I first met Phyllis Meras walking down Music street in West Tisbury on what I have come to know as her daily sojourn. Through rain, wind and the chill of winter she can be found, dressed to the nines walking her walk, occasionally with good friends from the neighborhood, but more often than not she travels solo.

I had the occasion recently to visit with her at her home. I was in search of a manual typewriter in order to practice what she would often admonish me to do: “You should be writing!”

She has been a sort of a mentor in that regard, not giving specific commentary but just prodding me to continue the pursuit of words. So it was that we descended to her basement which could be considered one of a few libraries housed in the confines of her home. She pointed out three manual typewriters resting on the floor near a pile of books.

“You can take one of those. That one there, the smaller one, I took with me all around the world,” she said matter-of-factly.

I picked up the one she suggested, a Hermes Rocket from the 1950s. It was a compact machine, not too heavy, just right for traveling. I told her I would like to try it out and she graciously obliged.

Shortly after my visit with Phyllis, I was able to have a chat with her companion and inquired about their time together.

“When did you meet Phyllis?” I asked.

“Well, it was quite a while ago, you know. We met outside the New York Times offices in Manhattan, where she was working and I had some business. It was quite serendipitous actually, and it was one of those things where we became instant friends. It was the beginning of a long and fruitful friendship.

“We were both writers, though of different sorts. She could be at times ephemeral where as I remained quite technical. It has been quite a good match actually.”

“How did it come about that you ended up here on the Island?” I asked.

“Phyllis can be quite a force of nature and, well, she invited me to come and stay with her. I could hardly refuse.”

“How long has it been?”

“Oh years! For the longest time, in fact, we were inseparable. She brought me along with her wherever she went.”

“From what I have gathered from talking with her, she has quite the list of places she visited in her various writing pursuits,” I observed.

“Oh yes,” the friend replied. “I don’t think there was country in Europe that we didn’t visit for some project or another. We also trekked to many other places around the globe, all the while doing the writer’s work.”

“Is there anything that stands out, any experience in particular that you could share of your travels?” I asked.

“Let me think, traveling with her was always an adventure as she was undaunted by the trials of travel. I tagged along to assist as I might. There was one time in particular that I recall, one adventure among many. We were in the former Eastern bloc, working on something or other. It was in one of those country’s that has since changed its name. At the time, I think it was under Russian control. I say that because of what happened. You see somehow we became separated from one another. I, for my part, was a bit frightened. You know, I always traveled by her side, practically tucked under her arm, which was fine by me.

“I didn’t possess any of her abilities to navigate the challenges of traveling in foreign places with all the strange languages and customs. Phyllis, on the other hand, had a unique way of navigating these vagaries, so I always relied on her.

“We were separated for a short while and I was beginning to get nervous when all of a sudden a soldier, a Russian soldier at that, appeared and asked if I was Phyllis’s companion. I replied in the affirmative and he offered to assist in reuniting us. I went with the soldier and, sure enough, after a short walk there was my friend. We were happily reunited and Phyllis thanked the soldier profusely.”

“From there, we carried on our journey and were basically joined at the hip. She never let me out of her sight again. Even to this day she has allowed me safe harbor in her home, after all these years.”

Then the friend paused. “But I must say, this place seems new to me. It’s not Phyllis’s home, and it’s certainly not Eastern Europe.”

“No,” I replied. “Actually we are at my place, I hope you are comfortable.”

Initially, I thought I was borrowing a typewriter, never had I imagined I would encounter this dear friend of Phyllis’s, in the shape and form of a Hermes Rocket, with many stories yet to tell.

Joe Keenan lives in West Tisbury.