Adventures at the Pennsylvania Trolley Museum

Guest post by David Cannon

 

 

On March 15th and 16th, I attended the Pennsylvania Trolley Museum's Vintage Communications Weekend as a representative of the typing community. This is the second year for the event. Exhibitors display and demonstrate ham radios, telephones, printing presses, radios, televisions, cameras, and a host of other communications devices, all dating from mid-nineteenth to mid-twentieth century. The museum focuses on trolley and rail travel from the 1800s to the mid-1900s. It hosts a wide variety of interactive and educational displays, including rides on antique trolleys. The museum hits well above its weight class as an immersive and fun educational experience. Kristen Fredriksen, her staff, and the many volunteers are knowledgeable, friendly, and passionate.

I arrived Saturday morning with twenty of my finest typewriters for display and use. No sooner had I set up than the Boy Scouts from Troop 1017 arrived, in force. The Boy Scouts are an organization that have received a fair amount of bad press in recent years. I am here to bear witness that these young men were polite, inquisitive, perceptive, and respectful to me and my machines. In the morning, I taught them how to use the typewriters. By afternoon, many of them were writing stories and letters to their grandmas. Letters to grandmothers and stories of a favorite pet were the preferred subject matter. When there was a question, a hand shot in the air and stayed raised patiently until I could get around to answer their questions. "Where's the 'one'?" was a popular query. Any organization that focuses its efforts on building the character of our youth to such a fine degree deserves the support and respect of the community and the public. I was impressed by these young men.

The typewriter display is always a popular activity for kids. It amazes me how quickly the kids pick up on using a typewriter. Usually, with a brief coaching session of about five minutes, teaching them to strike the keys with force, and getting them started with a test sentence, they are off to the races on their great American novel.

At one point, Kristen came in. "David, this has to be one of the most popular displays," she commented. "We need to figure out a way to get you some help in here."

I grudgingly had to admit that she might have been right.

Families arrived. Over and over again, I heard the same comments and questions; "My grandmother used to have one of those." "You have any of those typewriters with the little ball in 'em?" "Do they still make these things?" "How do I delete?"

Occasionally, someone from my generation would walk in and their eyes would light up at the exhibit. "I used to use one of these back when…" Retired teachers and secretaries can really give your machines a workout. It’s like watching a concert pianist show off in a neighborhood pub. And then they would tell me their story. 

Many people think that I collect typewriters. This is untrue. I collect stories. Every typewriter I own has a story. Whether the story is the person who was with me when I found it, the place where I found it, or the way it appeared in my life, they are all cherished memories to me. These stories also include the ones my imagination attributes to my machines about their previous owners or their provenance. Over the weekend, I was gifted with hearing the countless stories and memories of those who fondly remembered the impact that typewriters had in their life.

In the afternoon, I spied an elderly gentleman sitting at my Model 17. He sat, his hands in his lap, looking longingly at the machine, a sad melancholy in his eyes. Next to him sat his son (I assumed). The son was my age, late fifties, maybe. I approached the pair. 

"Can I help you get started writing your life's story on that machine, Sir?" I joked.

The man looked up at me and smiled. "After World War Two," he started, "I was a clerk with the occupational forces in Germany. I used a typewriter just like this one. I recorded looted works of art and treasure liberated from the Nazis after the war," he spoke proudly.

I sat down next to him. This, I decided, was going to be a very good story. For fifteen minutes, he shared with me the stories and adventures he, his jeep, and his typewriter shared in post WWII Europe.

"Each treasure had to be documented on a form in six copies. Between each of the six forms was a sheet of carbon paper. If I made a single mistake, I had to start all over." "One day I would be in one place documenting artworks, the next, I'd have to drive two hundred miles to document a cache of gold bars." "You know, I've read about soldiers in combat who were dog handlers. About how when their tour was up, they had to leave their dogs behind and the trauma they suffered from it. That's the same kinda trauma I suffered at leaving my typewriter behind."

"Well let's get you typing, Sir," I said as I stood up and reached for a sheet of paper.

The old man raised his hands from his lap. His hands were gnarled and misshapen from age and arthritis. "Son, I couldn't type now if the fate of the US Army depended on it."

What does one say? I swallowed down my emotion and placed my hand on his shoulder, "Thank you for your service, Sir. If I can help with anything, just let me know." I nodded to his son and turned away in time to hide my tears.

I looked over a little later and saw the old soldier's son at the typewriter. He was typing. The old man was sitting next to him, his eyes closed, a smile and a look of contentment on his face. I wondered if the son was actually typing words or just going through the motions to fill his dad's ears with the nostalgic melody.

Sunday looked to be a washout. Heavy rain and tornado warnings threatened to end the event early. In the afternoon, a few families started to filter in. A mother wandered in with her three children: two daughters and her son. The boy, perhaps seven years old, walked through the door and made a beeline to my Lettera 22 which was sitting in the very back of the hall.

“You have to ask the gentleman if you can use the typewriter,” Mom admonished, reminding the boy of his manners. He did not look up. His eyes stayed turned down, looking at the typewriter with an expression of fear on his face, as if he was afraid I would say no. 

“Here, let me load a piece of paper for you,” I offered.

As I load paper into the carriage, the boy does something I don’t think about until a few minutes later. He reaches up and rolls the platen knob to advance the paper. 

I gave him a few hints on using the machine. Before long, he is typing like a high school boy writing a love letter to his first crush. Before I leave, I step back to watch the boy typing to see if he needs any further instruction.

“He woke up this morning and said he wanted to type on a typewriter,” the mother informs me as she stands next to me admiring her son’s work.

I think nothing of this revelation.

“He’s never seen a typewriter before in his life,” she continues. “I have no idea how he even knows what a typewriter is.”

Now she has my attention. I turn my head to look at her. 

“He was persistent,” she continued. “When I looked up typewriters online, this event came up.”

“He’s never seen a typewriter?” I ask.

She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “Not that I know of.”

A thought suddenly occurred to me: How did he know how to advance the paper?

“Maybe he’s a reincarnated author,” Mom suggests as if hearing my thoughts.

As I was packing up to leave, Kristen stops me and shares with me her plans for next year. I suggest that we could do a letter writing clinic on Saturday and maybe a story writing clinic on Sunday.

Her eyes light up. "Those are great ideas!" she exclaims! "You know, David, with the popularity of the typewriters here, I wouldn't mind putting together an annual event exclusive to typewriters."

"I love that idea!" I exclaim in return.

We discussed possible plans for future events. We both left each other excited for future collaborations. 

As I drove home, I thought to myself, "Kristen is right. I am going to need some help."

Thanks for the great report, Dave!