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McTaggart to the Rescue - Ugly Duckling Typewriter Complete

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Yet again the Typosphere has come good for a collector in need. John Lavery in Queensland ("McTaggart's Typewriter Workshop") saw my blog post last week about the "Ugly Duckling" Hermes 2000 and immediately offered to help.
Even with rather urgent family matters to attend to, John still found time to come to my aid.
My plea was for a set of front section joints to complete the restoration of this badly battered Hebrew language typewriter. Both John and I had had Hermes 2000s damaged in transit in exactly the same way - dropped on the front, breaking both the two joints and in the process buckling the two side sections where the joints slide in. 
Somehow I had mislaid the two joining parts from my Hermes - I've yet the find them, but they still needed to be glued back together again, I think.
Anyway, John very kindly sent me the two joints from his machine, which arrived in a small parcel in the post this morning.
Two hours later the job was done, and I am delighted with it. I had just enough of the matching paint left to cover the replacement parts.
Because of the damage done to the side sections (and one of the joints from John's machine also had a largish chip out of it), the fit isn't perfect. The openings on the ends of each side section had been so badly buckled it was difficult to get them dead straight again - even without such damage, slotting these joints in is always going to be a tight fit. But with a dab of Vaseline, I squeezed them into place and even managed to attach a couple of screws underneath. All done!
A big thank you to John for once more underlining the true nature and shared joy of the Typosphere - the cooperation and the generosity seem to know no bounds!

She's Back! Estella the Typewriter Doll

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She hasn't exactly been in mothballs these past four and a half years. In fact, Estella has been living pretty rough since the Typewriter Museum moved out of Narrabundah - first in a dark and lonely storage unit, and for the past couple of years in a dark and dank garage. She used to have pride of place, but since December 2009 she's been shoved from pillar to post. Still, all she appears to have suffered in that time is a lost shoe and some mussed hair. And now she's back!
That's a photo of her boyfriend Dalgo on the desk.
The 'new' display cabinet I bought last week, especially to give Estella good vantage point.
The typewriter on her desk is almost an exact replica of this Torpedo 18.
Below, in December 2009, when she still had two shoes and every strand of hair was in place.

Royal KMM Rebirth (Booty III) and a King-Sized Restoration Job

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Of the 25 typewriters I received last Saturday, the one that looked most likely to be a complete "write-off" was this Royal KMM. It was downright ugly - the victim of an extremely slapdash repaint job, a travesty which had been compounded by someone spilling white paint all over the front left and most of the keys.
On the front was a sticker for Stott & Underwood, 254 George Street, Sydney, which, along with scratchings on the inside of the ribbon spools cover, indicated that, in the absence of a proper Royal agency, this machine had been "refurbished" by an uncaring company about 50 years ago, in 1964.
It may well have been "touched up" since then by a slap-happy chappy with a broad paint brush. Among the things over which a flat black paint had been carelessly slapped were the carriage lever (covering rather than treating the corrosion), the lovely brass badge on the front of the ribbon spools cover (including the Royal name) and the gauge on the paper plate. It looked awful.
Only one thing to do - take the whole thing completely apart, clean it all up, get rid of all the shoddy black paintwork, and start again. Of course, the typewriter has responded to the makeover in kind, springing back to life as if new.
The photo below of what this pockmarked machine looked like when it arrived here on Saturday doesn't do full justice to the yukky, unappealing mess it was in. To be honest, it just didn't look like a machine worth bothering with.  Just shows what a couple of days of "rebirthing" can do.
On the subject of restorations, how about the "shabby chick (sic, really sick) style" or "vintage type writer restoration" listed on Australian eBay tonight. The West Australian seller is called "lost treasure". At $19.95, it's more a case of "lost marbles":

Introducing the McTaggart-Riter (Booty IV)

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It has become customary for me to reward fellow Typospherians for service above and beyond the call of Typospherian duty by naming a Remington portable typewriter in their honour. So, with sincere thanks to John Lavery for his prompt and courteous assistance in enabling me to complete my Hermes 2000 Hebrew language typewriter project, here is the McTaggart-Riter. It joins the Polt-Righter of July 2011 (see below). 
I don't know why John signs himself in his comments as "McTaggart", or runs "McTaggart's Typewriter Workshop", but I do think "McTaggart-Riter" has a certain ring to it (it started out as a "Letter-Riter", so I guess I could have called it a "Lavery-Riter"). But going with McTaggart allowed me to use the stylish McTaggart coat of arms on this machine - so good, indeed, I used it twice. I also tried a trim of the McTaggart tartan, but it didn't work too well, so I added a gold trim instead.
Below, the Polt -Righter. There is a good reason it is called a "Righter" rather than a "Riter" or a "Writer". Richard P leaves me for dead in the spelling stakes, and it's good to have someone keeping an eye on such things. Maybe one day Richardwill actually get his hands on his typewriter.

Imperial 70 Standard Typewriter: The Long Road to Redemption - Part One (Booty V)

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After talking about it with John Lavery ("McTaggart") during the week, I decided the Imperial 70 I was given last weekend deserved another close look, to consider the possibility of a transformation to a clean, working typewriter. Outwardly, at least at the first glance, it had seemed beyond redemption. For one thing, the carriage component was jammed on tight, and at a very serious angle.
In the end I felt it was worth persevering with, worth trying to save from the scrapheap. John suggested a way of unjamming the carriage component, because that had to be the start: to get the component off. If I had failed to do that, I would have proceeded no further.
I figured someone had either tried to get the component off, had got it jammed because they didn't know what they were doing and gave up, or else they had tried to put the component back on, with the same result. John came up with another thought - that someone had stupidly lifted this very heavy typewriter by the carriage.
With some gentle coaxing, I managed to get the slide which grips the carriage component to the body of the typewriter to move, and eventually the component did come off. Thus encouraged, I ploughed on into this major project.
Starting from the top ... the ugly rust spots on the ribbon spools cover:
These came off with a small dab of kitchen "cream cleanser" and a gentle rub. Done with care, this removes the rust spots without wearing the paintwork or dulling the sheen. A quick rub-over with silicone lubricant or a tiny bit of oil will ensure the sheen remains. A semblance of rust stain may still be apparent, but it's certainly a long way better than it was.
As pleasing a result of this was, it was just the beginning. With the carriage component off, the full extent of the build-up of rust and rubbish was all too evident. Obviously this machine had been left outside for a very long time, exposed to the elements, and was screaming out for a typical "typewriter bath" - the degreaser-foam cleaner and lubricant treatment (with cotton buds and toothpicks to get into the tiny grooves and cervices).
For interest sake, I timed myself on this operation. It took all of nine minutes to get the surface and mechanism sparkling clean. Why the previous owner couldn't have found a mere nine minutes to at least give this lovely typewriter a bit of a clean-up is beyond me. It went from this:
To this in nine minutes!
In the process, however, I spotted something I should have noted when I took the carriage component off - no drawband! The drawband would normally run up to and over the wheel seen in the back centre above. Usually, when taking the carriage component off an Imperial-designed and Leicester-made standard, it is wise to unhook the drawband from the carriage, maintaining the tension, and temporarily hook it on to the mechanism seen above.
A look under the machine revealed the tell-tale snapped off end of the drawband, dangling below the main frame. In snapping, it had wrapped itself around the mainspring. That meant, to unwind the drawband and re-set the mainspring, I had to take off the hood of the tab mechanism at the back of the typewriter, in order to get at the long bolts which hold the large plate under the carriage component to the main frame. This exposed even more gunk.
A hint for anyone faced with this task: The hood over the tab mechanism contains, on its right, a tab-clear mechanism with a large, wide spring and a lever. Try to ensure, when unscrewing the hood, that these do not drop out.
Another hint: When faced with the problem of rusted parts, NEVER use a spray-on rust remover, unless you can remove all traces of it almost immediately after spraying it on. Make sure it goes nowhere near the escapement rack and congeals there. And take special care to ensure it does not touch the rubber on the platen.
Finally, when using the degreaser spray, keep it off paint surfaces and decals. Again, unless cleaning off straight away, also keep it away from keytops and the platen. 
This large plate under the carriage is held at the front by two large screws and at the back by these long bolts (below). 
The 70 was the last standard made by Imperial to its own design, and is the first (and only) Imperial standard to incorporate carbon ribbon. This means that with this large plate under the carriage, the 70 design differs considerably from earlier Imperial standard models. For one thing it embraces the ribbon spools (see image three down). For another - critically - the carbon ribbon spools are turned by a chain belt which winds round this spindle (seen below), a component attached to the large plate under the carriage. In other words, to take the large plate off and get at the mainspring and (drawband), it may be necessary to unattach this chain belt. I guess it comes down to a question of whether you want to use the typewriter in the conventional manner with normal ribbon, and not bother with the carbon ribbon.
Finally, we get to the broken drawband wrapped around the mainspring.
This shows the significant difference in the design of the large plate under the carriage on the 70, which embraces the conventional ribbon spools. The spindles at bottom (below, right) connect to the spindle which turns the carbon ribbon spools.
Much simpler ... the large plate off an earlier Imperial standard (below). The addition of the carbon ribbon spools meant extending this plate on the 70 to take in the conventional ribbon spools mechanism, making it a damned sight more difficult to take the large plate off the main frame.
Having taken off the large plate under the carriage, it was time for me to resume cleaning the mechanics. An idea of the mess can be gleaned from the image below, after just one foam bath with the degreaser-cleaner. 
Apart from all the other debris, there is plant matter inside the machine. I have decided to leave the project at this stage until tomorrow, when in daylight I can take the machine outside and use an air compressor to blow all the rubbish out. In the meantime, I will let this segment section soak in the degreaser foam overnight.
If I don't have the typewriter reassembled, looking spick and span, and working, by tomorrow afternoon, my name won't be Rumpelstiltskin. Which it's not.

