Child of two writers, the sound of typewriters had been a constant backdrop to life at home.  My father worked at the kitchen table, cigarette dangling from his lips, ashes decorating the keys.  My mother typed in the basement, an eerie racket from below.  I did my writing with pencils, pens, and the occasional crayon.  I kept my eye on the typewriter and wondered when my turn would come.  There was no doubt that I needed to use my father’s typewriter, for my mother’s was a new-fangled electric beast, without the dramatic beat of the manual machine.

            In sixth grade we were given an assignment that needed to be typed.  My handwritten draft looked enormous, suddenly I was unsure.  I had never used the typewriter, and it would obviously take weeks to finish.  I approached my parents for assistance, many of my classmates had persuaded their parents to do their typing.  For my efforts I was seated at a large card table, perched atop a stack of old phone books.  The typewriter was placed in front of me with a fresh sheet of paper in its reel.

            This typewriter, an Olympia, hails from 1940, weighs about fifty pounds and requires a huge amount of force to work the keys.  It was my father’s pride and joy, the instrument upon which he rendered his work as editor and jazz critic for Metronome magazine.  The keys were sticky from years of cigarette ash and spilled drinks.  I sat silently in front of the monster for a full hour.  My father poured me a glass of cola, placing it exactly where his typing beverage always sat.  He did not offer me a cigarette.

            When it became obvious my parents were not going to help I began to type, tentatively at first, then with conviction.  It was a brutal way to learn, but by the end of the paper I knew where the major keys were placed.  I had the strangest feeling the next day giving the assignment to my teacher.  There was a sense of ownership that I had not yet experienced.  I was the only child who had done her own typing, and the teacher noticed.  I glowed with pride, and something else I could not identify.

            A new world had opened, not that it was without difficulty.  Suddenly there was conflict in the household, because I wanted to do all my work on the Olympia.  My father also needed the typewriter, but could not disguise the pleasure of watching his fledgling author.  I wrote for fun, to work out ideas, for the tremendous sound of the keys and the return of the reel. 

I had notions of being a world famous novelist, youngest ever, at ten years of age.  By paying attention to writing I began to see the power of language, how we influence each other with the choice of words both spoken and written.  It was time for a test, to see if I could wield that power effectively.   I stacked my telephone books and wrestled with the typewriter, producing a piece that I treasure to this day, a sales pitch for a dog.

            We did not have a dog, not because my parents did not like dogs, but because it would be one more thing.  There was already a menagerie at the house: doves, iguanas, fish, anoles, even a chicken.  The chicken laid an egg on the couch every day, proof of my parents’ patience for pets.   The solution to my pleas for a dog was for me to volunteer at an animal shelter.  This was a mistake.  Suddenly surrounded by people who knew things about dogs, and dozens of dogs that needed homes, I was sure that the right dog would come to the shelter.  First I needed to persuade my parents.

            The document I produced was twelve pages long, with hand-drawn illustrations.  It bore the terrible title “Why I need a dog” and was neatly bound in a plastic binder.  I had an introduction to dog ownership, a page devoted to each breed that I thought might be suitable for our situation, and a final paragraph that was part plea and part sales pitch.  My parents accepted the piece without a word.  

            The following week the shelter called to say that one of my preferred breeds, an American Pit Bull Terrier, had arrived.  She fit the bill, adult, spayed, and obedience trained.  Her name was Cleo, the name of the stuffed fish that I still had stashed in my bed, a remnant from babyhood.  I solemnly told my mother that it was fate, this dog was meant to be ours.

            When I came home that afternoon with Cleo, a big fat fawn clown, my father told me that he had been sold by my document.  He asked me to remember the lesson, the power of both the written and spoken word.  My mother acted as if she had planned to get a dog all along, but I could tell she was pleased.  For me, Cleo was the manifestation of my joy in writing, in being able to effectively communicate my ideas.

            The Olympia traveled with me, to the far reaches of East Africa, through the Caribbean, and all over the Eastern Seaboard.  Each time I carried it onto a plane the baggage clerk would open it up and examine it as if it were a weapon.  It resides now in my basement, high up on a shelf away from the dews and damps.  My sons used to take it down now and again to marvel at the very idea of ‘typing’ on such a beast.  Cleo has long since crossed the Rainbow Bridge, but I still write about dogs, for many have followed in her paw prints.

            I write each night, sometimes for joy, sometimes for sadness, and sometimes just for work.  If I am writing something that brings me to tears, the dogs all come in and bump up against me, offering comfort.  Other times they pile up nearby to keep watch.