My dad wouldn’t let me take a typing class in high school. He said that was for girls with their piano fingers. They would be better at it, and I would never need it, anyway. He was right on at least one count. The girls were better. So was everyone else. To this day — more than 53 years since I made my first dollar from behind a typewriter — I’m still a hunt-and-peck typist. Four fingers, though, not just two Maybe that’s why I never developed carpal tunnel. My first semester of college at Southwest Missouri State I rented a standard typewriter so I could peck out my freshman composition papers. Rather than the accepted 30 words per minute minimum, I managed 30 minutes per page on “Eaton’s Corrasable Bond” typing paper. That was the best I could get, but I still managed to erase holes in it. It wouldn’t have been much fun to watch me type — if you had the time — especially for an expert typist. It wasn’t much fun for me, either. I was happy no one was watching.
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