When I was in Junior High, it was Mrs. Hynson’s Class. When she called on me, I was so fearful that I almost swallowed my tongue or forgot whatever answer I might have had at the tip of that tongue. In High School the fear moved to and settled on Miss Summers and typing class.

The mechanical gadget known at the “typewriter” was for secretaries, not me, I thought! It was a play thing as far as I was concerned. I delayed taking the class for as long as I could. But the time finally came.  Word in school had it she was a hard woman and not too kind to guys.  All I knew was my hand writing ability for eight plus years in school. I had to admit my writing style wasn’t all that good. Being left handed in a right handed world caused me to write awkwardly on those right handed desks, and smear ink from pens that I used that gave a blue-black color to the bottom of my hand going left to right on the paper. Besides, sometimes even I didn’t know or could read what I had written on the paper! So the need was there for a better way to do things. But my heart was reluctant in a class where everyone else would most likely be more adept at it than me.

When the time came to take the class (1960-61 School year, sixth period), there I was sitting in front of that huge machine. And if not to disappoint, Miss Summers looked everything like what I feared; no nonsense, serious, and seemingly not too thrilled with having boys in her class.  We went through the drills of hitting the keys and getting familiar with hand placement on the machine to go from top line to the bottom with the letters and numbers. To feel safe, I sat with a group of guys who did not seem to be all that interested in the class. Sure enough, many of the guys were bored with the mechanics of typing. Talking between them became frequent.  I tried my best to disassociate myself from the behavior. She would get on them and the clacking of the keys continued or resumed. Every look she gave convinced even me that I was guilty even if I hadn’t done anything! 

Most memorable were the typing “tests” taken to measure our proficiency. We were to type the sentences in the book and timed so the words per minutes, minus mistakes, could be calculated. Wouldn’t you know it, I was so nervous when she would say “get ready---go!” that the first word was already messed up by about the third or fourth key! So by the end of “times up”, my typing was less than stellar! I think the best I did was about 25-30 words per minute, while some of the girls were whizzing by with 55-70. Don’t know if the guys did much better, but there were a lot of “under breath” words every times they made a mistake which seemed all the time as well.

What I can say about the class is that I got out of it by the skin of my fingers! Miss Summers wrote on my report card “Roger makes too many mistakes.” Mom, to my defense, replied on the back of the pupil’s class report for parental remarks; “When a student has superior grade marks in all subjects but typing class, something must be wrong somewhere. I’m having Roger practice more at home (she bought a typewriter for me to use). I know he can do better.” (Thanks Mom!)

I did do better, but unfortunately it was not during High School! All through the higher education years I used a typewriter to deliver papers to profs with liquid paper supplements and all. During my early years in the ministry I cut stencils, used a mimeograph machine, installed ink canisters on them, then moved on to the electric typewriter, then to copier machines, their toner cartridges and finally to the computer keyboard.

I have probably typed millions of words with 1500-2000 word sermons for Sundays during nearly 40 years in the ministry, and the addition of letters, bulletins, news articles, etc. Surprisingly, I have become very good at typing thanks to her—and Mom!

Miss Summers—could I get that grade raised to B now?   Roger Noon ‘62