Shinybass journal entry 12/16/25

What will ‘it’ do next?

Garrett, Pennsylvania is a tiny coal-driven hamlet (Pop. 416 as of 2020) in the gentle hills of Somerset County. This is the land of my summer visits to my ‘ancestral home’, where we would load up the station wagon and spend a week looking for anything to do. The town only had a few blocks, 6 churches, and no real businesses. We explored every inch of the town on bike and on foot. We went to the creek, the active railroad tracks, and the dirt roads leading away from town. We couldn’t go far – or we could as far as our physical conditioning would take us – but really the only danger was getting hit by a coal truck crossing the main road that cut through the center of town. 

With our family being in the area for over a hundred years, the stories I heard as a child morphed into family legend, and like all good legends, they are based on truth. Somehow the winter snows got deeper, or the coal tunnels got more narrow with each passing year. Some facts about Garrett are true: my Dad was born on a dining room table after dinner in a little house at the edge of town. There is no historical marker for that one. We had a farm outside of town where my Dad would shoot my Aunt’s kite with his BB gun. The hotel adjacent to the train station was burned down in a bitter divorce dispute. Did I mention it was right next to the fire station? ‘Someone’ turned on the fire truck lights and ran down the batteries (and padlocked the bay door for good measure) so the hotel couldn’t be saved. Oh, we have high drama for such a small place. 

Where the hotel/train station fire hit home was that my Great Grandfather worked in that train station. Of course this was many years prior to the fire of ’82 (I really don’t remember the year). To this day, I am not sure what Great-grandpa did for the railroad, except I knew he was in charge of the mail sack that would be dropped off twice a day. He had a little office and was told he could have a job there as long as he wanted. I think he worked until he was 137. 

After he died (which was NOT in the fire of possibly1982), his old office typewriter found its way into our home. I knew early on as a child that although we would bang mercilessly on the fragile, time-worn keys, there was something magical about this relic. Last I remembered, the typewriter did work, but I don’t know who in the family has it or if we even kept it as we all grew up. Carting around vintage paperweights is not high on many sane people’s lists. (Don’t bring my bass collection into this, either). 

I love the feel of vintage typewriter keys. I know there is a wave of new computer keyboards out there that mimic the old vibe, but it’s different, it doesn’t come close. When you type on a typewriter, you are deliberate, concentrated. When we type in the world of 0s and 1s, we know we can just delete that last paragraph and keep moving. Feeding paper, checking spelling, etc, is slow, labored work. I need a nap just thinking about typing analog as I type digitally. 

About a year ago, I stumbled upon a rock and roll memorabilia auction and tucked away from all the stage outfits and guitars was an interesting piece. It was John Lennon’s typewriter from the 70s. Now, with one of his guitars, you may want to place it under glass, but this, this magical machine should be used! I watched the auction, but then I think I missed the end. I didn’t buy it, but I did have literary fantasies of sending typed notes to friends and on the back, just tucked in the corner would read ‘From John Lennon’s typewriter’. 

Recently a friend told me the story of yet another typewriter. This typewriter has a past as well. This particular model was only used for a brief period of time, then shelved after it was no longer needed. During WWII, there was a small army of women who spent hours each day typing letters to the families of the fallen or missing US soldiers. My friend was gifted this typewriter for Christmas, and she relayed an interesting thought – this machine has only been used to type sadness. Breathe that in for a moment. 

Instantly I started thinking of all the happy things that could be typed on this machine now: baby announcements, wedding invitations, or maybe fun conversation starter place cards at a meal. Endless possibilities, right? As with the other typewriters in this blog, there are chapters yet to be written. Just because the machine needs a little ink and oil drops doesn’t mean it cannot achieve great things. The same goes for any object, really. Old tools, an old car, an old pen, me?. What will ‘it’ do next? 

What will you do next? What will you do with that old ________? I default to musical instruments (I wonder why) when I think of the useful life of an object. I started playing saxophone when I was in 6th grade. I still have my first sax. It sat in various storage locales through several houses, and occasionally I would unpack and goose call the sax to scare the kids or the dog. After a quick laugh, back on the shelf it would go. 

I just sent the horn to friend’s to look over and get it 100% again. It’s ready, and in this new batch of music I am writing, I am going to get back into my saxophone era. Because why not? And who doesn’t love reggae horns? 

And yes, I am on the hunt for a functioning vintage typewriter. I missed the Applebee’s liquidation auction because I’m sure they had some on their walls (grease smell and riblet table tents thrown in for free!). I’ll get one, sooner than later, and on the back of the notes I send out will read ‘From the desk of Steve Cook, crafted on a vintage typewriter with lots of stories left to tell’. Or maybe I’ll just type a simple analog emoji, blending old and new to pretend I am still ‘hip’ whist being seasoned at the same time. 

:0)