Once upon a time, deep in the Rocky Mountains, within an old cottage, lived a woman with a passion for writing. Her days were filled with observations and curiosities which found their way into stacks of red notebooks. Spiral, of course, for the pure joy of opening them entirely and for the additional eureka of cheapness.
She often would awaken with pen in hand, unaware of just when she had gathered it during her sleep-time and with panicked insistence, rush to find her notebook. Pages would fill, all in running passion, with thoughts tumbling as if by Poseidon’s hand.
The little old cottage filled with children and animals, plants and books, anchored firmly with the towering stacks of red spiral notebooks. Life exploded, stretched, spun, cracked, mended, blended and tucked itself among the plastered walls, and the red spirals grew faded, unused, abandoned. The stacks tilted, fell, and shuffled toward boxes bound for forgotten storage. Taped and bound, hidden among the growing joy of a full home.
Until one day, on a rather grey fuzzy morning full of avoidances, a cold wind began its crawl into the village. A knock at the cottage door startled the parakeets in the window, and the pup that lived there. A package, worn and dusty, tied with cocoa-colored twine sat upon her welcome rug.
Heavy and awkward, the package had no return label. Handwriting scripted from an era long gone, she smiled to see her name lying there.
As the twine ribbon pulled free, and the paper curled back, she knew at once what this gift must be.
Keys in old font, gilded with brass. Dusty ribbon of blue twirled through spokes of strike plates. A typewriter with a past, a maker of words, the chronicler of history through world wars, industrial growth, boomtowns, and peacetime. Even more important than this, was the wildness of its color. The color of passion, of fire, of ripe strawberries, and lifeblood. Red.
And the woman again, began writing.