Imperial 70 Standard Typewriter: The Long Road to Redemption - Part Two. Complete and Utter Success!

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Yes, Bookman Old Style (my favourite): It is working, perfectly. Richard Polt. New Zealand rugby. Lovely.
Back plate
Well, I'm not Rumpelstiltskin. I had this arduous two-day project completed just after midday today. All up, it was probably close to a seven or eight-hour undertaking. But it was well worth the effort. The Imperial 70 is working wonderfully well (I made no effort to retain the carbon ribbon facility), it looks brilliant - and I really love its "Bookman Old Style" typeface.
Having hoped for fine weather today so I could resume the job, by taking the typewriter outside and giving it a decent blow-through with the air-compressor, I woke up to black skies and heavy rain. Nonetheless, I was able to find a sheltered spot, and so the work progressed unabated.
I had left the segment area soaking in degreaser-cleaner foam overnight and was pleased this morning to find the section to be sparkling clean:
One positive sign of this was that all the springs, big and small, had shaken off years of built-up grease and grime:
As I began to reassemble the machine, starting with the large plate that sits under the carriage component, I discovered what had, initially, caused the most major concern - the carriage component sitting, jammed, at a very distinct angle. One of the large nuts which, underneath the plate, hold the studs in place, had become dislodged at some point, meaning the stud was loose. The studs (one of which is circled below) are what the carriage component clips on to. That the carriage component was wonky and yet rigidly so was hardly surprising in these circumstances. Normally, when dealing with this large plate on an Imperial, it is NOT necessary (nor advisable) to take these studs off.
The next step was to repair the snapped drawband, rewind the mainspring and reattach the drawband to the mainspring and to the carriage. All of this was a quite difficult two-handed task, but being able to wedge the re-wound mainspring in place with the end of a long, narrow screwdriver (see below) helped considerably:
I had spoken to John Lavery last night about this "work in progress" and he had advised "seven turns" of the mainspring to get the right tension in the drawband. The drawband emerges from under the large plate, through a guide and over a roller, as seen below:
As explained earlier, I had decided to ditch the carbon ribbon facility, as I would have no use for it. Taking off the spindle to which the chain belt (below) attaches, to turn the carbon ribbon spools, allowed me ample access to improvise a large nut to hold the errant stud firmly in place. At one point I was even tempted to use bits of the chain belt to improvise connecting end-clips for the drawband, as one of these had gone missing. Eventually I used another method, which proved very successful. 
Having got the errant stud sitting properly in place, replacing the carriage component, drawband attached, was relatively straight-forward.
However, I found the carriage still wouldn't move. Luckily, this was soon fixed because of another tip John Lavery had given me last night. There is a  "brake" at the back of the carriage which is automatically applied to the escapement rack when the carriage component is taken off, so the carriage won't move loosely up and down on the component. It is supposed to also automatically release the carriage once the carriage component is replaced. However, I found this brake was jammed tight, and needed to be freed up:
Now that the typewriter was working as it should, it was time to replace the feed rollers and the platen. While the feed rollers, their tray and the platen are off the machine, it is the ideal time to clean them up, especially to get rid of such horrid things as liquid paper smudges:
That left just one touch-up job, a scratch on the front right. As I dealt with it, I was pleased to note that this Imperial, too, has Richard Polt's favourite typewriter fraction key, the 5/8 - which also happens to be my favourite position in a rugby team. Do you know how the five-eighth position in rugby came to be? In 1902, Otago coach Jimmy Duncan created a midfield to go with the 2-3-2 scrum. As a toolmaker, Jimmy knew that the alignment between the threequarter line (six-eighths) and the halfback (four-eights) had to be five-eighths. As simple as that ... 
And when this total transformation of the Imperial 70 - less than 36 hours earlier in such a terrible, horrible mess I was strongly tempted to chuck it out - was complete, it all suddenly seemed to be equally simple. It wasn't, of course, but I am thrilled with the result - a beautiful, fully functioning (forget the carbon ribbon) typewriter, sparkling like a National guitar, not to mention the Mississippi Delta, and an absolute joy to type with - especially with this Bookman-like font. I am so glad I persevered with this machine and was able to restore it to its former glory, and am so thankful for John Lavery's encouragement and assistance in doing so.
A week ago it was this, broken and disheveled:

Remington 16 Standard Typewriter (Booty VI): Foam Cleaning, Ribbon Revitalising, Decal Repairing

