Dad's typewriter

Dad asked me to take his typewriter to the local hospice charity shop yesterday.  It’s a fairly new electric one.  Lifting it from his desk made me feel sad this morning.  Writing carefully crafted letters to authority about this and that has always been such a part of him and his sense of himself and now he seems happy to casually cast this tool away.  “Are you sure you want me to take it?” I asked a couple of times and “yes” he was quite sure.   He told me to take its PVC dustcover as well – “I made that myself” he said proudly.  I could tell he had, he has always been a dedicated adapter of his possessions to make them more “practical” as he might say.

The charity shop is in a little row in the local shopping centre, dominated by a Coop, a chippy and a Mobility shop with a line of electric buggies outside.  The man at the counter looked at me blankly as I handed over the machine, “the manageress said yesterday I should bring it in” I said and he nodded as I set it down in front of him.  I wanted to say “it’s my Dad’s you know, he’s written a lot of letters on it, but now he doesn’t have the dexterity in his fingers.  I hope it goes to a good home.”  But I didn’t, I knew this would be too much information for the retired chap at the counter who had clients to deal with.  And so this milestone in Dad’s life disappeared quickly from the rear view mirror in his accelerating journey into oblivion.  It’s funny how a cheap electric typewriter can make one so inexpressibly sad.