FUN, WRITING

WHY I TYPE

There she was, that beauty of a black Royal, sitting there, dusty, keys barely visible.

Forty Dollars, the price tag said as it was marked down to it’s final lowest price at the consignment store I visit with my aunt when she treks down from Boston.

I quietly walked up to the black metal machine weighing in at what seemed like twenty pounds and placed my finger on a random key, maybe it was the H or the G or the A, irrelevant now. Click, like the sound of the hard snap of the tip of my tongue up against the roof of my mouth, I was brought back to a familiar time, but one I couldn’t quite recall just yet.

I firmly pressed my fingers on the keys with a much stronger touch than the laptop keyboard my fingers have grown accustomed to. I waited to hear the “ding,” hoping the warning bell to pay attention to my word choice of how many letters I have left still worked on this old beauty of a machine.

I was not disappointed.

Ding! And just like that I was brought back to my grandmother’s bedroom where she had always kept her typewriter for correspondence, recipes and anything else she needed to legibly communicate what her messy handwriting could not.

My aunt, who was shopping with me that day, confirmed what I couldn’t place at first sight.

Yes Alayne, dear, this was indeed the same type of typewriter Grandma had.

For some reason, at that exact moment, I felt a strange calling to rescue what I now fondly call, Dear Old Gal. And just like that, I became a collector of typewriters.

It is hard to believe that was a little over a year ago, but in one year’s time I have amassed thirty typewriters. YES- 30. I realize to the average person, this may seem excessive, but it occurred to me shortly after that first purchase of this 1940’s Royal, these gems are not being made anymore. Typewriters from the twentieth century, pre-electric, are the end of an era. They are glorious pieces of machinery all needing each part to make them their beautiful whole. The mechanisms are visible to the eye for the most part and their simplicity is a thing of the past. Our children and their children will only get to see them at museums and antique stores.

I am in love with the notion of using a typewriter. My heart is full when I open one from their portable case and set it up on my front porch to make my thoughts appear, mistakes and all, on the white paper I have rolled in. I am elated when I watch a child instinctively drawn to the keys and smile ear to ear realizing that they can create words that will not allow deletion. I am in my happy place when they ask, “Where is the exclamation point? (you have to make it with a period, backspace, apostrophe) Or the number 1?(it is the capital L) How do I erase a mistake? (you don’t) What is the ding for?”

My heart is in pure heaven when I can send a typed note on specialty 100% cotton paper I found from Germany to say thank you to someone who least expects to receive a typewritten note. Or to send my condolences to someone who has lost a loved one. Or just because.

There is something about typing. I can’t explain the feeling so instead of doing so, I do events and open my doors to let people in to feel what I mean. More than even the actual action of typing, typewriters invoke story after story from people every time they see one and even more when they hear one.

Beauty comes in all shapes and sizes, all flavors. This is beauty to me. Sharing something from the past with people to engage and connect. In our new face down in the phone paradigms we seem to find ourselves in and our children in, I am finding it harder and harder to escape from this technology that has made us all think of as connection. What I have learned is that it is the exact opposite.

So I offer a new way to disconnect. This is why I type. Typewritingisbeauty. Enjoy them; they love their salvation.

Please join me on Saturday September 14th for The State Street Fair in Bristol, RI. I will be there with the typewriters. Stop by and type something, bring the kids, bring your smiles.

Words Matter.

Uncategorized

INTO THE VORTEX

INTO THE VORTEX

Fifteen chicks, at least twelve bottles of wine and two large pizzas from Leos later, we had a great party outside on the sidewalk of my humble abode and business. Too many of us for the front porch and we didn’t want to go around to sit on the spacious back deck despite its beauty in the garden because after all, it is the infamous “4th” in Bristol, RI. Street front was where the energy and action was.

Fifteen or so superchicks, no children, no husbands, or pets to care for, and all of the other parts of our lives that are part of our lives left at home exchanged for a night out with each other before the climatic conclusion we call “the parade.” This was the calm between the storm of night after night of concerts, great food, walking the streets and engaging with just about everyone. Bristol’s 4th is like a family reunion except it is the entire town coming together and rejoicing, partying and shirking all responsibilities until after the 4th. There is nothing like living near all of it and since June 21st when the first concert began, we haven’t stopped.

