The memory remains

The memory remains

This was my granddad's typewriter – a very heavy Olivetti Editor – that I used to observe with great interest (almost fascination) when I was a kid. My granddad used to write official letters on it and do some administration work in his not-so-late years but after he went with pension. When I was a little kid, it was some sort of "sacred" device we had at home, belonging to the grown-up, serious world – nothing to play with, covered with austerity. It was easy to get the paper jammed in it, the ink ribbon tangled up, the letterheads stuck, if not used with care.

And yet I was granted the privilege to use it, as my granddad had a lot of patience with me – and he let me learn to type on it, years before home and personal computers began to be readily available to us: I remember him helping me out to "publish" my "books" (like: unique copies of two/three pages fantasy stories I had invented myself when I was about 7 or 8 years old). Those don't even exist anymore, if not in my memory.

When my grandpa and grandma died, my mum and her brother started looking at their things – had to see the house they were living in, kept some objects, sold others, donated other ones… as it happens in those situations.

Nobody really wanted this, and it is a pretty useless piece of technology in these days of smartphones and tablet and devices… but I kept it for a while, until we relocated to the USA, at least (and I would not even know where to keep it today)…

With it, a piece of my history was finished off and it left me with spinning thoughts in my mind, like those you get after finishing a book or a good movie that made you think… and you are not quite sure that story really is finished.




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