

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Links for today’s post:

Sound effect of a manual typewriter 

NY Times Archives 1984