Saturday Night! Woohoo!

Christmas gift:

My typing instructor . . .

 There are fewer people to challenge your memory as you age. You’re free to recall events that may or may not have occurred and you can do so with unabashed abandon. I love that.

Take the memories of my sophomore year typing class, in 1962 - 1963. 

The clattering classroom was tucked behind the home ec area, ostensibly to shield the academic wing from the constant cacophony of 30 manual typewriters brutally banging out the day’s exercises. Mr. S (I just can’t remember his name) placed the tallest boys in the back so they didn’t block the view of the huge placard on the front wall that revealed the day’s keyboard layout. Our typewriters all had blinder caps on the keys so that we couldn’t cheat and look down at our hands while learning proper stroking technique and key placement.

(I do remember the name of the subsequent instructor. Mr. Reiter. We were pals in the hidden back row of the choir loft at the First Lutheran Church during my senior year, singing bass with the adult Chancel choir and goofing off. His nickname was “Type Reiter.” Unforgettable, of course.)

Mr. S had placed me, at 6 foot one, in the back of the room. Methodically, he had placed a junior class man, at 6 foot 3, at that same rear station during the preceding class. Invariably, this joking occupant would leave the typewriter all fouled up for me, with inky strikers all jammed against the platen, requiring me to pull them apart before beginning the daily warm up.

(But, in what seemed like an unfair case of karmic justice, the following year, the persistent prankster was kicked off the varsity basketball team. This opened a slot for me on the starting five. What?)

In the classroom, we worked diligently on our “words per minute” scores, no whispering in this clanging environment. . . until Mr. S squeezed his stopwatch and ordered “Stop!” Then a silent relief as we marked our progress.

I had no idea of the benefit this daily hour of exercises and tests would bring.

Drafted in 1970 during the Vietnam War, I resolved during boot camp to avoid a combat specialty as best I could, perhaps as a clerk-typist. To this end, I sat with 30 some hopeful trainees in a test of typing skills. Thankfully, Mr. S’s training came through. I got the top score that day in that room, and immediately was assigned to an office job as a public relations specialist in Texas. 

At least that’s how I remember it. So who was Mr. S?

False alarm

 Back in the day when girls wore girdles or garter belts to hold up their nylons, I was a 15-year old riding from Alexandria with my mother to Concordia College in Moorhead. This was long before some women started burning bras in protest.

We parked near Fjelstad Hall where my freshman big sister was staying in the women-only dormitory. I was not allowed, so I waited quietly in our old Dodge as the dusk gathered. Room lights came on in the classic stone edifice, boasting huge windows, most with drawn curtains.

My attention was drawn to the first floor, however, when at eye level I saw a lovely co-ed dash in, perhaps stopping by her room before supper time in the college cafeteria. Bored and innocent, I watched casually from my vantage point. I was about to receive an educational first.

Quick as a wink, she bent over the bed, reached into her bra, and plop, plop out came a pair of foam falsies. 

I was aghast. She left her room as quick as she came, apparently her only mission was to relieve herself of this tiresome burden. Not wishing to discuss the intimate subject, I didn’t tell mom.