Typing a Note to Say Good-bye

⏱️ 11 min read             

There was a time, before smartphones and laptops, the rhythm of writing was set by the steady clacking of typewriter keys.

But in a small New England town, one of the last sanctuaries for these vintage machines is about to fall silent. After decades of repairing, restoring, and reviving the written word, the shop's owner is retiring—bringing an end to an era. 

These typewriter aficionados gathered for one final ‘Type-in’ to say a final goodbye to their beloved typewriter repair store, but more importantly it’s proprietor. 

Welcome to That's Life, I Swear. This podcast is about life's happenings in this world that conjure up such words as intriguing, frightening, life-changing, inspiring, and more. I'm Rick Barron your host. 

That said, here's the rest of this story 

The history of typewriters is rich and fascinating. While early inventors experimented with mechanical writing devices for centuries, these early prototypes failed to gain widespread use. That changed in 1868 with the introduction of the Sholes and Glidden Typewriter, the first machine to bear the name "typewriter." Developed by four Milwaukee-based inventors, including Christopher Latham Sholes, it also gave rise to the QWERTY keyboard—an innovation that continues to shape modern typing, even on computers. By the early 20th century, typewriters had become indispensable. Millions were sold in the first half of the 1900s, and their popularity persisted well into the 1980s.

Typewriters maintained a devoted following in certain circles even in the digital age. Yet, as technology advanced, both typewriters and the shops that specialized in repairing them have grown increasingly rare. Suddenly, typewriters had a new home: the dumpsters. 

And that's where our story begins.

The Saturday afternoon light filtered softly through the Edith M. Fox Library windows, casting long shadows across the worn wooden tables where typewriters stood like silent sentinels of a bygone era. Tom Furrier's weathered hands trembled ever so slightly as he surveyed the crowd. He saw a mosaic of generations united by the rhythmic percussion of keys and the metallic whisper of memory.

For decades, Tom had been more than just a repairman—he was a keeper of lost stories, a guardian of a fading craft. But now, at 69, he was stepping away, closing the doors at the Cambridge Typewriter Company, the area's last typewriter shop of its kind.

Retirement wasn't just an ending, he realized. It was a farewell to a world that had slowly dissolved around him, like ink bleeding into an old page.

Tom had an unexpected journey that began in 1980. A childhood friend and next-door neighbor mentioned that his father needed someone to learn the dying art of typewriter repair. 

At the time, Tom was working for a tree-trimming company.

As luck would have it, Tom, a natural tinkerer, took the job, never suspecting that he would spend the next four decades bringing old machines—and the words they carried—back to life. 
 In those early years, his work was steady; offices still hummed with typewriters, and his shop thrived.

"They get dirty and sticky," Tom would often say, his voice carrying the tenderness of a caretaker, "but with a little love, they spring back to life." Those words echoed his resilience throughout his career, surviving the digital tsunami that had swept away most of his contemporaries.

When the digital age arrived, typewriters became relics, discarded without a second thought. His business nearly vanished. Tom kept fixing what he could, often for little or no pay. And then, just as suddenly as they had disappeared, typewriters found their way back—this time in the hands of young writers, artists, and dreamers searching for something tangible in an era of computer screens.

What was once old was new again.

Standing before 130-odd typewriter fans who turned out for his retirement party at the Edith M. Fox Library, up the street from his shop in Arlington, Mass., Tom relayed the rules for the contest: 

‘Participants would have five minutes to type, as accurately as possible, some pages from David McCullough's book "1776."’
 
 At that moment, a thunderous sound of typewriter keys filled the room.

At the farewell gathering, typewriters of all shapes and sizes sat on folding tables, filling the room with their distinctive chatter. There were people like Don Worrell, who had flown in from Des Moines with his 1939 Corona Zephyr, and Abigail Geffken, an 18-year-old poet who remembers the first time she stepped into Tom's shop as a child. "He changed my life," she said softly, adding that she hopes to continue writing with as much love and excellence as Tom put into his craft of repairing typewriters. 

James Brockman, 46, who works at Harvard as a distance learning coordinator, has found that using his typewriter, a Smith Corona Coronet Electric, that he found on the street about 20 years ago, is a much-needed palate cleanser for someone who spends his days using technology.
 
 Mr. Brockman makes typewriter art — at the party, he put the final touches on a portrait of Weird Al Yankovic and is a member of the Boston Typewriter Orchestra. James said that Tom is a beloved friend of the band.

Tom's daughter Emma stood nearby, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. His wife Anne Marie's eyes glistened with pride and melancholy. They understood that this wasn't just a retirement party. It was a commemoration of a dying art.

During the evening, Tom's memory took him into the past as he recalled the many visits he had with customers.

Every day, another customer clutching an old typewriter would walk into Tom's shop. He would carefully look the machine over. Invariably, it will be a total mess. Some of these typewriters were manufactured decades ago. The heavy metal bristling with moving parts were sometimes laced with years of grime. The keys were too stiff. Or maybe the paper that's supposed to glide through it keeps getting stuck.

Then, Tom would hear the infamous question from the customer, "Do you think you can get it going again?" a touch of anxiety in their voice. Tom, who has been repairing typewriters for over four decades, would say he'll give it his best shot.

"When they come in and pick that typewriter up, just seeing their smile was everything to us," Tom said.

Even celebrated author Susanna Kaysen, who wrote Girl, Interrupted: A Memoir, had stopped by earlier in the week to say goodbye. With a hint of worry, she hugged Tom and then asked, who will fix my typewriter now? Tom handed her his number—an unspoken promise that, even in retirement, he wouldn't abandon the machines or the people who loved them.

As the event drew to a close, Tom took the microphone for a brief speech. He looked out at the faces of friends and strangers who had become a kind of family, and for a moment, the weight of it all—the end of an era, the closing of a chapter—hung in the air.

"I hope another shop opens soon," he said.

As Tom said those words, he knew the hard truth. Shops like his don't just open. They are born from devotion, from a love of craftsmanship and history. As Tom stepped away from the stage, the reality of his absence settled in with those in attendance.

"He has blessed so many people," someone murmured. "I feel like we're going to be all alone in the woods." The last typewriter keys clattered. The final page had been typed. And just like that, a small but cherished piece of history was ending. 

As the contest ended and people were leaving with warm hugs and goodbyes to Tom, he felt disappointed that his beautiful journey was ending. Tom hated to close the shop but knew it was time. 

As Tom closed the front door to his shop, he heard the doorbell chime ring one las time. In the distance, he heard someone from the group say, "thank you, Tom', you're the best. The group cheered. 

What can we learn from this story? What's the takeaway?

On the day of Tom's farewell party, surrounded by friends, family, and enthusiasts traveling across the country, he felt the weight of his legacy. 

Each typewriter in the room was more than a machine. They were vessels of human expression, a bridge between generations.

He knows that when his friends type the keys on their typewriters, they will remember the person who poured love into keeping this beautiful art form alive for those who wish to keep it alive.

Well, there you go, my friends; that's life, I swear

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