Replacement

Had it been any other machine, I would have opted either to leave it behind, or put it directly up for adoption...



But you know, I have this weakness... for all things Olympia.



Especially SM3s, and extra-especially ones with a Pica typeface. I find the bigger face easier to read and edit, and it seems to scan better for me at NaNoWriMo time.

The tweedy case threw me off at first, and it was locked, so if nothing else, I had to solve the mystery. I gathered up my tiny collection of case keys (two) and hoped that one would fit so I could solve The Secret of the Anonymous Case at Goodwill. Evidently, junior sleuths the world over have nothing to fear, as closer inspection the next day revealed that someone had masking-taped the manual to the outside of the case. Tucked inside the manual, though, were the added bits of ephemeral joy scanned above: the original invoice, and the lifetime lubrication and oiling certificate, sealed by the Northern California Office Machine Dealers Association. As soon as I build that time machine, I plan to dial it back and check out one of their regional meetings.

Peck's Office Appliance Company left a fine sticker inside the case which I'll have to photograph and include here. It's swag, to quote my teenager. The former site of Peck's appears to be smack in the middle of the BART line's Rockridge station, the San Francisco Bay Area Rapid Transit system: an electric elevated/subway train that is one of the major transit options around here. They're currently having a labor dispute, and we suffered from a strike back at the beginning of the summer that led to serious traffic headaches. They're still battling it out, leaving everyone scrambling for alternate ways to get around.


View Larger Map

That's something we don't really think about as commuters: the homes and businesses that were replaced by our transit system. It really only comes to mind in a few places along the line, as the tracks skirt close to a crumbling property or appears in the narrow buffer between streets. Rockridge was one of the stops on the line that I rode for years in and out of San Francisco. BART opened in the 1970s, and was a fixture out in the suburbs by the time I moved to California twenty-five or so years later. Rockridge station opened up in 1973, says Wikipedia, just nineteen years after this typewriter was sold. I don't know how long Peck's held on after that, but I don't think I'll be able to cash in on that "Lifetime Lubrication" offer any time soon.

Like all good Olys, this one needs the standard bushing replacement surgery. It's no big deal: I'm familiar with the process now, and know exactly where to go in the hardware store for the replacement parts.



Replacing a set of crushed and fossilized bushings hardly warrants a mention...



What this does mean, though, is that one of the other machines is now up for adoption. After some soul-searching, I've put up a Smith-Corona Sterling that's basically sat idle since it came in on a swap from Olivander of Machines of Loving Grace fame. It, along with the other machines, are up on a new dedicated "adoption" page. This might be the best way for me to deal with the thrill of the hunt, without the space considerations of the "trophies": find 'em, fix em, find new homes for 'em. Sometimes replacement is the only way.

UPDATE: the lighting couldn't be much worse for these. Anyone know a secret for getting White-Out out of crinkle paint? (At least I hope it's White-Out) 



Ted's database says 1953 for serial number 403296. Sounds about right to me.



Golden label with green lettering, just about the same as the paint color. Stylin'! I wouldn't mind this being on the machine itself, but it's discreetly tucked inside the case lid.

Stickers of the Dead

From the original receipt found with my church-bazaar find, a late-model Olivetti 32. Purchased for $99.50 in October 1975 (not including sales tax.) An online inflation calculator makes this $420.20 in 2011 dollars, or about the cost of a budget laptop. 2247 Market in San Francisco is currently Lime Restaurant.



Adhered to the front of a Smith-Corona Sterling, this fine badge from Key Typewriter in Sunnyvale, down in the heart of Silicon Valley. No search engine matches for this business, but the telephone number uses a three-digit exchange, which probably dates it from at least the 1960s.



This is inside the case lid of the same Sterling. Presumably when Key went the way of the buggy-whip, Century Business stepped in and got the previous owner's, um, business. Century is still around.



My favorite one by far, stuck to the side of my big Royal standard machine. I'm not sure if Berkeley Office Equipment morphed into Berkeley Typewriter or California Typewriter, or was a third business entirely. With a major University just down the street, there would have been a demand for administrative machines and student machines alike.