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I was resting on my laurels a little bit late last night, after completing the Imperial 70 transformation (previous two posts), when around about the witching hour a comment arrived from Richard Polt asking about the foam degreaser I had used in the job.  Such is my dedication [-:)], I immediately ventured out into the pitch black, the freezing cold and driving rain and fetched this Remington 16 standard typewriter with cork platen up from the shed downstairs, hoping to be able to demonstrate the effectiveness of the foam.
The idea was to spray some on particularly dirty areas at the back of the Remington and leave it to soak in overnight. But of course the foam started to act in an instant, and within a few seconds had produced results which were all too evident. Which was a good thing, as I don't allow the foam to remain on paintwork for more than a minute at the very most. It tends to almost irretrievably dull any sheen that's left. It's also not good for decals.
After spraying on the foam, you can literally see the dirt being lifted off the grime-encrusted surface of the machine and washing down from it, to form yucky brown puddles of muck under the typewriter.
This spray is especially useful when dealing with "crinkle finish" paintwork, as it obviously penetrates into the crinkles, deep into the surface grime. But remember it is meant to be used primarily as a degreaser, so it has pretty heavy-duty solvent properties (d-Limonene). When using it, be wary about leaving it on paintwork for too long. Ditto with platens. Instructions on the can emphasise this - warning against "prolonged exposure" to painted metal and rubber.
By all means leave it and let it do its great work on metal parts, on the mechanics of the machine. Any review will tell you how extremely effectively it works on removing blackened grease and grime from inside the typewriter, built up, in most cases, over many, many years.
Mention of decals brings me to another task I have tackled at the start of work on cleaning up this Remington. I was asked by Piotr Trumpiel at the weekend about making decals, in a comment from Piotr on the McTaggart-Riter. There is a full "revelation" of my secrets in the "art" of decal-making in this post from March last year.
Here is how the Remington 16 appeared when it arrived here. On the paper plate, the blurry, faded remains of the logo and the obliterating scratches through the brand name did not make for a good look. This is often the case - especially, I find, with old Remingtons.
This is how it looks now:
I am certain Richard Polt has mentioned this in earlier posts on his Writing Ball blog - having found success with the method himself. Readily-available gold-inked ball-point or felt-nib and texture pens can be made to work well with patching up brand names such as this. A firm but steady hand is required - though small mistakes can quickly and easily be rectified
I used one of Georg Sommeregger's Flickr logo images (one in the French language, making it more exotic! But who will read the fine print anyway?). I artworked it to provide a black background and then printed out an A5 sheet of the logos on white (as opposed to clear) decal paper and sprayed it with a clear gloss paint:
Using white decal paper will inevitably leave a few tiny white lines around the logo when applied to a black surface, where the transfer sheet has been cut, so a bit of a touch-up with a black felt-nib pen may be required. Remember, only you will be looking at this through a microscope, and spotting any small imperfections, no one else.
Finally, at least to this point, I test typed with the machine. The ribbon had faded badly and hardly left any impression. So I simply opened up the little shutters on either side of the typewriter and sprayed in some Australian Export lubricant as I spun the spools around with the handle on the back right. I ran the ribbon back and forward a couple of times to allow the lubricant to soak through the cotton and, hey presto, I have a perfectly good ribbon again - almost new! This is an old Richard Amery trick and I have used it for many years (as I have the degreaser foam), invariably with much success. It's still a little uneven in the typecast above, but it will spread evenly in short time.

Crown of Corrosion: Restoring a 1918 Royal 10 Standard Typewriter (Booty VII)

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I've made a tentative start on what I think may be my most challenging restoration job, on this 1918 Royal 10 standard typewriter. To put it bluntly, it's in pretty bad shape. Decades of neglect have resulted in a massive coating of rust, grime and gunk.
Yet I'm also more excited about this undertaking than all the others I've tackled this week. I think it will be my last "booty" clean-up for a while, and I'm determined to transform this Royal back into something beautiful. When I spoke to John Lavery about it last week, I said, "The drawband is wrapped around the platen, but I think I can get it working."
"Good luck," said John.
So far, about the only thing I have achieved is to get the Royal typing. I've said it before and I'll say it again: there's no greater joy to be had in the whole wide world than to bring an old typewriter back to life. That sound it makes, as the carriage clicks along, the typebars rise and fall and the bell rings, probably for the first time in at least 60 or 70 years, is impossible to beat. The thrill that races through you when you get a battered, heavily corroded old beast like this working again is simply second to none.

Yes, the drawband, at least a part of it, was wrapped around the platen. Another part of it was still wrapped around the mainspring. But there was a strong pulse in the mainspring, and when you can sense that, you know there's every chance of a complete resurrection. I soon had a new drawband rigged up, and away she went! Oh boy, did I feel warm and fuzzy?!
The margin-setters are hard up against one another in the middle of the bar, and I haven't yet managed to shift them. I have run out of the degreaser foam and will now have to wait until the morning to get some more. When I give this machine a foam bath tomorrow, I'm sure of few other things will start to free up. But the rust is going to be the biggest problem. It's horrendous:





And how about this for super serious gunking?
 These cottonbuds show just the tip of the clean-up
While I wait to give the machine a foam bath, I am trying out a few other things. I am soaking overnight in hot, soapy water and a wax cleaning solution the paper plate, front plate and two top plates. Already the signs are good that I can get them back to their shiny best. I have found in the past that ordinary dishwashing liquid can get quite a lot of the many layers of surface dirt off the black, shiny parts, so fingers crossed with this experiment. Meanwhile, I have wiped many of the corroded metal parts with a rust remover liquid, and that may also continue to work overnight.
Will this be a different looking typewriter by tomorrow evening? Here's hoping ...
The serial number, by the way, is X343755. The serial numbers for Royal 10s are a bit difficult to follow, but Alan Seaver's Machines of Loving Grace web pages have a 10 with the serial number X277685, and Alan dates his machine to 1916. The first 10 started in 1914 at 173000 and the first with the double bevelled glass windows was 212000. Alan's is the only one I have spotted with just the X prefix, but QX came in in 1921 at 600000. I would date my machine at either 1918 or perhaps very early 1919. Here is Alan's beauty:
Paul Robert's 10 has the serial number QX696203 and he dates it to 1923:



Royal Standard 10 Restoration: A Work in Progress. So Far, So Good

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It's starting to look good. I've spent a solid five hours on it today, and there is still some touch-up work to do yet, such as adding decals to the paper plate and to the front. But I'm very pleased with the transformation so far - from a broken-down, filthy rustbucket to this:
 This is what it looked like yesterday:

Pride of Place: Royal 10 Standard, the "Lazarus" Typewriter

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Just two short days ago, this Royal 10 Standard typewriter was headed for the scrapheap. It was a busted rustbucket. Now look at it. In a pride of place as one enters the Typewriter Museum.
I had time early this morning to make the decals and put them on, before having to go out for a sports history lecture. The machine was already looking good enough to display, so on my way home I bought a "bar table" from the Salvos, especially for the Royal 10 and the Remington 16 I cleaned up earlier in the week. 
I finished polishing up the Royal when I got back and now here is it, proudly perched on its special stand.
No sooner had I put the stand up than in came a lovely email from my dear friend Peter Weil, with the subject "Royal Lazarus". "Robert, just fantastic and beautiful!! Great job!" wrote Peter. Gee, was I relieved to read that! I'm so glad someone else likes it. I was beginning to worry. Still, I shouldn't really care that much, as long as I like it. And I do, obviously ...  which might have some connection with the amount of work that went into it.

In answer to Richard Polt's earlier question about the restoration process: Yes, the foam degreaser I use is something I usually feel needs to be washed off almost immediately after I've applied it, especially from the paintwork. So I spray the machine with a light lubricant to get rid of all residue of the foam, then use an air compressor to blow all the liquid away. The photo below shows how the foam works in cleaning dirt off the paintwork. The foam evaporates quickly, so one needs to be equally quick in acting to protect the sheen:
Then begins the long, hard slog of rust removal:
I have to keep reminding myself this is what this typewriter looked like on Monday:

From Rahel-Varnhagen-Straße, Freiburg, and Ludlow Avenue, Cincinnati - Gifts from the Typosphere

