My dad’s a writer, so I had three typewriters growing up, in the 1980s. To this day, every click and ribbon jam of a typewriter reminds me of an overly romantic childhood, sheltered from any real troubles or concerns.

God was good. Family was good. My brothers and I would be best friends, forever. Even when the race war came, we knew we’d be prepared. Our mother had made sure of it; just as sure as she had prepared a nutritious breakfast and homemade snacks to be enjoyed throughout the day.

Poetry and ponies filled my days. Classical music poured from the oversized, wood cabinet record player with tweed speaker covers in ’70s vomit orange-brown, like warm tea on a foggy Autumn morning. And I feverishly typed … nothing in particular – every non-particular a magnum opus yet to be realized.

Every one of those typed pages has since disappeared, leaving no record of my infantile musings, but the story they told continues to play out through earth-tone sweater vests and tweed blazers (in ’70s vomit orange-brown). And I continue my quest for ponies and poems.


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