Sowing Ephemera

I've been thinking more about Typewriter Day 2009, and I think Olivander's inadvertently hit on a great theme for this year's type-0-bration. It removes the anxiety of typing drivel over someone else's work, but still gives your fingers and ribbons and keys a workout. I like it, and highly encourage you all to elect Olivander as your 2009 Typewriter Day Parade Marshal.

The only idea I've been able to come up wth somewhere is one that I stole from... someplace* on the Intertubes. One of the joys of coming into old typewriters or cameras or the like is the random bits of ephemera that sometimes are floating around in the case. My most recent acquisition of an old camera bag, for instance, included the lenses and such that I actually wanted, but also three cloth bags meant to hold a roll of exposed film and be mailed back for processing. Mailed where? Who knows... there's no address, but it's a neat thing nonetheless. Old film is even better, if you can find it. Whole flickr sets are devoted to this form of random treasure-finding.

Better still, though, is found writing. Marginalia in secondhand books, newspaper clippings pressed inside pages, the works. All fascinating stuff to the retro-minded. The only problem with it is that there's so little to go around. And so here I sit, with typewriters and paper and pens and pencils all around me, and nary a project in sight... hmmm. If only I could somehow share that joy of finding ephemera... double hmmm...

So I'm distilling the idea of a themed, typewritten letter with the joy of finding something personal in an unexpected place. Specificaly, I'm going to type up a bunch of stealth bookmarks and -- on the sly --"salt" books in the library and secondhand shops around me with these slips. Random phrases, lucky numbers, torn fragments from a Dear John letter. And it should keep this idle mind busy enough to stay out of serious trouble until June.

* One of the problems with subscribing/scanning/reading so many blogs is that I have a lousy memory for where I read a really neat thing, and rather than be able to link directly to it, I tend to natter on (like this) about this great idea I read... someplace... and can't give credit. So if you see this somewhere else, it's likely that's where I stole it.

Regrettable history

Translators wanted

Duffy's post about finding treasures in typewriter cases reminded me of this scan my dad sent to me of a note I left for myself in the case of my grandmother's old typewriter. I'm sure it's more readable in person.



Section #1:

Well, heregoes my terrific typing/hunt&peck
Skills again! It's about 7:45 on 6/9/86.
?? days until my ?????? goes to ???'.'
I hate this ribbon! My Mac ???? ? ??? ???? job!

Section #2:

Sat, April 2, 1988

[mostly unreadable, though I think I can make out the name of my hometown, "Buckhannon"

A rambling history of planning

I've used a variety of planning systems over the years, ever since the company I was working for got into talks with the Franklin Quest people (now Franklin Covey.) We were a tiny spinoff company from an established printing firm, and after flailing around for a year or so, we somewhat accidentally fell into web development, making some of the earliest commercial web sites (ask me about meeting Fabio.) Franklin was one of those sites, and my future wife and another co-worker got shipped out to Utah for a meet-and-greet and to become One With The Planner People. Soon after they returned, we were all treated to one of the planning seminars and given our choice of planners.

Now, I've never actually been indoctrinated into a cult before, but this sure felt like it. I'm a pretty type-A kinda guy, so the thought of having a System for capturing your day, your to-dos, all the loose bits of information swirling around in your life was oh-so-very appealing. So much so that I went for the "Monarch" size, the full 8.5"x11" magilla, with leather cover, desk stand, fancy punch, snazzy ruler page marker... the works. It was Big. It was Black. It smelled Great. I wrote down everything in that monster, including plans for the wedding and honeymoon. Oh, and it went on the honeymoon, too. Yes indeedy, it was The Answer. Sort of. What it was was Heavy. And Bulky. And Awkward To Use. My new bride had the good sense to go with a half-page size, which didn't require a regimen of bicep curls. Buyers remorse had settled in with a fury. Then came the Newton.

Sleek. Black. Digital. Full of coolness and elegance and intelligence... most of the time. I lusted for one being a long-time Apple junkie, but was well-behaved and Did Not Buy. The Franklin looked more like a boat anchor and less like the One True Path. I opted to trade down a size on the planner as a nod to my need for portability. I even got the one made from recycled soda bottles, so I was feeling very green indeed, before being such a thing was cool, at least in the Midwest. Flash forward a few months: a new job opening in California, and me fully disgruntled at the old one. My new bride had quit some weeks before, and I'm thinking should I do it? Can I do it? it was time for a clean break. I did it. Ditched the barely-used planner along with about a third of our mutual belongings as we prepared for our Grand Adventure West.

