For Christmas this year, I received something pretty incredible. It came in the form of a typewriter. But I think it means quite a bit more than that.

My amazing spouse – a woman I first met when she and I were both in our teens and neither of us knew enough to doubt whether our relationship might succeed – knows me astonishingly well. For more than thirty years she has been my strongest supporter. She is the sort of person who – when cooking a chicken for dinner – will insist on offering me a piece of crispy skin – dipped in gravy – before the meal is served. I have tried hard to reciprocate, though if I’m honest it is tough to live up to the gravy. And – despite the odds of which we were blissfully ignorant in our teens – we have grown together over the years. It has been and continues to be a tremendous partnership.

This year – as is our family custom – each of us made a Christmas list of potential gift ideas and shared our respective lists in the family group text chat. Included on my list was a typewriter.

I didn’t really need a typewriter. I do most of my writing on a laptop. It is quick, has what appears to be almost unlimited storage, and autocorrects my clumsy keystrokes. It is the writing equivalent of a luxury German automobile: efficient, clinical, and utterly soulless.

But I wanted a typewriter. I wanted to reintroduce sound and touch into my writing practice – at least occasionally. And while I don’t really consider myself an animist, there is something deep in my psyche which is certain that Lola, the fifty-year Norton Commando in my garage, carries within her the imprint of the souls of the men who assembled her on Friday, December 31, 1970 – imbuing her with the mischievousness of men about to leave for the pub and a long holiday weekend. And there is no doubt that her sister Francesca, a 1970 Moto Guzzi Ambassador, is a vessel for the spirits of not only the men in Mandello Del Lario who assembled her, but also the lovable California curmudgeon who resurrected her at my request. Purely mechanical devices are often more than they seem.

On Christmas morning, as I unwrapped my present from Mrs. DeFoe, the first thing that I noticed was the heft. The box felt substantial. It seemed dense in the way that a fishing weight feels heavier than it should as you hold it in your hand. And the second thing I noticed was the smell. The box had a slightly musty odor – redolent of time spent on a shelf in a dark closet, tucked away from sight and waiting for a moment to emerge.

I opened the box within the box to find a jewel. She is a perfectly preserved 1945 Smith-Corona “Silent” portable model. Her keys are unworn. Her carriage is smooth. Her bell is clear. I do not know her history, but she carries a label indicating she once belonged to a typewriter rental company in Mankato, Minnesota. According to the Internet, that company closed its doors thirty years ago. According to her condition, she doesn’t appear to have been rented out too often before that.

And now she is home. The rental company’s ads – also available on the Internet – seemed aimed at college students in the area. So perhaps what little use she’s had was in writing essays and term papers. Now she will sit on my desk and be used to write poems, short stories, pieces of novels, and who knows what else. She will have new life. And as she does so she will bring new joy to mine. That started this morning, when she and I worked together to write a (very) short story. I enjoyed writing it – and when I read it to Mrs. DeFoe it made her laugh. There is nothing better than that.