EAST MONTPELIER – Clack, clack, clackety, ding, zzzzut, clunk. Clackclack clackety-clack… That onomatopoetic rhythm is tattooed in my memory of the 1970s more clearly than the Vietnam War, the Peanut Farmer President, or even the Beatles.
Up in the attic loft there was a man possessed of ideas, a primitive electric typewriter, and a singular understanding of English grammar. Almost without taking a breath, he poured a week’s worth of ideas, impressions, and images into the Yankee Notebook. All from the pounding of just two giant index fingers. If the power was out, it was candles and an ancient Smith Corona. When an extended absence loomed, the 1,000-word sprint would become a double or triple effort to “Get ‘em in the can before I go!”
Early on, the Notebook was written under the strange nom-de-plum of Ralph Underhill. I never really understood the origin or reason for this, but it was fun to see high ideals and impeccable grammar printed under such an unassuming name. But Ralph was not long lived. Within a year or two in a small town, Ralph’s cover was as blown as Ben Franklin’s Silence Dogood.
In the 1970s the Notebook was only found in the Valley News. Initially, Dad would drive over to the newspaper offices with a hard copy for typesetting. The Yankee Notebook has made it to print by just about every technology between stamps and email. Does anyone recall putting your beeping phone in a cradle modem? Or fax machines? If you don’t stop occasionally to appreciate the magic of email, go lick a stamp or try to operate an old fax machine.
While the technology has changed over five decades, one thing that hasn’t changed is poor old QWERTY still takes a terrible beating from those two pounding fingers. While he quickly erases the characters off every new keyboard, we get to enjoy new characters in the Notebook. Of course, who can forget our Christmas favorite characters Favor Johnson and Doc Jennings? Both of whom were real people and just as good as they were portrayed.
We’ve been to hunting camp with a crew of loveable outlaws, the likes of which no longer exist. We’ve been trapped in July blizzards in the Arctic and felt the characters of the Geriatric Adventure Society tested to their limits.
World War II and Vietnam veterans, activists, politicians, and even religious leaders have all gotten a bit of a closer look into their characters as well. And we’ve said goodbye to nearly all of them as time has marched on.
After 56 years of behind the scenes love and support, we said goodbye to one of the greatest characters I’ll ever know; Mother. She was always ready with a story idea, a hot cup of coffee, and steady encouragement along the way. Her light shone through those first few thousand columns. It was pretty touch and go for the first 25 years, but it looks like the old man seems to have gotten into a regular habit.
And for better or worse, you’ve followed the path of a man and his family. One Yankee Notebook from the 1980’s was a letter to my wife and I on the eve of our wedding. Dad wisely described the arc of a marriage as a journey through the swamps and the mountaintops. I still smile at how real that metaphor was. Dad and I were often literally lost in swamps, but we did summit a few good peaks. And that wisdom has helped me through a long happy marriage.
In every decade there were salad years full of glorious adventures and security. And there were hard, hard times. Financial woes, injuries, and lean, cold winters. But through all the weddings, funerals, and births you got a copy of the Yankee Notebook every week. You may not realize it, some of these weeklies were composed within hours of broken fingers and femurs. Some from hospitals and some from cabins in the woods. When I was at sea for months at a time, or overseas for several years, the Yankee Notebook was my letter from home. I suspect it may have been a letter from home for many of you as well. Every 168 hours there has been a column, without fail, for nearly 50 years.
Well, this week Dad is lazing about in a hospital and recovering from what he calls a silly little infection. In any case, part of his excellent care is no computer in bed. So today you get your first pinch hitter – albeit with the same name – that I know of. While I’m far away these days, it is below zero outside and I’m going to take a walk just to remember what it feels like. Peace be with you Dad and faithful Notebook readers.
