Chapter 34That night, after dinner, Dad knocked on my bedroom door. “I wanted to give this to you before you left for college,” he said, caring a heavy Underwood Vintage typewriter into the room. He grunted, and his face was red from carrying the heavy machine. He set it down on a side table, shuffling books and magazines off to the side. “My father gave it to me.”
“I didn’t know you were a writer,” I said, standing behind him.
“I wasn’t a novelist. But I used it during and after college, writing outlines and essays for classes.”
“Does it still work?”
“Of course.”
“But these are modern days, Dad. Nobody uses typewriters anymore.”
He laughed. “It’s a generational thing, Jay. I’m passing it to you. And you never know. You might dabble with it and create an award-winning novel from it.”
