Looking out my Backdoor: The day my mimeograph machine broke

Back in the olden days, in grade school, teachers used low-tech machines which made copies for all manner of school work, from pictures to color (don’t color out of the lines) to test questions.

Teacher, most of whom we called Miss: Miss Brown, Miss Naomi, Miss Mary, would snap a stencil onto the drum of the machine. The slick paper, the stencil, and the ink combined to make an unforgettable sensory memory scent, sort of chemical alcohol. If you were Miss Brown, Miss Naomi or Miss Mary, you were careful to keep the ink away from fingers and clothing. In fifth grade, we got Mr. Glasgow.

Once Teacher attached the stencil to the drum, she/he placed the counted sheets of paper (waste not, want not) onto the tray, turned the handle, round and round; from in-tray, around the drum from whence it was spit, slightly wet, into the out-tray, a Thanksgiving Turkey or dreaded math equations.

Kathy and Crin and I were commiserating on how every day is the same, over and over and over again. “Like papers rolling off the mimeograph machine,” I said. That triggered a stroll down memory lane.

For those of us who choose to self-isolate during this pandemic, it doesn’t take long for a pattern to form. Routine creates a sameness to each day. We three friends pride ourselves on being flexible, rolling along with the adventure of each day. For us the sameness is unusual. And it is tiresome.

My routine includes some bit of work. Task. Project. Bake bread. Laundry. Plant beans. Work.

The past three weeks, with the renovation of my “tunnels” around the back and one side of the bodega creating a classy tool shed plus the complete make-over of the bodega into household storage plus guest bedroom, my work has been more focused.

Of course, the heavy work I leave to the men. Josue and Leo are the experts. I respect their skills and leave them to it. When their work was nearly finished, I began to move bins and boxes back into the bodega and filled my first shelf unit.

After a long hard day I felt very satisfied. I figured one more day should easily wrap it up. Leo still had to do touch-up painting. Josue had to install a shelf above the washing machine. Then together they would move my second shelf unit into place.

Then my mimeograph machine broke, maybe beyond repair.

That is not a bad thing. Actually, I felt more like it was the olden days, before this last year, back when adventures simply happened.

Early in the morning, Rick from Oconahua called. He asked to come visit before he leaves for his northern home in the Confused States, outside San Francisco.

“It’s a lovely day with a bit of breeze. It is safe to visit on the patio.” I learned more about Rick in that one visit than all the others added together. Our previous visits (Before COVID) have been in a group gathering or a five-minute shout “howdy” (After COVID) through the gate. I confess, our last visit I motor-mouthed the entire five minutes!

When Rick left, I went to the bodega itching to work. Josue walked in with materials for the shelf above the washer. “Oh, good. I’ll leave you to it.” For safety, only one person at a time works inside the bodega.

When he finished, I said, “That is absolutely perfect. Uh. Could I have another shelf above that one, please?” “Sure, I’ll be back.”

The clock was crowding noon and I was hungry. After a sandwich, I went back out to my bodega. Leo startled me, paint brush and paint can in hand, come to finish the touch-up. Out I went.

Leo finished painting and left. I hurried to the bodega, just as Josue came through the gate to install the additional shelf above the washer. See how they gobbled my day? But in such a good way. I gave up. Read a book.

The following day, much refreshed, I whisked the remainders into place, leaving a comfortable space for the bed, yet to be purchased.

Now I want to go, yearn to go, shopping. Nobody is coming. There is no dire need. But I want a bed. I want it now.

My inner puppy is going wild. Down Girl. Sit. Stay.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].