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The generosity and helpfulness of Typospherians continues to fill me with awe and gratitude.
On Monday, completely out of the blue, a parcel arrived from Richard Polt in Cincinnati. Richard had noted that in a blog post last month about a gold-panelled Underwood Model F, I had lamented running out of grommets. The supply I had exhausted came from the Ace Hardware store, at 344 Ludlow Avenue, Clifton, in Cincinnati, which Richard had taken me to when I visited him last October. It's just 10 doors down from where Richard has organised two Type-Ins, at Sitwell's Coffee House.
When I bought these grommets at the Ace Hardware store in Cincinnati in October, Richard happened to have a portable typewriter with him and typed out the order!
Richard's thoughtfulness is astonishing and I am deeply indebted to him. He has sent a wide range of sizes to meet all my needs.
I smiled as I imagined, reading the customs sticker - on which Richard had simply declared the grommets as what they are - what some young mail sorter or customs official might have made of it. "Grommet? Grommet? Isn't he an animated dog from 62 West Wallaby Street, Wigan?"
It wasn't me, says Gromit.
I vividly recall, about 10 years ago, receiving a similar-sized parcel from singer-songwriter Norman Greenbaum (Spirit in the Sky) in Northern California. Its contents were innocuous enough, but customs had ripped the cover apart, and I have since then wondered what had sparked their curiosity. The sender's address? Greenbaum? The song title?
Among the weeds: Normie baby
Now here's the thing (of what reminded me of Normie's desecrated parcel): These grommets that Richard has sent me came from the same said Ace Hardware store, which is housed in the old Ludlow Garage at 344 Ludlow Avenue, Clifton.  It was the air in the Ludlow Garage that Cincinnati Post music writer Rick Bird once described as reeking with the smell of marijuana.
Yes, this is the same Ludlow Garage at which the Allman Brothers and Santana recorded live albums. Between 1969 and 1971, it was also the venue of rock, blues and jazz, and psychedelic and electric folk and pop performances by Pink Floyd, the peerless Ry Cooder, Alice Cooper, Frank Zappa and the Mothers, Iggy Popp and the Stooges, Grand Funk Railroad, Johnny Winter and Lonnie Mack, the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band, Humble Pie, the legendary Kinks, B.B.King and Bo Diddley, MC5, Herbie Mann, Neil Young, Captain Beefheart, the Incredible String Band and Fairport Convention, among many, many other great acts.
Talk about humble pie - I feel humbled that my grommets have come from a place of so much magic. Little did I know at the time I visited it. I might have knelt down in homage.
Where I might also have had to chance to do that was in another Cincinnati historic site to which Richard directed me: Arnold's Bar and Grill. It turns out the same said Ludlow Garage concert promoter, "Mr Cincinnati" Jim Tarbell, went on to own Arnold's. Now, I've drunk in many a bar in my time, but very few are up there with Arnold's (Mulligan's on Poolbeg Street, Dublin, tops the list, but Arnold's ranks high, alongside the West Coast Wine Bar and the Kokatahi). 
Oh, how I miss Cincinnati ...
Not Norman Greenbaum in the rainbow scarf,  but Jasper Lindell in Freiburg, searching for a computer mini-keyboard shop.
I also missed having another Typospherian in Canberra while Jasper Lindell was on a student exchange trip to Germany. I went to his going-away barbecue, and Jasper asked if there was anything I wanted brought back from Freiburg (probably thinking typewriters). At the time I was struggling to translate articles on typewriter history from German-language works such as those by Müller and Martin, and had had the thought that a German-language keyboard might help me in this considerably.
Just before Jasper returned to Canberra last Anzac Day, a parcel arrived from Rahel-Varnhagen-Straße, Freiburg, where he'd been staying, and it was this compact wireless keyboard.
It took me a little while to figure out how it worked, since the tiny wee USB connection (circled, above) was tucked into the back of the keyboard - so small I could hardly see it. The batteries that came with it were flat, but once I'd sorted all that out, and how to toggle back and forward between English (Australia) and German (Germany) on my computer, I was set.
Thanks to Jasper, it has made a big difference, and I can now certainly write and translate things a lot quicker. I used to have to keep going into "insert" on Microsoft Word to add German characters to whatever I was writing, which was a real hassle, but now it's much more straightforward:
Since his return home, Jasper has completed his internship at The Sydney Morning Herald, where he scored two bylines!
On the subject of mail, a week or so ago I had some prompt help from John Lavery, who sent me the front jointing pieces for a Hermes 2000. My own pieces from the smashed machine had gone missing, though I was certain I had kept them.
On Wednesday I lost one of my $7000 hearing aids (too many rock concerts in 1969-71) while hunting for something downstairs. When I went back on a vain hunt for the hearing aid, lo and behold what did I find instead but the Hermes 2000 bits. I'll have to send them on to John now:
While I was down there, I also found something which had popped out of the Imperial 70 I restored last weekend, a matching-colour bulldog clip. This has me a bit mystified. At first I thought the previous owner had simply sprayed a bulldog clip in a matching blue metallic paint. But on closer inspection, I realised it was an exact match for the typewriter paint, and had obviously been professionally painted. But why? I bet if anyone knows whether Imperial supplied a matching bulldog clip with the Imperial 70, it will be John Lavery! He may also be able to tell us the reason:
Finally, the good mail was that another John, in Office Essentials around the corner from me, had received a new shipment of Fullmark typewriter ribbons from Malaysia. Thank goodness, as I had exhausted my stock of ribbons as well as grommets, preventing me from typecasting with a few of this week's restorations, such as the Royal 10. It's not like being in Cincinnati, where one can pop down to Spitzfaden's when the neighbourhood supplier has run out.
The other thing that stopped me typecasting so much in the past week was a busted typewriter finger. We started to get some rain here in Canberra, just before the official start of winter, and one day when I realised it was raining I rushed to close a sliding door backing on to some typewriters. I put my left hand out to support myself as I leaned forward and with the right hand I slammed the door shut - on to my finger!
Ouch!

D-Day and Typewriters

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The 70th anniversary of D-Day, the Normandy landings which launched the liberation of Europe, is being marked with celebrations in western France today.
In the image above, war correspondents work from the Ministry of Information in London as they type the first dispatches of the invasion.
On that same day, June 6, 1944, TIME war correspondent William Edwin Walton - later better known as an abstract expressionist painter - was using a US Army issue Hermes Baby portable typewriter from the battle front. Walton had received permission to parachute into Normandy with the 82nd Airborne Division on D-Day.
Walton was born in Jacksonville, Illinois, on August 24, 1909, the son of the owner-publisher of the Jacksonville Journal-Courier. He graduated from the University of Wisconsin and worked for his father's newspaper, then got a job with the Associated Press. Walton later worked for PM, a leftist newspaper in New York City. 
In the lead-up to D-Day, Walton met Ernest Hemingway in London and the two became close friends. After landing in France, Walton set up base in Cherbourg, where he was visited by Hemingway. The image below was taken during that period, in mid-July 1944.
Hemingway later saved Walton's life during the first phase of the Battle of Hürtgen Forest in September-October 1944. Hemingway recognised the sound of an oncoming German plane and threw Walton out of the jeep they were riding in just moments before it was strafed.
Walton moved into the Hôtel Ritz in Paris in January 1945, covering the war from the liberated city. 
After Hemingway committed suicide in 1961, Walton used his connections with President John F. Kennedy to help Mary Welsh obtain a passport to Cuba to retrieve her late husband's effects and papers. Walton convinced her that Hemingway's papers should be deposited at the Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum (of which Walton later became a trustee).
Walton the artist
After the war, Walton became TIME correspondent in Washington, but in 1949 he abandoned journalism for painting. He lived in Georgetown, where a neighbour was Kennedy, with whom he became close. Walton went on to play a key role in Kennedy's 1960 presidential campaign, running the campaign operation in West Virginia and Wisconsin. In the general election campaign, he had overall control of the Kennedy operation in New York and was given election assignments in Maine and California. By the end of the campaign, Walton was considered one of Kennedy's closest associates. He redecorated the White House, and later played a very significant role in arrangements for Kennedy's funeral.
Walton advises Kennedy
Walton became chairman of the Commission of Fine Arts and in that position helped save the historic buildings around Lafayette Square, Washington. The commission became an increasingly powerful and influential voice on design issues in Washington. Walton also went on a secret diplomatic mission to the Soviet Union just eight days after Kennedy's assassination. He conveyed the Kennedy family's belief that Kennedy had been the victim of a vast right-wing conspiracy and not a Soviet assassination.
Walton escorts Jackie Kennedy
Walton suffered a heart attack in 1993 and died in his sleep on December 18, 1994, at his home in the Chelsea neighbourhood of New York City, aged 85.
Below, an unidentified war correspondent finds a spot outside a sales manager's office in Cherbourg to write his D-Day landings story:
Hemingway's fourth wife, Mary Welsh (above, far left) was one of many female war correspondents who covered the Allied invasion of Europe. This group comprises Welsh (TIME and LIFE), Dixie Tighe (International), Kathleen Harriman (Newsweek), Helen Kirkpatrick (Chicago Daily News), Lee Miller (Vogue) and Tania Long (The New York Times).
In 1945 Miller availed of the opportunity to soak in Hitler's bath in Munich.  A portrait of Hitler sits on the edge of the bath, Miller's combat boots are on the floor in front of it, and her clothes and watch are on a chair. On the table, there is a small statue and a call button box. 
This is another group of female war correspondents, comprising Ruth Cowan (Associated Press), Sonia Tomara (New York Herald Tribune), Rosette Hargrove (Newspaper Enterprise Association), Betty Knox (London Evening Standard), Iris Carpenter (Boston Globe) and Erika Mann (Liberty magazine).
In 1943, this reporter was still stuck in Tuscon, Arizona, itching to get to the action in Europe. But he got himself ready, anyway:
As for the Aussies? Well, our servicemen took the opportunity to befriend the locals after the landings:
Flight-Sergeant Fred Wood, of Adelaide, enjoys a smoko with the chief gendarme in a village in Normandy. Fred was a fitter with the Royal Australian Air Force, in charge of the maintenance of a Spitfire squadron. He was the first South Australian member of ground crew to land in France.
Below, Spitfire squadron pilots, Flight Lieutenant  V.A.Lancaster, of North Fitzroy,  and Squadron Leader D.H.Smith, of Victor Harbour, talk to a recently liberated lass in Bayeux.
Another RAAF pilot, Flight Lieutenant D.McK.Shanks, was shot down during an attack supporting the D-Day landings and was taken in by Normandy farmers, who dressed him as one of their own.  Thus disguised, he was able to spy on a German V-1 rocket launching area for three months until the Allies arrived.

