I thought of something I love the other night. I love the sound of typing. Not my own hands busily typing, but typing close by is so pleasant. The other night I was reading when Mike began typing a reply to an email. I suddenly felt so peaceful – like all was well with the world. Occasionally Mike will have extra work he needs to do late at night from home. I always insist he work on it in our room, assuring him I will sleep through it fine, and I will sleep through it fine because it is so nice with the sound of his fingers moving about the keyboard late but nearby.
I know why I love this sound. I can reasonably assume that the clicking sound itself is not that melodious and could easily be annoying, however, my dad is an author. All my growing up days, and still to this day, if he isn’t grading papers from his college students, he is writing. When I was young it was always on a traditional typewriter. I remember him sitting there, head back, eyes closed – looking pretty nearly asleep, but typing away like it was as natural as breathing.
Most of his typing – whether by type-writer, or later a computer keyboard – was done in his upstairs “office” just over our main family room. I remember many times sitting in that office on his small red couch while he typed away. When I was little he would sometimes get out this old manila colored writing board, a piece of his typing paper and a red or black felt tip pen for me to draw with. I also remember lying on that couch taking naps even well into my college years. I’m sure all of my siblings have the same memory. My dad would always come once he thought you were sleeping and put a blanket on you – more as tradition than due to any actual coldness (he had a little plug-in heater up there and it was always very toasty). There was a little deck off of his office and in the summer, the sliding glass door was always open so the chimes hanging in his office would blow about in the seemingly constant breeze we had from living so near the mouth of Ogden Canyon (perhaps that is also why I love the sound of wind chimes). He also constantly had classical music playing from the radio on his desk. I know we often went up there to discuss various woes or even ask for blessings, but I don’t remember the conversations as well as I remember listening to a little music, some wind chimes, always the sound of my dad typing, and the feeling that all would be well; we were in good hands.