This weekend, I face a similar repair conundrum on a Corona 3, and I fully expect to use up my entire vocabulary of obscenities. I also fully expect a similar moment of triumph.

The first typewriter I called my own was a far more common, pastel blue Corsair. It was too lightweight to sit still on the desk. The aging, rubber feet left smudges as it scooted around. It was composed of plastic wrapped around what always felt like a mechanism of cheap metal. I loved that machine, in spite of all its quirks; maybe because of the quirks. One of the many things I can never forgive my mother for was giving it away during a garage sale. But, hey, at least she got five bucks for her pristine Hermes 3000!

That grey Corsair has found a good home, and a patient caregiver. It’s nice to be appreciated.