When an Imperial Good Companion Portable Typewriter Looks Like a Model T But Isn't One

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These was a time, up until a couple of years ago, when I was silly enough to think that if an Imperial Good Companion looked like a Model T, it was a Model T, even if it wasn't labelled as such. At some point I eventually twigged that "T" stood for tabulator. My mind must have been diverted by the thought of Model T Fords.
A 1950 Imperial Good Companion Model T
A 1952 Imperial Good Companion
There is, of course, no such thing as an Imperial Good Companion labelled a Model 2. The Typewriter Age Guide, however, insists on referring to the No 1 and to the No 2 model. The first Imperial Good Companion to have a model number on it was the No 3, the first segment-shifted IGC.
Presumably the Age Guide's justification was the use of the figure 2 as a code in front of the letter, or letters, in the Model T's serial numbers. That's fair enough - it might have got a bit confusing otherwise; a Model T produced in 1941 would have been a "TT", for example, and one in 1956 a "TJT". (Any Good Companion, as opposed to a Good Companion Model T, or Models 3-7, has no number in front of the letter or letters.)
An Imperial Good Companion "Model T lookalike", the one that isn't a Model T but is just a plain Good Companion, came into my possession with the "booty" of 25 typewriters I received the weekend before last (along with two Good Companion Model 7s). It is the eighth of those 25 typewriters that I have had the chance to take a close look at. 
I did service one of these "lookalikes" once, but at that time didn't take the opportunity to look more closely at the differences between it and a Model T, or to put the two alongside one another. I guess there was resistance in my head to thinking of a machine labelled just an Imperial Good Companion as being anything other than the beautiful original model, the 1930s IGC. Sydney IGC collector Richard Amery kept telling me Good Companions were still being made into the 1950s, but when he said "Good Companion", I couldn't picture anything but the shiny black model.
Given this, it seems odd to me that, with the additions made to the Model T and maintained on the Model 3, the on-going plain ol' Good Companion would appear to have become the cut-price version.
The Model T above, serial number 2HC894, was made in 1950. The Good Companion beside it, serial number HV501, was made in 1952. On both machines the serial number is under the left side ribbon spool. On earlier models, the serial number is on the front right, under the spacebar. On later models, the serial numbers are under the machine, near the bell.
OK, so having now compared the two, I can see many differences from the Model T. Like the original IGC, the one above has no left side platen knob, no paper plate guide and, of course, no tabulator.
The arrow (above) is a tab clear switch.
Here is the original IGC:
And the original Model T:
I can't say when this Model T lookalike version of the IGC was first produced, but I can say that the first Model T, in 1938, was different from the post-war Model T seen above. For one thing, the tabulation device changed from an out-moded one on the first Model Ts, a design dating back to 1919, to a more up-to-date and conventional one.
This is the tabulation device used on the first Model T. The shiny black model seen above, serial number 2G185, was made in 1939. This device was based on a 1919 design by Eric Pilblad and Arthur Tomlinson to go on one of Hidalgo Moya's very first Imperial "portables", the Model D
This is the more conventional system introduced to the post-war Model Ts:
Here is the original Model T:
There are also many variations to the non-Model T Good Companions, which continued to be made up to 1957, when finally succeeded by the Model 4 and the segment-shifted Model 5. At the same time as Imperial introduced the Model T in 1938, this shiny grey model (serial number BR121) was launched:
A much more noticeable design change to the IGC line emerged in 1951, with the wonderful segment-shifted No 3:
This machine, serial number 3V312, was made in 1956.

Detroit's Typewriters Are Burning

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A typewriter pulled from a vacant house destroyed in an arson attack in Detroit. The city has tens of thousands of blighted and burned-out structures and a program will soon begin to systematically tear many of them down. Michael S. Williamson has a startling photographic essay on these abandoned structures in The Washington Post (Detroit's Faded Beauty).
The ornate Michigan Theatre (built in 1926) closed in the 1970s but was re-purposed as a parking garage.
After this Catholic Church closed many years ago it was briefly re-used by a Baptist congregation, which adapted the confessional booths as closets.
An organ sits silent in the basement of a ruined Catholic church.
The long unused car body painting area of the old Fisher Body Plant 21.
Three distinctly different styles of homes have been boarded up and left decaying for many years.
Vandals and thieves (aka house strippers) have taken almost every brick from this abandoned house. Inside, the wiring and fixtures are also gone.
The Woodward Avenue Presbyterian Church was known as St Curvy because to its unusual curved pews. The abandoned church is in ruins today.
Dishes in the banquet area of the basement in a rotting church.
Library books in an abandoned elementary school. They have fused to the carpet after lying on the floor for years,  as parts of the ceiling has coated them with flaking ceiling tiles. 

Bedtime Story-Man and his Remington Typewriter

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Thornton Waldo Burgess was a American conservationist and author of children's stories. He once studied wild life so he "might better outwit and kill them". He was, he added, "with complete unawareness laying the foundations for my lifework, which began happily when I put away the gun for camera and typewriter.”
Burgess loved the beauty of nature and its living creatures so much that he wrote about them for 50 years in books and his newspaper column, "Bedtime Stories". He was sometimes known as the Bedtime Story-Man. By the time he retired, he had written more than 170 books and 15,000 stories for a daily newspaper column.
Burgess's Hampden home, photographed in 1928.
The Thornton W. Burgess House is a historic house at 789 Main Street in Hampden, Massachusetts. The property is now owned by the Massachusetts Audubon Society. It is adjacent to the society's Laughing Brook Wildlife Sanctuary. The house was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1983.
Burgess was born on January 14, 1874, in Sandwich, Massachusetts, and graduated from Sandwich High School in 1891. He attended a business college in Boston from 1892-93 but yearned to write. He moved to Springfield, Massachusetts, where he took a job as an editorial assistant at the Phelps Publishing Company. His first stories were written under the pen name W. B. Thornton.
His first book, Old Mother West Wind, published in 1910, introduced many of the characters found in later books and stories. They included Peter Rabbit (briefly known as Peter Cottontail), Jimmy Skunk, Sammy Jay, Bobby Raccoon, Little Joe Otter, Grandfather Frog, Billy Mink, Jerry Muskrat, Spotty the Turtle, Old Mother West Wind and her Merry Little Breezes.
Peter Rabbit was created by British author and illustrator Beatrix Potter. Burgess said, "I like to think that Miss Potter gave Peter a name known the world over, while I with Mr Cady's [Burgess's illustrator and friend Harrison Cady, of New York and Rockport, Massachusetts] help perhaps made him a character."
From 1912 to 1960, without interruption, Burgess wrote his syndicated daily newspaper column, "Bedtime Stories", and he also was heard often on radio. His Radio Nature League radio series began in early January 1925. Praised by educators and parents, the program had listeners and members in more than 30 states at its peak. Burgess' Radio Nature League disbanded in August 1930, but he continued to give radio talks on conservation and the humane treatment of animals.
In 1960, Burgess published his last book, Now I Remember, Autobiography of an Amateur Naturalist. He died in Hampden, Massachusetts, on June 5, 1965, aged 91.