Last night was the pause, albeit a partying one, but nonetheless it was nice to not walk to a concert and just stay put all evening. Laughing our female asses off as we talked about medical marijuana, walking in the parade, post menopausal dryness, vodka, the new pasta place that opened in Warren that of course my partner in crime, Karen and I are headed to pronto today because God forbid we don’t have enough food for after the parade and bitmojis. Another piece of cell phone technology I am in the dark about. For good reason too because as soon as the topic came up the entire tribe of chieftresses took it upon themselves to school me in the world of the bitmoji.

My phone was taken prisoner and passed around as each woman tried to get the bitmoji to match me or me to match it, not sure. It was like those old fun plastic peel off dolls that you could change their outfits on, what were those called again? I loved those and I quickly became that five year old girl as we all tried to make it match me. The only problem was that there were no Wonder Woman outfits which was kind of a bummer, so I made do with a crown, then a flower, then a Red sox cap and next thing you know, it was like forty minutes later. Sucked into the vortex. Heads down, each woman texting me their own personal bitmojis, but laughing our drunken asses off along the way. Sometimes technology is a good thing, oddly it connected us on a different plane and we were all the better for it simply because of the amount of laughter it caused among a group of women who laugh easily with each other anyway.

I woke up in a haze this morning afraid to look at the clock for fear it would read three am. It didn’t, it was 5:15, thank God. I remembered the evening with a warmth in my heart appreciating the amount of females who said Yes, I’ll be there and can I bring someone or something instead of No, I have too much to do to get ready for the 4th. We are always too busy and I worship the yesses from my female friends who decide on many alayne occasions to throw cares to the wind and have the fun I intend.

Then I remembered the Bitmoji. Let me just take a quick peek and play around with the hair, the outfit, the eyes, the lipstick, the blush color, the brow shape…all of a sudden it was 6:45 and a full hour and thirty minutes had mysteriously disappeared. Why doesn’t ninety minutes go by that fast at the gym? We would all be in way better shape, surely. I leaned into the vortex and laughed knowing that every single time I use one of these bizarre characters, the image of all of us women drinking and eating pizza on the sidewalk from 5:30–10pm two nights before the 4th will be the start of a yearly tradition for all the July 4ths years to come. God Bless America.


the first group, the first bottle of wine early in the evening before the pizza, the added chairs.. before bitmoji.
Uncategorized

THE PERFECT SPOT

THE PERFECT SPOT

There is a science in preparing for a day at the beach- in many ways going to the beach has a precise professionalism to it for the seasoned beach goer like myself. From the evening before to the packing up at the end of the day and everything in between I can say with complete confidence that I am a master. I am proud of my self-anointed status. This was all learned from the original master, my grandmother, my mother’s mother who taught me the routine that starts with an early rising and an early departure so you “beat the traffic.”

To this day if I leave for the beach anytime after 9:30 in the morning, I feel like I have gotten off to a late start and I actually have pangs of anxiety in my body as I make my way in my car towards my second home, the beloved beach. Some people can’t sit for any time at all at a beach; I am the opposite. I write, I walk, I sit, I stare, I read, I nap. Most times, I don’t bring my cell phone because I find that I too easily get time sucked and sidetracked and I like the break I get without one.

Seasoned beach goers according to Kathryn Black, my grandmother, (yes her last name is Black and mine is White in case you didn’t notice this and it shouldn’t go unnoticed that my mother’s is Black too, irony. Yes.) head to the beach and are on the road by 9:00am, latest. If friends want me to drive them because of course I always buy the outrageous one hundred and forty dollar beach pass, they know that the train leaves at nine or else they have to meet me there. I have softened a little over the years on this, but only if it is a weekday. Weekends, forget it. Everything must happen succinctly in order for this to happen and this is where the expertise comes into play.

