My, my, my, my Corona.

I took over $50.00 out of the money I had made picking tobacco that summer of 1961. I went up to Potterton's on Center Street to buy the Smith-Corona in the hardshell case. It was blue.




It took me forever to learn to type. Some of the pages of my high school papers weighed considerably more than others because of all the White-Out on them.

I learned how to set margins but never got the knack of TAB/SET.



That typewriter traveled with me to Boston, to California, to Texas, to Oklahoma.

I wrote my first love poem on it.

I wrote the first story I ever sold on it.






I wrote about a hundred days of short stories on it.

(That typewriter tale, I will tell later.)










Resumes, I've written more than several and Letters to the Editor, both angry and bemused.


I wrote the birth announcement of my son on it.


But as I sit here this morning, I cannot remember for the life of me, what ever happened to it.

















Do you know what happened to yours?