My fascination with writing began early and at my grandmother’s knee. It was her Royal typewriter which captured and held my interest. I wanted to use it whenever I spent the night or the weekend. Looking back, I realize she must have spent hours in front of it. She typed poems and stories, invoices for her husband, and her recipes. It was always out, never put away. It was natural for me to gravitate to it.
She had it mounted on a gray, metal typewriter table which was sturdy for an adult, but, not so for a youngster. One day as I was playing on it, it fell over and hit the floor. I don’t remember how it happened only that it did so very quickly. The carriage was broken. It likely wasn’t a costly repair for most. But, it was a costly one for a couple living on a milkman’s salary.
When her husband who was an alcoholic got home, he went crazy. How had this happened? Who had done it? Why weren’t we careful? On, and on, and on he ranted.She quietly told him in the midst of his storm that she had done it. She was afraid that he would hurt me and wanted to protect me. It is likely that after I was asleep he beat her for it.
As she tucked me in that night, I asked her why she had lied.
“It is okay to lie when you are protecting someone you love.”