Once upon a time, ever so long ago, there were machines called typewriters. In my Minnesota high school there was a room where many typewriters lived, a whole bunch of them. And this was where Miss Widgeon proudly taught her class on secretarial skills, an extracurricular class where young girls like myself could acquire the skills necessary to later enter the business world at remarkably low wages. This was, of course, to be expected and not questioned for a young girl in the 1940’s.

I enrolled in Miss Widgeon’s class shortly before Memorial Day, happy to sacrifice my after-school freedom for the opportunity to learn a marketable skill which could affect my entire future.

I loved Miss Widgeon’s class. The clickety-clack of the black typewriters on each desk was somehow very soothing. And I especially loved the sound of typewriter cylinders moving along, left to right, and then zip, with the flip of one’s hand, back to the left to take on another line of letters.

I plunged into the class with a cheerful spirit and happy hands, eager to achieve the necessary skills which could someday be transformed into a paycheck, skills which, who knows, might even lead to other non-typewriter-positions available to women at the time, such as operating switchboards or making coffee for the men in the office.

Very soon I caught Miss Widgeon’s watchful eye as my typewriter rapidly produced a sentence which, somewhat to my amazement then and even now, uses all the letters of our alphabet: The quick brown fox leaped over the lazy dog.

Soon I had the quick brown fox leaping over lazy dogs faster than anyone else in the class.

There was no doubt in my mind, I was a typist, a natural born typist, destined for great success in the business world. Before long I was up to 35 words a minute, then 60, then, do I hear 80 ladies and gentlemen? Oh yes, we have an 80!

How proud I was when, on the day before school was dismissed for the summer, I clocked 90 semi-accurate words per minute on our final clickety-clack typing test.

Not long after this remarkable achievement, Miss Widgeon took me aside and told me about an amazing opportunity.

The Old Mother Hubbard Mill on North Main street, she explained, was looking for a high school student to work for the summer as a typist to replace, temporarily, Mrs. Dixon, a secretary whose right hand had been slightly injured when she dropped her baton on it while showing off and waving to friends as she marched in the Memorial Day parade. Her friends had all lined up in the gutters outside the Old Mother Hubbard Mill specifically to cheer on their fellow employee, who, although middle-aged, could still twist and toss a baton like a hip-strutting young majorette.

The main prerequisites for Mrs. Dixon’s temporary job, continued Mrs. Widgeon, were basic typing skills and a pleasant attitude.

Basic typing skills? Hey, guess who could type 90 words a minute while sending the quick brown fox over a lazy dog! A pleasant attitude? Hey, who wouldn’t have a pleasant attitude if they were being paid for it! I nearly flew down to the mill to apply for the position.

Of course I was hired, perhaps because of the whispering I heard around the office during my interview. “Imagine, she’s still in high school and she types 90 words per minute with her eyes partially closed.” Or possibly, I must concede, because there were no other applicants.

The next day I was shown to the now-absent Mrs. Dixon’s desk which was next to Mr. Arnold, the manager of shipping operations. I felt very proud, very professional. There I was, only 17 years old, on my first honest-to-goodness business gig, and seated at the very desk where a bona fide secretary had been working for who knows how many years. And although I felt somewhat sorry about what had happened to Mrs. Dixon during the Memorial Day parade, I was pleased to have inherited her big, shiny black Underwood typewriter. There it sat, right before me, ready to be put into action.

Soon, Mr. Arnold handed me my first typing assignment, a large group of forms, carbons included.

“Take it away, big brown fox,” I said to myself. “Let’s show this office what we can do.”

But as soon as I looked at the forms lying beside me on the desk, I realized I was in serious trouble. The typing was all about railroad freight car numbers, freight cars on trains carrying Old Mother Hubbard’s sacks of dusty flour, corn, and assorted animal feeds to little towns all over Minnesota, Iowa, South Dakota, and even Nebraska. Freight cars which each had a number to which other freight car numbers were added as they joined more trains traveling along the way. And all those numbers needed to be typed, with carbons, on paper forms so everyone would know where Mother’s feeds and flour were going and when, if ever, they arrived.

Slowly I began pecking away, fully aware of the hesitant, awful sound coming from Mrs. Dixon’s typewriter as I pressed what now seemed to be very unfriendly, uncooperative keys trying desperately to type with a modicum of speed, HZ20045B00F (no, make that a P, wait a minute, let’s start over, HZ210054, no, better start over) HZ22103...

Somehow I survived that first awful afternoon and, in the ensuing days that followed, I slowly improved at typing freight car numbers. However, I was happy when Mrs. Dixon returned to work. I noticed Mr. Arnold seemed almost unable to contain his joy as he welcomed Mrs. Dixon back to the office, pumping his fists in the air before gaining control of his emotions and rather gently shaking the secretary’s still somewhat-tender right hand.

And that is how my brief foray into professional secretaryhood as a typist began and, thank goodness, ended. I do think it was nice that Old Mother Hubbard found other tasks to keep me employed, part-time, throughout my entire senior year of high school. Maybe shipping-operations-manager Mr. Arnold had noticed I was good at doodling pictures of plump pigs on scratch pads while waiting for the mill’s 5 o’clock whistle to blow signaling the end of the work day.

But more likely, I suppose, because of my pleasant attitude which, if I do say so myself, I have maintained throughout all my jobs during the passing years.

Especially on payday!

Ruth Whiting Adams owns the Treehouse Gallery in West Tisbury.