With a belly full of church food, and a head full of heavy static, this road weary fox slinked back to his room in the woods seeking temporary sanctuary.
The silence and stillness felt good after the emotions churned up over at St. Patrick’s.
A recharge in the pool, floating weightless in transparent nothingness; a quick sweat in the sauna, purging the poisons. Then a sprawl in dark, air-conditioned solitude, my skin bumping up gooses at the drastic shift in environment.
I closed my eyes until the phone bleeped annoyingly beside my head in the bed. Hot coffee. A hotter shower. Because I had to wake myself up for the wake. And make myself back human again, before Skelly and I rolled over to the house.
As befits a proper wake, food and booze was everywhere when I walked in. So were people. Family packed every room. It was almost like the house was pulsing with the rhythm of the gathering. Most faces I knew. Some I didn’t. And it was taking me a minute to find my social footing.
Somehow, I ended up chatting with my cousin. Sitting on the floor of all places. Because that was the best location to capture on video the voice of my father, who always appreciates having an audience, telling her stories about her dad.
As we were talking between those stories, the topic of typewriters somehow came up.
Big shocker there, I know.
She said it was a pity we didn’t have one with us that night. Because it would have been rather fun to have all the kids use a typewriter to write something about my Uncle.
“Well, I do just happen to have one out in the car. Because I never travel without a typewriter.”
My cousin didn’t even ask me to retrieve it. She sternly requested, in that quintessentially Midwestern mom-voice way. A way that left room for neither argument, nor protest—it is impossible to resist “The Forcer.”
I set up in the least crowded dining room. Machine out. Paper stacked easily within reach. Drinks and obstructions cleared from the path of the returning carriage. First page rolled around the platen.
We started the experiment with the younger ones.
And it was so refreshing seeing youthful faces not stuck in a screen. But actually using their big, beautiful brains instead. Because they were problem solving the machine to make happen on the blank page what they were seeing inside their heads.
And I fucking loved that innocent curiosity.
“How do I make capital letters?”
“Where’s the enter button?”
“Can I go backwards?”
“How do I make it print in red?”
“Can you show me how to make the boobies emoji?”
Most of the questions they answered themselves, through trial and error. Thinking it through. Exploring the machine.
But I had to help them learn how to properly make the:
( . Y . )
At one point, there were three generations hovering over the machine. Writing words and poems to a gentle man who was a father. A brother. A grandpa. An uncle. A friend.
And just like him, the random melange of words rolling out of that typewriter that night was a mixture of sweet and naughty, sad and ridiculous.
People might think it strange to bring a typewriter to a funeral wake. But they honestly can help heal. I’ve seen it happen many times. And in many different ways.
Having that machine clacking away memories and words for the most adorkable man I ever knew was cathartic. In a very tethered, in the moment, way. Because it forced people to slow the fuck down. To really think about him. And then try to find the words matching what they were feeling.
The mistakes didn’t matter. In fact, that is always part of the fun of creation. Because much like the people tapping away on my much traveled ‘Meme Killing Machine’, the characters were perfectly imperfect. Unique. Durable. Making them all beautiful beyond measure.
That innocuous little machine from 1950 helped my family to find smiles amidst the tragedy of our great loss; it helped idle hands to create something tangible in the spaces left behind.
And that makes it more powerful than any electronic gadget or doodad on the market today.
Needing a break from being enlisted as an impromptu typing tutor, I decided it was time to sacrifice an hours-old bottle of amazingness that my brother was kind enough to bootleg from Iowa for my birthday. It was, after all, nearly that day I tend to dread. So why not just lean into it and share a toast?
Cups were sourced. Sloopy shots poured. Eventually, those old enough to drink were gathered in the kitchen.
And we filled that fucking room.
“To the family, past, present, and future. A lovely band of beautiful misfits.”
Everyone agreed in unison after golden liquor pleased their pallets that the Private First Class is something special. Because it’s delicious. And unique amongst bad decision influencers.
More typing; more beers. More stories; more tears. And then thunderous laughter when the writing took a hard left turn. Somewhere around the stanza about my Uncle “banging a nun.” Because something was needed to rhyme with the word “fun.”
The family is known for a great many things—fishing, beer drinking, a dislike for dressing appropriately for the weather—but being shy isn’t one of them.
We are loud. Gregarious. Just the right amount of crass. Enough to spark blushes and giggles, but never genuine offense.
My Uncle was the finest example of the best the family had to offer. And things just won’t be the same without his dorky presence.
But, he would never want us to wallow in grief. He was too much of a goofball for such gloomy shenanigans. I’m pretty damn sure he’d rather we take off our shirts, gobble down some candy, and crack open another beer.
It’s better to have more memories married to 94 West mile markers than it is to have never moved at all. Because life, like a typewriter, just keeps rolling on. Even after chapters end.
And that’s okay.
It just makes room for a new one to start.
So don’t be afraid to write it—out loud and proud. Even if it isn’t perfect; even if you make mistakes.
My Uncle, whom I loved and admired for the entirety of my life, wrote himself one hell of a chapter.
And, like things written with a birthday funeral typewriter, the memory of love can never be erased…