It wouldn't have mattered if the Cincinnati reporter had been using a Corona 3 portable typewriter

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Sports writing ain't what it used to be. More to the point, nor is the gear used to write it with.
Major Baseball League Cut4 scribbler Michael Clair wrote about Cincinnati Reds beat reporter Mark Sheldon having his laptop smashed by a Pablo Sandoval foul ball in the game against the San Francisco Giants at the Great American Ball Park in Cincinnati last week. Clair ended his piece by saying: "Here's to the future when indestructible computers will hopefully be invented."
Hey Clair, I've got news for you: indestructible writing machines have already been invented, a very long time ago. But you modern guys just decided to get rid of them. So if you want indestructibility, go back to find your future!
Which would you want in an emergency? Real metal that can withstand the 192 pounds of a falling Jack Dempsey, or a piece of plastic crap that can't withstand a fat little foul ball?
When Argentinian Louis Angel Firpo (“The Wild Bull of the Pampas”) knocked Jack Dempsey clean through the ropes in the first round of their world heavyweight boxing title fight at the Polo Grounds in New York on September 14, 1923, Dempsey landed neck and shoulder on the Corona 3 portable typewriter being used at ringside by Jack Lawrence of The New York Herald Tribune to cover the bout. Lawrence helped Dempsey back into the ring and Dempsey promptly knocked out Firpo to hold on to the crown. Naturally, Lawrence went on writing on his non-shattered little Corona. The Corona Typewriter Company were quickly on the advertising warpath. "Dempsey knocked out Firpo," the ad ran, "but he couldn’t knock out the Corona 3."
Clair wrote of last week's Cincinnati laptop smashing: "The most tragic moment is Sheldon's head droop at the end of the GIF. It's a sure reminder to thousands of people of the time their computer crashed in the midst of an all-nighter. As for how the Reds reporter will finish his recap tonight, we can only hope that it involves skywriters, a court stenographer and the use of an old-timey bicycle."
None of which would have been necessary if he'd been using a Corona 3 typewriter.

An illustration which appeared in the Indianapolis Sunday Star with Ring Lardner's brilliant and absolutely hilarious column on the Dempsey-Firpo fight. Later another great columnist, Westbrook Pegler, wrote about his friend Jack Lawrence's help for Dempsey.
The legendary Grantland Rice recalled the Lawrence incident in his memoirs The Tumult and the Shouting:
Later, a boxing historian wrote: 
 

Preston Sturges's Typists

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Typescript for the 1933 film, The Power and The Glory
This typescript mentions the "faint clicking of a typewriter", but it doesn't seem as if American playwright, screenwriter and film director Preston Sturges did much of his own typing.
Sturges used to dictate his scripts aloud to a secretary as he wrote them, and when he did, he convincingly played all the parts.
Even Bonhams, which last November and in January this year auctioned a preliminary draft for The Great McGinty and a screenplay and typescript for Mad Wednesday (they fetched $4375 and $2375 respectively), suggested they were typed by his secretary rather than himself.
Is the secretary in the photograph above, taken for LIFE in 1944, his lover Jeannie La Vell, with whom Surges began an affair in 1941 when she was just 21 (the affair lasted at least four years, until the summer of 1945)? The LIFE article, about Sturges's movie of that year, Hail the Conquering Hero, did not mention the secretary's name (referring to her "reversing the big-business custom" by sitting "inside the big desk"), and very little is known about Ms La Vell.
In Christmas in July: The Life and Art of Preston Sturges, Diane Jacobs wrote: 
In the same 1944 issue of LIFE, this full-page advert appeared:
This image, taken for LIFE in 1948, shows another of Sturges's secretaries, possibly Caroline Wedderburn?
In just four years, 1940–44, Sturges wrote and directed seven classics reflecting the America he loved and laughed at - a fast-talking, unpredictable melting pot that seems more real than the visions of Frank Capra or John Ford. Sturges took the screwball comedy format of the 1930s to another level, writing dialogue that, heard today, is often surprisingly naturalistic, mature and ahead of its time, despite the farcical situations. It is not uncommon for a Sturges character to deliver an exquisitely turned phrase and take an elaborate pratfall within the same scene. 
 How to read a Sturges script - surrounded by water.
He was born Edmund Preston Biden in Chicago on August 29, 1898. In 1941, he won the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay for the film The Great McGinty, his first of three nominations in the category.
Sturges is often regarded as the first Hollywood figure to establish success as a screenwriter and then move into directing his own scripts, at a time when those roles were separate. Sturges famously sold the story for The Great McGinty to Paramount Pictures for $1, in return for being allowed to direct the film; the sum was quietly raised to $10 by the studio for legal reasons.
When Sturges was three, his mother, Mary Estelle Dempsey, left America to pursue a singing career in Paris. Returning to the US, Dempsey met her third husband, the wealthy stockbroker Solomon Sturges, who adopted Preston in 1902. Mary had a close friendship with Isadora Duncan and also carried on a romantic affair with Aleister Crowley and collaborated with him on his magnum opus Magick.
Sturges' second play, the hit Strictly Dishonorable, was written in just six days and ran for 126 months, earning Sturges more than $300,000. His original screenplay for The Power and the Glory was an acknowledged source of inspiration for the screenwriters of Citizen Kane.  At one point he was the third highest paid man in America.
Sturges died, aged 60, on August 6, 1959, of a heart attack at the Algonquin Hotel in New York City, while writing his autobiography (which, ironically, he'd intended to title The Events Leading Up to My Death).

Typewriters For Sale

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I have these 11 portable typewriters for sale on Australian eBay at the moment. You can see them by going to the eBay seller oztypewriter.
I have two of these for sale, same condition
Others I will be listing in the near future include:

The Sholes & Glidden, Clough & Washburn. Clough and Who?

