The seniors at the Senior Center loved her

Because she offered an all-encompassing love

That filled the pained void in their hearts,

Made them feel wanted one more time.

Her smile seemed to include her whole face.

It was like being warmed by a light sun.

They could unburden their latest woes,

And feel as though she really cared for them.

She helped with those incessant paper forms;

And she was smart, seemed to know what to do.

Constantly moving to make sure all was well.

When she occasionally became emotionally drained,

She came to my little cubicle and closed the door,

Laid her head against a cabinet, closed her eyes

Then just let go as her heart refilled

With another volume of love to continue.

I could see the tired, strained lines

Gradually erase as her heart refilled.

It was a sight I will carry to my grave

As she would almost look magical as her heart

Captured another source from thin air.

Emma, was maybe, a messenger of God, I think.

Why should I need a paper valentine

As long as you are by my side—

Your eyes so brightly brilliant,

Cheeks so smoothly rosebud pink,

A mouth of liquid ruby red,

The joyfulness of childhood glee,

Hair so soft and wavy, walnut brown,

A heart so full of warming love?

What more could I possible ask

Of my very own perfect valentine?

Flames, flames, flames raging, roaring flames

Burning, burning, burning my city, home and people

Smoke, acrid air and ashes, ashes, ashes

Hopes and dreams burning like tinder

Blackened hulks, shattered glass shards

Left behind like a dismembered corpse

Clean up the debris, wash down the streets

Rebuild the structures, restock the shelves

This time leave all the front open

Put no artificial, barriers there again

Forgive, if we can, those who assailed

Tore down that façade we had in place

Yes, we will need help from somewhere

All of us, victim and assailant alike

Have aches to relieve, hates to cleanse

Let us stretch our souls just a bit

Help each other to start out anew

Heal the wounds, rebuild our city

This time, let it shine with love

Carl thinks of his manual typewriter the way others think of their vintage automobiles.  There are similarities between the machines.  Many car manufacturers no longer exist: Dusenberg, Franklin and Hudson, for example.  Similarly, typewriters manufactured by the names most familiar to Carl: Royal, Olympia and Underwood had long disappeared when Carl bought his Royal typewriter at a garage sale for five dollars.

He likes the fact that his typewriter, like a vintage automobile, is built to withstand punishment.  It is made of steel, not fiberglass, plastic or aluminum.  It has weight like a good machine should.  Carl cleans and oils his typewriter as regularly as he services his car. But repairs are difficult, requiring Carl to perform many of them personally.  Finding replacement parts is an art in itself.

Carl who could have been a threat as a linebacker is built like a grizzly bear and has really big hands. That garage sale find reminds him of the model assigned to him in school when his large hands and heavy touch caused numerous problems with the electric versions popular with the other students.

According to Carl, “Modern keyboards are made for women’s fingers and the dainty touch of a woman’s hand.”

He appreciates the Royal’s mechanics just as he enjoys the feel and maintenance of a car’s engine. Using its metal tabs stops and manual margin controls, and feeling the movement of the carriage from right to left add to his sense of accomplishment as he types. Most of the time, he even values the bell that warns him near the end of a line, though there are times when he disconnects it.

The ringing of that bell and the jerk stop of the carriage he says, “Gives me a moment to think about the next words to be typed.”  This is good, too.  Yet often, his left hand is too fast for Carl to do any musing.  It flies up to hit the carriage return lever, with a movement as automatic as changing gears with a stick shift, while he races toward the finish of his thought.

Carl tried computers, and thinks, “They are okay for saving my final draft.  Rather like pouring a final casting into a mold and keeping the mold, so that more castings might be made.”  His personal foundry for these castings is at the local library where he can hire the use of a computer when the work is finished.

But computers are too quiet, too subliminal for Carl.  Too like the silent airborne flight of a glider.  He admits the CPU does hum like an engine, but “You might as well listen to a circling insect.”  And the clicking of the keyboard is, “Irritating as a woman’s nails tapping on a hard surface.”

Then, too, page changes on a computer can easily be missed, and a writer can’t hold them in his hands until the printer spits it out.  “If you don’t like what you have just typed, you can rip it from the machine.  Can’t get that using a computer,” he says without feeling a fool for pulling out an unfinished page.

The printer paper is auto-fed, another thing Carl doesn’t like.  “A writer can’t get the same feeling of accomplishment you get when you roll yet another sheet into the typewriter.”

Other people praise the computer for the ease of making corrections, but Carl likes to ‘X’ out the parts he doesn’t like.  Substituting the strike through feature of the computer doesn’t compare to, “Repeatedly pounding an X through all the garbage.  Like using a punching bag to blow off steam.  It just feels good. The black scar it leaves on a page is like a black eye that proves the writer has fought for what he believes.”

Carl wants nothing to do with lift-off tapes, white fluid or electronic erasing.  According to Carl, “They just hide the work and make it look too easy.”

“If you are going to work at writing,” he says, “It ought to sound like work.  It ought to feel like work.  And it bloody well ought to look like work.”

High on the wall of the garage

Not all alone but with others, too

The dull color belies its former gleam

So many years have dropped away

As the burnished surface faded

But long ago when I also shone

We two were almost inseparable

Just a simple pair of pliers

But how often they eased my day