The Disappearing Art of 'Writing'

On a recent hometown visit, my siblings and I gathered to share the various albums, photos and other family memorabilia that had been divided among us after the deaths of our parents in the last decade.

Among these was a white three-ring binder containing a collection of essays that had been written by my Dad, most of them typed on his trusty 1930s vintage Underwood typewriter.

My Dad was a prolific reader and writer, and I know he conjured up many of his essay ideas while driving delivery trucks each day of his working life. The topics were wonderfully varied, ranging from stories of growing up on the wheat ranch in Eastern Oregon to commentaries on the politics of the day. 

In some essays he wrote about dreams he had while sleeping, and in others (my favorites) he describes “dream walks.” in which his mind travels back in time and he recounts in great detail a walk through the old ranch house, or the Gooseberry school, or the shops and homes lining Main Street in downtown Ione, OR.

I once tried to persuade him to start using a word processor, and I even bought him a computer and printer. No sale. He sent me a letter typed and printed in Microsoft Word, but I know he was just being polite. He was soon back at the rapid clack-clack-clack of the Underwood, as borne out by later-dated essays.

But now, as I browse through the parchment sheets in the binder, I appreciate the difference between the creative writings conceived by my Dad and those which I prepare in my work, or even as blogs for Los Gatos Patch. I have hard drives, flash drives, portable back-up drives and the capacity to save every word I will ever write a thousand times over. I even have offsite “cloud” back-ups that I can retrieve if lightning or flood wipes out my entire cache of stored data.

But what will happen to all of that 20 years from now? The things I wrote 20 years earlier, and saved on 5.25-inch floppies, are now virtually irretrievable. The same fate undoubtedly awaits this very piece. So I come to the conclusion that the old Underwood, clanking on white paper, which will be stored in the white three-ring binder for my kids, and their kids, was the greatest data-preservation device I could ever ask for. Thank you, Dad.