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With the GOP in turmoil, it's timely to look at one of the Republican Party's Californian founders, and his involvement with the first machine called a Type-Writer ...
Oakland, California "capitalist" Charles Ames Washburn.
"That it can be made vastly superior to Sholes' machine is now palpable and admitted by all who have studied it. Of one thing I am  very confident - that is, I can run Sholes' machine out of the market."
 - Charles Ames Washburn, October 1875.
'That' is the 'Typeograph', which was never made.
All typewriter lovers know who Sholes and Glidden were - the men behind the Sholes & Glidden typewriter (though they may not know how Carlos Glidden came to be included in the name of Christopher Latham Sholes' marvellous invention). And many will also know of Jefferson Moody Clough, the experienced Remington engineer who prepared the Sholes & Glidden for mass production at the E.Remington & Sons plant at Ilion, New York, in 1873-74.
But Charles Ames Washburn? What was his contribution to this epoch-making machine? The answer to that question may be difficult to find in typewriter histories (the more so because the theories that are online are incorrect*). Still, Washburn's input was sufficiently significant for the following breakdown of agreed royalty payments on each of the 400 Sholes & Gliddens sold in the United States between July 1 and December 31, 1874 - at $125 a pop:
$1 to C.L.Sholes.
$1 to C.Glidden.
$1 to C.A.Washburn.
50 cents to J.M.Clough.
Yes, a mere $3.50 in royalties out of each $125 sale. But the $3.50 was to be paid from just $12 a machine which flowed through to the Type-Writer Company from Remington. In 1875 Remington agreed to take over sales and to pay the Type-Writer Company $15 a machine for patents rights, but deducted $3 a machine for debts owed to it by Yost.
And Washburn was to receive the same amount as Sholes and Glidden. Sholes was only entitled to $1 because by the time the Sholes & Glidden went into production, he had already sold two portions of his three-tenths share in the enterprise. As well, James and Amos Densmore and George Washington Newton Yost, acting as Densmore, Yost & Company, had acquired almost all of Sholes' (and Glidden's and Samuel Willard Soulé's) patent rights on the machine, along with the two-tenths share in the overall project that Sholes had sold.
Sholes' original three-tenths ownership was settled in the "agreement of trust" drawn up by James Densmore on November 16, 1872. Densmore had originally held four-tenths, while Glidden's wife, Phebe Jane ("Jennie") Glidden, and Densmore's brothers, Amos and Emmett, all held one-tenth each. Densmore, Yost & Company had bought Emmett's stake in US patents, though Emmett undeservedly retained control over all "foreign" (that is, British) patent rights. Emmett claimed $700 a month in royalties for British sales, but this ludicrous amount of money was not paid.
Milwaukee lawyer Carlos Glidden. His wife pushed hard for his "fair share".
Glidden got $1 because, apart from his wife's one-tenth share, the couple also claimed to be entitled to one-tenth of all of James Densmore's profits from typewriter sales, according to their interpretation of the wording of the "agreement of trust". Upon re-reading the document, Densmore had had to concede the Gliddens "had him" (that is, "over a barrel"). (Glidden got his name on the machine when Densmore was forced to placate him after Scientific American, on August 10, 1872, had attributed the invention solely to Sholes. Densmore and Sholes had earlier agreed the machine would be called the Sholes & Densmore, and the machine's leading historian, Richard Current, believed that by rights that should have remained the case.)
Clough received 50 cents for his work in getting the Sholes & Glidden ready to go into production at E.Remington & Sons. He had also lent James Densmore $3000 in Ilion in early March 1873, just after Densmore and Yost had signed a contract with Remington to make the typewriter. This money was meant to assist Densmore and Yost in setting up a business to sell the Sholes & Glidden.
So why was Washburn entitled to $1? Well, after Remington had signed the production contract, it found Sholes' designs infringed a patent (No 109,161) issued to Washburn on November 8, 1870. Though Sholes'"axle" machine was developed in 1869, it was not patented until August 29, 1871, more than nine months after Washburn's patent. Because the Type-Writer Company still held the patents rights, Remington ensured that under the terms of its re-drafted contract, Densmore and Yost were obligated to pay this royalty to Washburn, not the manufacturer.
It is very interesting that Washburn used the title "type writing machine" in 1870. Densmore claimed "type-writer" was the name he gave Sholes' invention - and Richard Current suggests this was some time after 1867. But "type writing machine" had been first used by Scientific American on July 6, 1867, to describe John Pratt's "Pterotype".
Washburn's patent specifications outlined the one particular element which was infringed by Sholes' longitudinal platen movement:
*Other sources, such as Wikipedia, incorrectly claim the relevant device was the hinged carriage. Regardless of the inaccuracy of this claim, it would seem to me that so simple a thing as a hinged carriage would hardly qualify as a patent infringement, anyway, but the design of the mechanism for moving the carriage longitudinally would most definitely be an infringement. In fairness, Sholes was unaware of the Washburn design in 1869-70.
On December 28, 1874, Amos and Emmett Densmore had incorporated "The Type-Writer Company", with capital stock valued at $250,000, divided into 2500 shares of $100 each - James Densmore and Yost held 1000 each and Amos Densmore 500. The Type-Writer Company immediately granted Yost and English-born Edward Denning Luxton (1830-1901) its contract with Remington to have made and to sell typewriters, under the company name Densmore, Yost & Company, General Agents.
The Type-Writer Company soon fell behind with royalty payments and in mid-1875 it was sued byWashburn for monies owed to him. Washburn also warned that he would induce Samuel Colt's Colt's Patent Fires Arms Manufacturing Company to manufacture the Washburn typewriter (the "Typeograph") in Hartford, Connecticut. In two letters to his brother Cadwallader Colden Washburn (who had been Wisconsin Governor from 1872-74), dated October 6 and 19, 1875, Washburn used a prototype of his machine to type in neat if chilling words: "That it can be made vastly superior to Sholes' machine is now palpable and admitted by all who have studied it. Of one thing I am  very confident - that is, I can run Sholes' machines out of the market."
It is interesting that both Sholes and Washburn were politically active Republicans, but there any link between the two men ends. While Sholes was an honest, modest, mild-mannered and patient gentleman, described by friends as "retiring", Washburn became a pushy go-getter, a firebrand, described by Abraham Lincoln as "temperamentally unstable" and by his own brothers as a rapscallion, a marplot and as downright dishonest. One political opponent called him in print a "dirty dog". 
Yet, for all that, Charles Ames Washburn (above) was one interesting man, albeit one totally neglected in typewriter histories. A brief summary of his life follows:
.He was born in Livermore, Maine, on March 16, 1822. Four of his brothers (Israel Washburn Jr, 1813-83; Elihu Benjamin Washburn, 1816-87; Cadwallader Colden Washburn, 1818-82; and William Drew Washburn, 1831-1912) became United States Congressmen - one of them, Israel Washburn Jr, was the founder of the Republican Party. The Washburn brothers were cousins of Dorilus Morrison, first mayor of Minneapolis.
 Israel Jr
Elihu
 Cadwallader
William
Morrison
.Charles attended Wesleyan Seminary at Kents Hill and graduated from Bowdoin College, Brunswick, Maine, in 1848.
.He taught the children of rich cotton merchants in Mississippi and Louisiana. He then worked for the Land Office in Washington before moving to Wisconsin. 
.He became a lawyer in Mineral Point, Wisconsin.
.In 1849 he followed the gold rush to Mariposa, California, first panning in the mines, then becoming a book seller. He later walked from Mariposa to San Jose, finally settling in Oakland.
.He was the editor of Californian newspapers the Sonora Herald (1852), the Daily Alta California (1854), the Evening Journal (1855), the Star of the Empire (1856) and the Daily Times (1858-60). Charles co-owned the last named newspaper with Alvan Flanders (below). 
.In 1854 Charles, following his brother Israel's move in Washington, helped organise the Republican Party in California.
.Also in 1854, Charles was seriously wounded in a duel in San Francisco with fellow editor Benjamin Franklin Washington, using rifles at 40 paces. Charles came to believe the duel cost him his chance to follow his brothers into congress, at the 1858 Californian Republican Convention.
.By 1859 he had become close to Californian Democratic Senator David Colbreth Broderick, who he admired and strongly supported through his editorials. This friendship led to Lincoln considering Charles to have "unsound party loyalty" and to be of "unstable temperament". Charles wrote passionately about Broderick's death in a duel with chief justice David Smith Terry.
 Broderick
Killer: Terry
.In mid-August 1860 Charles became seriously ill and in April 1861 he was replaced as editor of the Daily Times. He was made President Elector for California. He went to Washington seeking an appointment from Lincoln.
.Despite being thought "disloyal" and "unstable" by the president, but perhaps to get him out of the country, Charles was appointed by Lincoln as Diplomatic Commissioner to Paraguay in mid-1861. His brother Elihu and Lincoln were close.
. Charles returned Paraguay in 1863-68 as United States Minister Resident. Apparently he had to be rescued by a gunboat.
Wedding portrait of Charles Washburn and his wife Sallie Catherine Cleaveland, whom he married in New York on May 11, 1865.
.In 1861 Washburn wrote a thinly veiled fictional autobiography called Philip Thaxter (he was the character of "Ben") and in 1865 a fictional "family history" called Gomery of Montgomery. In the 1870s and 80s, he produced other, more serious works:
In his younger days, Washburn believed himself to be a "signal failure", a dreamer who lacked skills. Even after moving to California, he was thought of as "liable to be imposed upon by shrewd business types, a mere child in the commercial environment".
Whether it was the gold fields in the late 1840s, the rough and tumble world of newspapers in San Francisco in the 1850s, or his experiences in trying to deal with Francisco Solano López in Paraguay in the early 1860s, but as Washburn grew older he became increasingly ambitious for fame and fortune, his business dealings more cut-throat.
These traits were evident in Washburn's involvement with Sholes, James Densmore, Yost and the Remingtons in 1873-74. At the time of this imbroglio, Washburn was describing himself as a San Francisco "capitalist" and living at 302 Montgomery Street, Oakland. He subsequently invented a register for train and tram passengers. Washburn died in New York City on January 26, 1889, aged 66.

