William Penn Life, 2015 (50. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
2015-02-01 / 2. szám
Tibors Take with Tibor Check, Jr. Typewriters, signposts & memory I WROTE THE INITIAL DRAFT of this month's Take on my dad's old Smith-Corona Coronamatic 2200 typewriter. It was, in short, an exercise in both history and patience, and it inspired this month's Take. As writing and reading comprise the bulk of my work and occupy much of my free time, I've become a bit of a typography enthusiast. Over the past few months, I have gained a strong appreciation for good typography and an enthusiasm for the old means and methods of the craft of writing. I'd been looking for a typewriter for some time, checking out old models and reading about their history. But it was when I returned home to Ohio for Christmas that I remembered there was a typewriter located somewhere in my parent's house. I remembered only because my second grade book report was composed on that typewriter. I barely remembered what it looked like, but in my mind's eye, I pictured a gigantic piece of machinery, angrily punching inked letters into the page with a "POP/" as the springs, levers and gears grinded inexorably under the keys. Soon after I finished that book report, my dad bought a desktop computer for the whole family's use, and the Coronamatic slipped into the dusty corners of obscurity. And that is how I found the typewriter—a precious family heirloom-sitting dejectedly in a shoe closet. I learned that it was a gift to my father from Monsignor Dezső Török, a priest at St. Stephen of Hungary Church and mentor to my dad. I also learned that my dad typed his master's degree thesis on this machine—a herculean task of great difficulty (of which I am now painfully aware). Nevertheless, my geeky excitation could barely be contained. My mother and father crowded around as I plugged in the typewriter and turned on the power. It snapped to life with a jarring hum and a screech like a zoo full of chimpanzees. The rattling and screeching continued as the six key was caught somewhere between its resting place and the striking point. To make a long story short, my father and I labored for a few hours over the next two days to diagnose the problem. With much care and diligence, we opted to disengage the six key to bring silence back to the typewriter. As a writing instrument, the Coronamatic cannot be saved by nostalgia. It may have incorporated the most advanced technology of its time, but computers and word processing systems have spoiled me. In my first attempt to draft this column, I went through 10 sheets of paper and countless errors. So, what has this to do with my standard Take topics and William Penn Life? As I sat at the kitchen counter trying to repair the typewriter, fingers covered with ink dust and oil, clutching a dentist's pick in one hand while my father held a flashlight, I began to think about the relics of our past and what space they occupy in our daily lives. When visiting Hungary last September, I noticed few antiques, and the shops along Váci ut in Budapest were filled with trinkets and items of little value and dubious provenance. I found it odd, but I shrugged it off as Hungary's way of capitalizing on gullible travelers, much like Chinese merchants selling knock-off pottery or Moroccan traders hawking ersatz carpets. But, it was not until I went to Csőt to stay with my relatives that I got a different sense of what was going on. To be sure, there were a few precious antiques and heirlooms, but what was not new was in various states of wear, and there were not many "conversation pieces." In watching and assisting my relatives at their work, and in visiting many of the little villages nestled along the roadside, I discovered that tangibles are tools to get a job done. Everything from the absence of downed trees to the lack of litter on the roadside led me to one conclusion: the Hungarians with whom I lived and socialized make such a complete use of an object that it is only when that object no longer has any utility that it is thrown away. Even then, many of the object's composite parts are recycled or up-cycled into something new. Antique stores in the United States are filled with functional objects from the past. Old furniture, tools, Point to Ponder.... Did you ever have a similar experience in Hungary? Do you have Hungarian or American antiques in your home? I want to hear about your thoughts and experiences. - Tibor 6 0 February 2015 0 William Penn Life
