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| F LoBuono |
It promised to be a rare evening, especially by this Spring's standard of mostly dreary days. A flawless sun, still blazing, was destined to lose it's battle with the impending night. Still, it would provide enough warmth and light for a last, leisurely sojourn into town. It hasn't been quite the same since the loss of my beloved companion, Rexie, but life goes on and so must I.
So, I began my trek in the standard fashion: heading south down Broadway before reaching the heart of town, then heading west on Main Street and retracing my steps in the opposite direction. In other words, I walk a big circle. Boring, perhaps for some, but not for me. I get to see and be seen. I stop and share some conversation with friends, or not. Sometimes, I walk in total silence, lost in thought or simply soaking in my environment. My little strolls have never failed to give me the perspective I need to strike the balance I need for my life.
I had completed about three-quarters of my journey and was passing the lovely, old white Victorian that had been home to the great author, Carson McCullers. It is not widely known that, despite being recognized as a Southern writer where she was born, she wrote many of her most important works here in Nyack. The house lies at the edge of town, so it is usually very peaceful and quiet. That evening was no exception. A gentle breeze rustling the early Spring foliage and the cacophony of birds were the only sounds I heard. That was until:
Tat. Tat. Tat. Tat. Rippp. Zing. Tat. Tat. Tat. Tat. Rippp. Zing
punctuated the evening's muted sounds.
I'll be damned, I thought to myself, but, that sure as hell sounds like a typewriter. An old-fashioned,bang-on-the-keys, manual return typewriter! And, it seems to be in the direction of the old McCuller's house. My god, could it be the ghost of Carson McCullers?
There is goes again - Tat. Tat. Tat. Rippp. Zing.
And, the closer that I got to the place, the louder it became. It appeared to be coming from the porch of the house. The home itself is surrounded by tall hedges, so I had to look for a gap in them to see exactly where the sound was coming from. Finally, I found a break that allowed me to peer far enough in to see that, yes, indeed, it was the sound of someone actually typing - on an old, manual typewriter.
Sitting at a small desk, porch light overhead, was a man I would say was in his mid-forties. He was wearing a baseball cap and sported a close cropped, grey beard. And, he was banging away at the keys of what appeared to be an old Underwood or similar typewriter. I was too far away to see for sure. One thing for certain was that he sure knew how to use it as he continued to make that sound:
Tat. Tat. Tat. Tat. Rippp. Zing.
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| Carson McCullers on the porch of her Nyack Home (circa 1965) |
Interestingly, a few days later, I was once again meandering through town when I spotted him - and typewriter. This time he was setting up shop in front of the Pickwick Book Shop in the heart of town. I approached him to ask why he was doing what he was. Turns out that he's not really a writer at all - but, is actually a visual and performance artist named Tim Youd. He is living in Los Angeles but traveling all over the County for a 10-year project to re-type, word for word, 100 great American novels IN the actual places they were written AND with the actual machines they created them with. He had already accomplished 55 and was in the process of recreating McCuller's Member of the Wedding where she wrote it - Nyack, NY. And, he types the entire novel on a single sheet of paper! It's an incredible project producing remarkable results.
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| Artist Tim Youd |
More coming on Mr. Youd and his project in The Ghost Carson McCullers, Part II.
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| My Underwood Typewriter |
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