It was 1959.

[madamesilverspurs]

The green "thing" squatted on the desk in front of me. Momentarily mute, like its identical cousins on identical desks that filled the classroom, it waited for the instructor to begin the lesson. The "thing" was, really and truly, the size of a breadbox. It seemed to weigh at least fifty pounds, and I had little doubt that it could take me down if it didn't like how I treated it. It was hot in that room, even with the windows open. And I really wasn't happy that Mom had decided that my summer vacation would be utterly squandered if I failed to become acquainted with this beast. Ugly thing it was. It had a single arm, kind of silvery, and its drab green skin held a black tattoo of its name -- Remington. "Go ahead," it seemed to taunt. "Push my buttons, see what happens."

Well, those buttons didn't exactly push. They needed pounding. And pound we did. Every morning, for all but two weeks of summer, we pounded away, most of us resenting every sweating clickety-click. And after a precious few days of summertime play it was time to start the new school year. And Dad brought home a square black suitcase, and inside was a home-version of the thing; this one was black and shiny and we were told that we'd need to take turns using it, at which point my brother snorted and left the room.

A scant five years later I used that thing to type my first term paper, with no erasures, properly footnoted, on bond paper with the watermark centered and upright, taking care to have the carboned side of the copy paper facing away from me. And in college I used it to type papers for football players whose fingers were just too big to hit only one key at a time. I used it to make the forms I needed for my first small business. And decades later, after Dad's first stroke, Mom asked me to use it to type up their living wills; to be sure, it would have been easier to go to their library and use a computer for that task, but it was worth the somewhat wistful look on Mom's face as one of her kids sat, once again, at the kitchen table to type. Dad's been gone for a few years now. And I suspect that we'll one day find that machine tucked away among Mom's possessions.

For all that I resented that "lost" seventh-grade summer, that green thing eventually took me to some interesting places and introduced me to some extraordinary people. Its great-great-grandchildren help to keep me in touch with my family and friends and co-workers, and allow me to continue to explore and learn. With Mothers Day a week away, I think I'll go to the local thrift shop and ask my friends there to take my picture with one of the monstrous green things. And I'll run that picture through my photoshop and send it with the caption "Thanks, Mom!"