I Say Old Chap, it's Absolutely Spiffing ... Queen Alexandra's American Typewriter

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Feast your eyes on this magnificent beast, a typewriter truly Fit for a Queen. Is it the most beautiful typewriter ever, or just the most ornate?
The "Sandringham" is an American variant (serial number 9930) which is in the Dietz Collection at the Milwaukee Public Museum. When one looks at the listing for it online, however, there is absolutely no mention of its utterly alluring provenance.
The American
Side view of the Sandringham
Oddly, the Sandringham is not in George Herrl's 1965 Dietz Collection catalogue - which is, admittedly, highly unreliable (in the MPM's own understatement, "It is known to have pictorial and textual errors").
The Sandringham once belonged to Queen Alexandra, Queen of the United Kingdom and Empress of India. This was established by John D. Lundstrom - Curator Emeritus of History at the MPM - in the March 1996 edition of ETCetera (No 34, PDF here).
Queen Alexandra's 1905 portrait
What ETCetera didn't know at the time was that the Sandringham as presented to Alexandra of Denmark when she became queen (as the consort of Edward VII) upon the death of her mother-in-law, Queen Victoria, on January 22, 1901. The gift came from William James Richardson (1863-1949), owner of The (British) Type Writer Company, which had the franchise to sell American Typewriter Company machines in Britain.
William James Richardson
Richardson is best known for holding the British franchise for the Bar-Lock and for ultimately converting it to a British-designed frontstroke typewriter. Richardson had in 1890 presented Queen Victoria with a Bar-Lock and had thus won Royal patronage for that Charles Spiro-designed machine - it became known in Britain as the Royal Bar-Lock.
On a trip to Australia from England and South Africa in 1881, a then 18-year-old Richardson saw his first typewriter – a Remington 1 which had been shipped into Adelaide from London in 1876 by George Witherage Cotton. Richardson there and then determined that his future lay in typewriters. He returned to England and found the London agent for the Remington 1 (Emmett Densmore) had “never made much headway”. In 1885 Richardson went to the US, where he was introduced to Spiro, then working on the Columbia. Richardson secured the British rights, believing this machine had advantages in visible writing, “inking from the face of type”, differential spacing and the use of printers’ type. However, he came to see these as disadvantages, and formed the opinion that the public did not want low-priced typewriters, but machines that were “rapid and durable”. He said Spiro shared this view, thus invented the Bar-Lock.
With the British rights to the Bar-Lock, from 1890 Richardson was officially designated by royal warrant to be “Her/His Majesty’s typewriter maker” to three successive British monarchs, Victoria, Edward VII and George V. Typewriter Topics reported, “all the typewriters in use in the various royal palaces, with two exceptions, being Bar-Locks”. Imperial later acquired the mantle under George VI.
Richardson was born in fashionable Highgate in London in June 1863. As a young man he was a bookseller in Portsea and a salesman for printing houses in Birmingham and Bristol.  
Though commissioned and "designed and executed" by Richardson in England, the Sandringham presented to Queen Alexandra was actually made by the American Typewriter Company at the Williams factory in Derby, Connecticut.
The MPM describes the Sandringham as being gold-plated and painted white with gold pinstriping, having mother-of-pearl keys with raised gold characters, and as sitting in a red Morocco leather case. According to Pears Shilling Cyclopædia in 1898, Queen Victoria's Bar-Lock had ivory keys:
The American Typewriter Company machine presented to Queen Alexandra is called the Sandringham because that is where the Queen and King Edward lived for most of their married lives. Queen Alexandra died at Sandringham House on November 25, 1925.
Sandringham House
Born Alexandra Caroline Marie Charlotte Louise Julia in the Yellow Castle, Copenhagen, on December 1, 1844,  the daughter of Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glücksburg and Princess Louise of Hesse-Kassel, Queen Alexandra was chosen at the age of 16 to be the future wife of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, the heir apparent of Queen Victoria. They married 18 months later, in 1863, the same year her father became king of Denmark as Christian IX and her brother was appointed to the vacant Greek throne as George I. She was Princess of Wales from 1863 to 1901, the longest anyone has ever held that title.
From Edward's death in 1910 until her own in 1925 she was the queen mother, being a dowager queen and the mother of the reigning monarch, George V. She is the present Queen's great-grandmother. She greatly distrusted her nephew, German Emperor Wilhelm II, and supported her son during World War I.
On the top of Queen Alexandra's American, as well as on its red Morocco leather case, are her royal monogram (see it more clearly below):
Queen Alexandra's successor as Queen of the United Kingdom and Empress of India, Mary of Teck, had been given an elaborately decorated Remington typewriter upon her marriage to the future George V, in 1893. It was painted in a blue enamel and had mother-of-pearl inlay, African ivory keytops and solid gold key characters.
How did he get his hands on it? Former Governor-General of Canada
John George Edward Henry Douglas Sutherland Campbell, the 9th Duke of Argyll, better known as the Marquess of  Lorne (or just Lord Lorne).
Now, as to the Sandringham's provenance after it was given to Alexandra, this remains most obscure. Lundstrom wrote that it had been acquired by the MPM from one Theodore Hart, and that it had been received by Hart's father, Perry Hart, from the Duke of Argyll, Queen's Alexandra's brother-in-law through her husband's sister, Princess Louise. As absolutely no trace can be found anywhere of a father and son called Theodore and Perry Hart, I must assume these names have been given incorrectly.
Princess Louise
Lundstrom presumed the Sandringham had passed from Alexandra to Louise. But the historian also quoted the Typewriter and Phonographic World as saying that Edward "possessed" an "exceedingly elaborate" engraved and gold-plated typewriter with ivory keys. (Lundstrom was wrong about Edward introducing typewriters to the royal household.) Whatever the case, how the Sandringham got into the hands of the mysterious Harts will probably remain anyone's guess.
Lee Spear Burridge
The American (of which the Sandringham is but one of many variants) was designed in 1895 by Lee Spear Burridge (most famously the designer of the Sun and Underwood 3 portable) and Newman Russell Marshman for American Typewriter Company boss Halbert Edwin Payne (born Pittsfield, Pennsylvania, September 21, 1865; died Washington DC, July 30, 1938). The patent number in the black-and-white ETCetera image above is for an 1899 British patent, taken out by Payne for the ATC, as he did in the US, for an improvement on the original Burridge-Marshman design.
Halbert Edwin Payne
After 11 years of production, the Derby operation collapsed in 1910, with the ATC owing Williams almost $99,000. The ATC moved to Bridgeport, but that venture also went belly-up, in 1915.
Payne went on to design and make aircraft for the US Army Corps, rising to the rank of captain. Payne graduated from Ohio State University in Mechanical Engineering in 1887 after having received a preparatory education at Washington University, St Louis. After Ohio, he spent 28 years perfecting and patenting typewriters. He first worked with Alexander Davidson on the New Yost. 
Apart from this one-off Sandringham, other variants of the the American were the Congress, Eagle, Elgin, Fleet, Mercantile, Pullman and Surety.  In England it was known as the Armstrong, in France the Herald and in Germany the Europa and Favorit. Below is the Surety Model A in Herman Price's collection:
Arnold Betzwieser Collection
A Model 7 with a Model 8 paper plate. The American came in many, many guises.
The Model No 8 was made in Bridgeport, Connecticut, and incorporated a new ribbon guide and pointer, patented in 1911 by Payne and Silas Guthree Wray (1867-1936).
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