Ok,
This is my first blog and with so much to write, my fingers are practically paralysed mid-air. Hovering pointlessly above asdf and jkl;
Essentially, I need to go on this journey. I need to write every day. I need to see if I have what it takes. That audience of one: that most critical of all critics; that shouty adult voice of reason that booms "this will flop cataclysmically" is all but drowning out the other little voice, the one attached to little pokey fingers that prods things just to see what they do. I will listen to that voice …
I remember visiting my granny in a little town called Douglas in the Northern Cape, when I was about 5 years old and came in to her study one day while she was doing what we would now call admin. I guess in those days, she was paying bills and writing a few letters at her old roll-top writing desk on the little portable Olivetti typewriter. Sitting upright as always, immaculately dressed with her grey hair neatly pinned back in a bun. Memories of her seated in this manner were imprinted on my impressionable little mind at a very early age as I had lived with her for a year at about the age of 3 when my parents were separated for a while.
Back to the Olivetti. My granny was never overly maternal or fussy but you knew you were loved. Of that there was no doubt. I snuck in quietly beside her and put out my little pokey fingers to touch this magical instrument. Gently she picked me up onto her lap. I must have asked whether I could have a turn because those keys held a fascination for me although of course I could not yet read and had no idea what was transpiring on the paper as the letters magically appeared and this magic, I wanted to be a part of. I will never forget her reply: "Stemmie" she said, taking my little hand in her warm, strong, freckled and already slightly bent fingers, "when your hand is as big as Granny's then you can also type on this typewriter."
True to her word, when I was about 17, Granny arrived for her annual visit. She knocked on my bedroom door and came in quietly and placed the Olivetti on my desk. "This is for you. She took my hand in hers and held my palm against hers and smiled. Your hands are big enough now."
And so began my love affair with the printed word.
This is my first blog and with so much to write, my fingers are practically paralysed mid-air. Hovering pointlessly above asdf and jkl;
Essentially, I need to go on this journey. I need to write every day. I need to see if I have what it takes. That audience of one: that most critical of all critics; that shouty adult voice of reason that booms "this will flop cataclysmically" is all but drowning out the other little voice, the one attached to little pokey fingers that prods things just to see what they do. I will listen to that voice …
I remember visiting my granny in a little town called Douglas in the Northern Cape, when I was about 5 years old and came in to her study one day while she was doing what we would now call admin. I guess in those days, she was paying bills and writing a few letters at her old roll-top writing desk on the little portable Olivetti typewriter. Sitting upright as always, immaculately dressed with her grey hair neatly pinned back in a bun. Memories of her seated in this manner were imprinted on my impressionable little mind at a very early age as I had lived with her for a year at about the age of 3 when my parents were separated for a while.
Back to the Olivetti. My granny was never overly maternal or fussy but you knew you were loved. Of that there was no doubt. I snuck in quietly beside her and put out my little pokey fingers to touch this magical instrument. Gently she picked me up onto her lap. I must have asked whether I could have a turn because those keys held a fascination for me although of course I could not yet read and had no idea what was transpiring on the paper as the letters magically appeared and this magic, I wanted to be a part of. I will never forget her reply: "Stemmie" she said, taking my little hand in her warm, strong, freckled and already slightly bent fingers, "when your hand is as big as Granny's then you can also type on this typewriter."
True to her word, when I was about 17, Granny arrived for her annual visit. She knocked on my bedroom door and came in quietly and placed the Olivetti on my desk. "This is for you. She took my hand in hers and held my palm against hers and smiled. Your hands are big enough now."
And so began my love affair with the printed word.
Absolutely beautiful and I enjoyed the magic in your story yet still accurate and a timely love dependable as your fingers crossed our hearts
ReplyDeleteBless you and thank you for taking time to read
DeleteFantastic writing.. the pictures as vivid as if it was mine..
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