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  • The look on the TSA agent's face was priceless.

    I have no idea what a 78 year old typewriter looks like going through an x-ray machine, but for a moment it appeared as though it was going to land me in a secondary screening room at DCA.

    Thankfully, the winced squint on the guy's face faded from WTF to WT-meh... and I was on my way.
  • Giving an antique as a gift means passing on a little mystery that remains long after the bows and wrapping paper come off. The seemingly endless search for that perfect treasure often reveals frustratingly little of the story behind the thing itself.

    In such cases, all we're left with is the story of how it came to be in our lives, and what it has meant from that moment on.

    When I first saw that typewriter, I knew I had the perfect home for it.
  • As a pair of vintage junkies, my girlfriend and I often gave each other gifts that left our friends and family scratching their heads. By this time in our relationship things were getting serious and I knew I wanted to marry this girl. This gift had to be just right.

    A story on the radio about typewriters lead to days of google searches and rummaging through Alexandria's vast array of antique shops until I found it. Figured I might just be able to win her over with this one.
  • I bought a second one for myself, then spent two months getting the things up and running. At the time, we were over 1,000 miles apart and I couldn't bear the thought of shipping it off and not being there for those first "clack-clacks." So, I decided delivery in person was the only option.

    I bought a plane ticket, whipped together an origami bouquet and headed to the airport.
  • My TSA hurdle having been cleared, I was slowed only briefly by a spectacular fall running frantically up an escalator to make a connecting flight. The pain would subside, I told myself (thoughts wandering to the date of my last tetanus shot) and soon I was back home in her arms.

    Weeks and months of hints and clues had led up to this moment. Sitting on the floor of her attic apartment she popped open the lid, smiled that perfect smile and burst out "I knnnnnew it!!"
  • In the months that followed, despite all the instant messages and emails, we still typed out letters to each other. Something about those conversations seemed closer and more direct. Four years later, we still read those letters every once and a while, something I can't say we do with any email or chat.

    We held them then and now, those small folded notes with letters dented in the paper. Little vignettes of our lives before and after flashing through our thoughts whenever we read them.

    Now we type letters to our children - mostly silly notes and stories, really. Little things that we slip into their baby books explaining how mom and dad met, fell in love with these machines, and just exactly how dad got a perfect permanent impression of an escalator step right in the middle of his shin...
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