The inventor of the typewriter was not by trade an inventor. A mewing pack of kittens born in his family's barn. Also a duck, but in the pond. A baby in the room painted blue. In his head, a small idea about salmon. Near to there, a series of explosions; chrysanthemums blooming low in clear skies over Baltimore. The memory of February was to him fourteen snowballs stored in the icebox. He could have been 18 or 19, a dead-ringer for Horace. He went to bed early, thinking of "g" sitting next to "h" or of the closeness that "buttes" holds to "butter." School and work are sisters, he thought. He'd wanted out of the family. As a printer, he was mindful but redundant. Supper at the library was only allowed in summertime. Librarian Dan is a "shussher from Shusshville," he pouted. Migration, though not usually used to describe human travel, appealed to him as a method. A short report on Wisconsin mining history revealed to him for the first time the food called "pasty" wrapped handily in napkins, then placed in squeaking lunch pails. His personality was often borderline Collie. First came the faint rustling of horsemen from under the bedclothes. They probably were hollering "writing machinery!" but what he heard was "riding to Tuileries!" and this would set him back years. His way of spinning pencils between his thin fingers should have been patented. That was a very serious idea. The inflatable jackets were issued to all the riders on the ferry, but he was in the loo. It was June 23, 1868, and he was very far from home.
Unauthorized Biography of Christopher Sholes, by Betsy Wheeler. As featured in Loud Dreaming in a Quiet Room, 2011 edition.
