Master attends to a dying technology

Jes Vowles shows off a Hermes portable. Photo by Deddeda White.

This column originally appeared in the Globe and Mail eight years ago. It is being reposted on the sad occasion of the closing of Type'n Write, the last store of its kind on southern Vancouver Island.

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
July 19, 2006


The machines rest in tidy rows, silent slaves awaiting the touch of a master.

Most require electricity, yet a handful need only the thick-fingered thumping of well-aimed digits.

On any given day, customers enter Type'n Write and do just that.

They flick on a switch, or simply begin hammering.

"Now is the time for all good men. . . ." Or, "The quick brown fox jumped. . . ."

Errors are quickly, if untidily, dismissed by a row of XXXXXXXs.

The other day a feeble woman of advanced age braced herself before an IBM Selectric. Switched on, the machine purred. She rubbed her fingertips across the keys. Soon, the shop was filled with a staccato rhythm, stiff fingers repeating old familiar patterns.

To those of a certain age, the noise is the sound of a novel being composed, or a newspaper article being hammered out on deadline. It is the sound of work being done.

The typewriter is a 19th-century innovation overshadowed by a 21st-century communications revolution. It creates snail mail in an age of e-mail, making it the buggy whip of office machines.

Yet the old beasts have a romance to them. Those who persist in using clunky typewriters instead of a pocket BlackBerry regard their machines as a trusted friend, a companion for the most intimate confessions. Toss it on the rubbish heap for gadgetry? Impossible.

Type'n Write remains a refuge for those who prefer the old ways.

When owner Jes Vowles bought the business a quarter-century ago, the store was one of a dozen offering typewriter repairs. Today, his is the one of the last two listed in Victoria's Yellow Pages.

On average, a machine arrives for repairs every other day. Some weeks, a dozen will be stacked awaiting Mr. Vowles's restorative touch. Tourists passing through town drop their machines off at the store, then pick them up on their way home. Other machines arrive by courier.

The philosophy of the city's last typewriter doctor is a simple one: "Just do 'em. Get 'em done. On to the next one."

At 52, Mr. Vowles has spent half his life squinting at the bowels of most every model of typewriter.

The son of a carpenter, he worked as an auto body mechanic before buying his own shop on Quadra Street, north of Hillside. He is a shy, soft-spoken man whose workplace is full of the tools of a fading trade.

A crowded drawer holds files, brushes, screwdrivers and torque pliers. A vise and air gun share space on a workbench on which tools rest against forgotten cups of cold coffee.

He is surrounded by boxes of parts and a library of repair manuals. A nearby shelf holds cans of WD-40 and Brasso. A magnifying glass is within reach, as is a bottle of Windex.

He can take apart a machine with the light touch of a surgeon, yet most of his repairs are more mundane. The typewriter has a No. 1 enemy: "Dirt," he says. "Things get sticky. You get the odd part that breaks. Sometimes you have to file things to get them to work. Usually, though, it's dirt."

Gunk accumulates underneath the machine, where dust and grease create a sludge that sometimes gums up the works. Hands that work on typewriters seem to defy cleanliness, as anyone who has ever replaced a ribbon knows.

In the front of the shop, shelves groan under the weight of used machines for sale. The brand names are a challenge to even the most adept typist -- the Xerox 6010, Canon AP100, Sharp PA-3000II, Brother AX-400, Olivetti ET110, Underwood 5500, Panasonic KX-E4020, Smith-Corona XD 5900, Sears Correct-O-Ball XL-I.

They describe themselves as "memorywriters" and "personal word processors." One boasts a "Spell-Right Dictionary."

Each must have seemed like a gift from the Jetsons when they arrived in an office; yet all were soon made obsolete by the computer boom. From cutting-edge technology to museum piece, in the space of a generation.

Type'n Write has for sale a few manual typewriters, including a sleek, Swiss-made Hermes Baby portable and an Olympia Monica with a standard QWERTY keyboard supplemented by exotic Polish diacritics such as the kreska, ogonek and superior dot.

The shop can also be a magnet for typewriter aficionados on a quest to replace parts. (A box of metal printwheels for Wang Printers awaits what no doubt will some day be a most gratified and surprised customer.) The store's south wall is filled with dusty boxes of hard-to-find stationery supplies, including pen nibs, Ko-Rec-Type ribbons, and a rainbow assortment of Liquid Paper, including the elusive goldenrod.

Typewriter people come through the door full of apologies for relying on old technology. Here, they are among those who understand the appeal of the clack of metal heads striking silk ribbon and paper rolled on a rubber platen, not to mention the satisfying ding of a bell announcing the end of another line of prose.

"They don't think anyone's around to work on them any more," Mr. Vowles says. "They're surprised. And glad."

These may be the last of the typewriter people. Smith Corona, which once rolled off the tongue as a synonym for typewriter, has already lost its familiarity.

"I get people calling asking for Smith & Wesson ribbon," says Jo Miles, who handles customers while Mr. Vowles performs his wonders. "No one has asked for bullets yet, thank God."

The shop even sold atypewriter last week.

Why would anyone buy a typewriter in the age of wireless laptops capable of accessing the world's accumulated knowledge with a few keystrokes?

"NEWAC," Ms. Miles replies succinctly.

Huh?

"Not Everybody Wants a Computer."