A heart transplant?

Previously on Rescuing Twentieth-Century Writing Iron, I cleaned up this 1940 Underwood, but found that it had a fatal flaw in its carriage.

Well, it occurred to me that I could replace the entire carriage, and I was pretty sure I had the right parts machine. I could attach the old paper table and maybe some other parts onto the new carriage, so this machine with sentimental family value would retain its appearance.

The typewriter's owner authorized me to give it a try.

On a basement shelf was this parts machine with a carriage ready to go!


But no. There was no way it would fit.

I determined that my parts machine was a Model SS (1946-1953). The machine I needed to fix was a Model S (1940-1946). Yes, as it turns out, it makes a big difference. I won't go into the technical details here, but will just say that despite the basic similarities among Underwood models, there was a real evolution. (Here you can find my review of 53 years of Underwoods.)

Well, then I got the bright idea of checking my garage. Yes, there are more writing machines hanging out in there. Bingo! A Model S, just about 1000 serial numbers away from my patient.

Here are the donor (left) and the recipient awaiting a carriage transplant.



Here's the donor carriage:



Cork feed rollers! This is very unusual. I imagine they were replaced sometime during World War II, when materials like rubber were often reserved for the military. I've seen several cork platens on British wartime typewriters.



But what's this under the paper table?

We have another broken carriage frame!!



I'm starting to think that the cast iron on the Model S carriage was too thin or too brittle.

Fortunately, this break is in a less crucial place than the break in the recipient machine's carriage. I'm trying to heal it with J-B Weld and an extra little metal piece to reinforce the frame.



By tonight, the J-B should have cured enough for me to proceed. Stay tuned for Part 3 ...

Heartbroken

A 1940 Underwood S came into Urban Legend Typewriters in sorry shape. Its owner said it had "sat on a shelf in my grandparents’ garage for as long as I can remember. It has been given to my college aged daughter, and I’m looking to have it cleaned for display purposes for an upcoming birthday. I can’t imagine it could be restored to working order, but if so, I would also like an estimate of cost."

It certainly was grimy. And the carriage wouldn't move.


As I began to disassemble the machine for cleaning, I was impressed with the traces of words I could see throughout the red half of the old ribbon.








There was also a mysterious inscription in the right ribbon cup. 3-45 may mean March 1945, but I have no clue about the other figures.



As I cleaned, degreased, and lubed the parts, they started to function. I believed this machine would type again!

But my heart sank when I removed the paper table and discovered that the back of the carriage frame was broken, right at the point where the right carriage frame bearing is screwed into the cast iron of the carriage frame.



Here's a view of the broken frame, minus a chunk of cast iron, the two screws, the lift hook shaft support, and the carriage frame bearing. (No, I would not know what these pieces are called if it weren't for the great 1945 Ames manual that you can download at the bottom of this page.)



As a desperate measure, I tried using J-B Weld (a strong epoxy) to glue the whole thing back together. And it did hold — but the position of the bearing was not precise enough. There was too much friction, and the carriage could not slide properly. After a couple of tries, I concluded that it wasn't possible to get this piece back together both firmly and accurately enough to create a viable writing machine again.

I did get the typewriter looking better:



But with a broken heart, it can't write. It's a shadow of its former self. In a sense, it's not a typewriter at all, because it can't do the job of typing. But at least this noble old machine can stand as a handsome family memento.

And yes, I wound that old ribbon back onto some clean spools. It's rich in meaning—even if the meaning can't be deciphered.

Declaratio Rebellionis Mechanoscriptoris