Typing in the Forest

When I was seven-years old I found an old typewriter in the middle of a 50 acre woods.  It was mostly hidden and covered with moss, leaves and little plants growing between the keys.  I found it while snooping, and not much escaped my snoops.

I named the location, Typewriter Fort, in tribute to... the typewriter. Its location is still noted on a hand drawn map tucked into a box in my garage today.  Decades after naming the location, I returned and found the typewriter still there nearly buried and worst for wear.

I always wondered how the typewriter came to the woods.  How did it get from an important person's polished hardwood desk (anyone with something worth typing was important) to the damp muddy earth among the hazelnut trees?  I was sure there was a very good story to tell, but fingers could no longer move the rusted keys to tell it.

The typewriter was now a monument marking a location in the woods where we would escape and hide from roving bands of off-road motorcyclist and other assorted childhood villains both real and imagined.  It was not just a name on a map.  It was a circle of blackberries bushes with thorns protecting us from the back, and a row of ancient fir trees and tall ferns hiding us from the front and sides.

The Typewriter Fort wasn't the only fort, as we had fifty acres to explore and patrol, but it was the most enduring.  We selected our "forts" by determining where people were least likely to go.  I remember a circle of rough looking seven to ten year-olds armed with pocket knives and hatchets looking at a crumpled map and strategically pointing to places we had never been.  "Never been there!" Someone would say pointing their dirty finger at the water and dirt stained map.  "Perfect! Let's build a fort there!"

Some forts were better than others.  Some were simply wooden boards stretched out from the muddy bank of a slime covered pond to an island where we would lie in the sun and spear frogs and salamanders all afternoon.  That was before frogs organized, raised money and developed a celebrity led social media campaign.  We would cut down a bamboo pole, sharpen it, split the tips and notch the edges to hold our prey.

Other forts were elaborate and even had "living" fences.  Fences made of saplings we cut and stuck in the mud which soon grew into living trees that filled in the gaps in our walls with limbs and leaves making our fort invisible and the going-ons secret.  Still others were named after the model of the abandoned and stripped vehicle left in the briars near by.

I remember one fort in particular we called the Mob Car Fort.  The long black vehicle showed up unannounced one day in the forest. We waited the customary 10 days before smashing the windows and claiming it.  However, on the eleventh-day the owner who had gone "walk-about" showed up and rudely claimed his vehicle and demanded reparations.  After that experience we decided to extend the waiting period to 12 days.

Many of our forts were temporary.  If we failed to maintain them weekly they would quickly disappear under the onslaught of nature.  Nature slaughted a lot in those days and nearly always won, but the typewriter remained, a vestige to enduring strength and fortitude.

Writing is special. It captures a thought, preserves it, and enables it to be shared for millenniums. While many great spiritual men and women have lived throughout history, most did not write down their inspirations for preservation.  Our collection of the books of the bible and other great works are those that were written and preserved. They represent ideas, inspirations, stories about a time and a place.  I was once told by a wise mentor, "A thought does not exist if not written down."  I would hate to die without the proof of having had a thought, and not being able to prove my big brother wrong.

The typewriter in the forest was a monument, not only for a location in the woods and a collection of childhood memories, but it symbolizes to me the enduring value of writing and encourages me to stretch my comfort zone so I don't have to say, "Never been there."