No time to think or plan in the new job, at least not at first. Working in San Francisco during the height of the dot-com boom, who had time to plan? Everything's emailed anyhow, just get it done, chugga chugga chugga. Ooh! Palm Pilots! Gotta get one of those. And then the upgrade. And a keyboard. Ooh, and the new model! Even better. The most used feature of all: the beeping alarm warning me that I have a meeting to be at in 10 minutes. Developed mad graffiti skillz and was inseparable from the little digital brain for a few years. Oh sure, it ate batteries, and yes, firmware upgrades were a nightmare -- don't unplug it halfway through or it's ruined! And lo, a son was born.

Suddenly the commute seemed offensive, taking me away from my family. Time became the enemy, up at 5:30, on the train by 7:00, in the door by 8:00, and then reverse it all at 5:00. "He walked today" was the impetus for change. A few re-organizations later, and I worked out a telecommuting deal, home in the extra room with the laptop and DSL, my toddler son coming in to share his goldfish crackers. Meetings became a non-issue as I was out of sight, so far more important became the Work Log, my own system for keeping myself honest and focused by jotting down what projects I had worked on. Just an old spiral notebook from college and a Bic. The Pilot's batteries died and I never noticed.

A few more reorganizations later, and I'm back on the commute again, showing up with New Responsibilities. Managing staff! Preparing presentations! Arranging weekly meetings! It was all so complicated... perhaps it was time to dig out the old Palm again, fire it up, take it to meetings... hrm... still kind of clunky... and slow... and battery-gobbling... um, maybe not. On a lunch-break walk one day, I stumbled across the San Francisco Franklin Covey store. Maybe just a quick peek inside... what harm can it do?

Sigh. Back in the cult.

And that's where I was in spring of 2004, with my shiny new "Pocket" size planner (kangaroo pockets, maybe.) Diligently filling out the daily to-do list and its A/B/C priorities. Buying the annual refills and archiving the previous year's. A good little soldier, I.

Now flash forward to spring 2007, me with credit card in hand on the Franklin web site, trying to find the cheapest refill possible. I had just dug out my old Shaeffer fine-nibbed fountain pen, and was trying it out on my planner. Horrible, horrible bleed through. Luckily, I had my share of empty pages to test the pen on. And then something finally clicked: I've spent over $120 in four years to buy paper I barely use. What am I doing? Vast swaths of the planner went totally unused, except for days when I filled the pages. To-dos were either mostly empty, or completely packed. This was not a workable system. So I started reading up:

• hPDAs looked useful and low-budget, though I'd like to use my Sheaffer...
  
• FPN recommended Levenger papers pen-friendliness, and luckily
  
• The Levenger catalog kept gracing my mailbox thanks to my regular Franklin purchases
• But... what is this D*I*Y Planner thing I keep reading about?
  

And that did it. My self-imposed "trial year" ended in May, and I'm pleased to be using a system that actually works with me. 3x5 cards handle the bulk of my task-tracking needs, and they are punched and bound with the Rollabind system (equivalent to Levenger's Circa product.) My tickler file keeps me on track with all the little reminders that need to get done on a certain day, and my DIY planner handles calendars, book lists, birthday gift ideas, typewriter models, and all the other mental detritus that needs a reliable place to be noted down. And at the core of this is David Allen's Getting Things Done methodologies and their emphasis on offloading your brain into a trusted, physical system. I cannot praise this enough, since the combination of all of these factors really loosened me up, loose enough that I was willing to try a little something different last fall and write a novel, and then think about doing this year's novel on a typewriter, and then bothering my father to send along his mother's old typewriter, and then growing impatient and taking matters into my own hands, and then starting this silly blog about it and all the other little mechanical obsessions I have, and in turn meeting a number of people who share the same manias.

Anybody need a Franklin planner?

UPDATE: photos posted on flickr

Guess the secretarial postion didn't pan out

I was distressed to find Monda's typing student had moved on to bigger and better things. By 1961, she was part of the Red Menace, scaring the bejesus out of nice Catholic schoolchildren via comic books with her new "severe" haircut and accusatory fingers.

Type for America, people!

• "This Godless Communism"