Column: Walking up 'B' street with a typewriter

Summer was always quite the adventure as a kid.

While there was certainly plenty of time spent watching awful daytime television or Atlanta Braves baseball, there were countless hours spent outside. I vividly remember how much fun it was to be outside until the streetlights came on, playing all sorts of different night games.

I'm not sure if it's because kids don't get outside as much, or my neighborhood is older, or perhaps a combination of both, but the younger generation is really missing out if they don't go outside in the late evening to play.

I can remember one occasion when a neighborhood hoodlum was having so much fun playing night games on our street that he started trying to throw rocks at the streetlights so he could have the excuse that he was so late returning home because the lights never came on. With that thinking, that kid is probably now sitting in jail or possibly wildly successful.

Summer also brought a great deal of boredom. There would be times, when my sister would commandeer the television with "Days of Our Lives"," or my friends, would be out of town, so I would have to try to figure something out to do.

A lot of my summer was spent at my dad's house, which offered a lot more freedom than my mom's, but it also had some drawbacks. My dad would always have a wife or girlfriend, and after a few months, they would split up, and his significant other would always take all of our furniture. That always made it awkward to have friends come over.

We would always replace everything, but there were always a few weeks of watching television on the floor, which was a disaster after an hour or two.

One day, when I had enough of watching reruns on the floor, I decided to go to the library to get a few books I could read in my bed or outside in the shade of the crab apple tree.

It was probably only about a ten-minute walk to the library, and I never minded heading down "B" street and spending a few hours in the air conditioning picking out books.

I had just checked out on this day when I saw a few people using the typewriters. This was a year or two before I got my first computer, so a typewriter was a big deal.

After a quick glance at the people typing, I thought that this summer, I would become the next great American writer, so I decided to wait my turn for a shot at the typewriter.

At this point, the friendly librarian told me they rented out typewriters, and I could always take one home rather than sit and wait. I mentioned the friendly librarian because the other one was flat-out mean and, for some reason, did not like me.

I was amazed that they would let an eight-year-old take a typewriter home, but they did.

I must have looked like a kid at Christmas walking out the door with my fancy typewriter case and a bag full of books.

I quickly realized the walk home was uphill, and the typewriter was heavy. It probably took me about a half hour to get back to my house, but I was so excited to start work on my novel. It probably seems weird that a kid that age would want to write a book, but I read so much at that age that it seemed completely normal to me.

Once I walked in, I was ready to set up shop at the kitchen table, but then I remembered this was one of the times we didn't have one. Despite having my entertainment once again focused on the floor, I plugged in the electronic typewriter and was ready to spill out my prose.

It was at this time I realized I didn't have any paper.

I then walked about 20 minutes to "Ben's Foodliner" to get a pack of paper. It was an awful setback on a hot day but did not deter me.

When I finally got set up and ready to go, I realized my typing skills were atrocious. It was a few years before seventh grade, and my typing teacher was screaming for a solid hour, "Talk, don't type.". While I can type quickly now, I was pecking at the keyboard and getting nothing accomplished. It probably took me about an hour to get a page done.

When my dad came home from work, he was pleasantly surprised that I had gone to the library and gotten the typewriter. He said I could have just called him, and he would have taken me. I told him it was fine and most likely mumbled under my breath to worry more about a couch.

The next day, I had planned to work more, but my cousin called me, and I ended up going over to his house.

After a few days, I lost all interest, and the typewriter just sat in the corner until the mean librarian called and asked me to bring it back. It was way overdue.

So, I packed up everything and walked back down to the library.

I should probably get going on that novel again.