Essays

Typing out memories, Post & Courier

It is fall in the Lowcountry, and my thoughts travel not to multicolored leaves and apple pies, but to a long-ago typing class in New England.

On a frosty night, halfway between summer and snow, I trudged to night school at Hesser College, a tiny secretarial school in a former convent.

The entire building was brown — bricks, woodwork, linoleum, even the teacher’s tweed suit — all in shades of sepia, chestnut and umber, the darkest crayons in fall’s color box.

Behind the pebbled-glass doors, classes in bookkeeping, typing and shorthand reigned.

My typing class had all the excitement of a play on opening night.

The scrape of chairs, the low murmur of voices, the anticipation of what was to come. We switched on our machines, the resulting hum moving from desk to desk until the air vibrated.

White bond paper was wound onto platens, followed by the command, “Wrists up.”

Our fingers poised over the home row — A S D F, J K L semi.

“Begin!” And our fingers flew, the carriage return punctuating each line with a brisk ding.

Our teacher paced the rows like a drill sergeant, stopwatch in hand, while our hearts and fingers raced with words-per-minute at the speed of sound. It was thrilling.

The clatter of keys rose to a breathless crescendo, finishing with the commands “Stop!” and “Rest.”

We lifted our fingers and angled our wrists, hanging them above the keys in mock submission. Then we did it all over again.

By 9 p.m., we were spent. We covered our machines, nodded to each other, and headed out into the cold night, our eyes raised to the bright autumn stars.

JOCELYN CHABOT

Charleston