My aim is not to be first at the beach, I don’t strive for this, that is like trying to get the A1 spot on Southwest Airlines, a near impossible feat no matter what time you get ready to hit the check in online button. No. The point is to get a parking spot and to get on the beach to claim my real estate for the day, the perfect spot. It is this spot grabbing that makes for a perfect beach beginning and there are a few choice spots I head towards depending on the day of the week, the way the wind is blowing and a few other factors that are part of this declaration today. The perfect spot is the spot away from the masses, so the quiet surroundings of the waves lapping and the seagulls chirping is the sound I hear. I don’t need to be right at the shoreline anymore. I used to, but now privacy and quiet is my go to spot and this is not by the water. The sounds I don’t want to hear are the booming music (music should be relegated to earphones if you ask me), annoying conversations between people that never stop for the entire day, (isn’t the beach for some quiet time?) and as far away as possible from the dreaded rookies, the ones who think it is cute to feed the seagulls. Even though, thankfully and finally, smoking is no longer allowed on the beach, some still smoke knowing that there are surely no beach police coming to give them a smoking ticket and surely the teenage lifeguards are not going to cause a stir. This is another reason for the early arrival to get to the perfect spot aka ‘my spot’ and sitting away from the masses. The final reason to be as far away as possible is the dreaded one way cell phone conversations. This really puts me over the edge.

There is a lot to being an expert beach goer. First off there should always be a beach bag ready to go in the back of the car. As much as I have certain rules and regs about the getting to the beach, there is also a certain release that must happen to make sure that the bag stays put. I am not a stickler about two important aspects of excellent beach preparedness. I do not care the slightest bit about sand in my car. Anywhere. I don’t clean my feet, or force people to shower and rinse off before stepping in. I barely shake the towels out. This is freedom and beach efficiency at its finest. Too much work, frankly for the frequency that I go to the beach. Sand can accumulate, pile up. I don’t care. I will attend to it at season’s end. This all makes it easier for the second element of importance in beach perfection- leaving the towel in the car. Now I don’t leave the same towels in the car for the entire season, I take them out when the weather is not predicted to be beach worthy or when I know I am not going to make it to the beach for a few days, but for the most part, I keep towels in the car. I don’t just keep one, I bring at least three now along with this awesome cotton blanket I got in Menorca a few years back. Last year I added a few hand towels to the bag because I can take them easily from my business, they have become quite handy, no pun intended, really.

The permanent beach bag always contains the following: hair ties, lipstick, beach earrings, (if you are a regular, you totally get this) writing instruments usually in a Ziploc baggie- sharpies, pens and very sharpened pencils, good sunscreen for the face and 2–3 bottles of coppertone spray 30 for the body purchased in bulk from BJ’S at the beginning of the season, said beach towels, my beach hat, a scarf, a sweatshirt, a long sleeve cotton shirt and a pair of beach linen pants in case it is chillier than I thought. It is always chillier than I thought. This bag is always in the car alongside of the beach chair so when I need to leave, I only have to bring along the overpacked cooler and the bag of reading and writing. Lunch for a full beach day needs to be substantial. Like the way I layer my clothes, I must prepare accordingly with food as well. Tuna or egg salad usually with some type of greens, plenty of fruit and something to crunch, I love cashews, and of course water. This is usually more than enough to graze all day on and I will often wait to eat breakfast so my first meal is more like brunch when I finally sit and get settled.

I don’t often bring a sandwich anymore because I really don’t eat bread that much, but this past week, I found myself on the beach on my actual birthday. It was a divine gift and I made the most delicious lunch of fresh tomatoes on sliced brioche with mayonnaise and it was heaven. For the less seasoned soul reading this (or for my dear friends, you know who you are but who shall remain nameless that belong to Bailey’s Beach where beach going is a completely different and zero effort (aka glorious) experience, this likely sounds exhausting. It is not. It is heaven for me, it is a tradition handed down to me from my grandmother and it happens automatically.

I hang on to traditions and as much as my son never really enjoyed the beach to the level I have, I hold out for the magnificent moment that some day in the distant future, I may get to have the joy of a grandchild too. Then my beach going experience will be a whole new level and for this I smile as I know my grandmother taught me well.


it looks like I am super far from the water, but not really for the glory of privacy.