一台绿色旧打字机

(Gerald Moore)/文

李树德/编译

纪念品可谓五花八门，作者把母亲用过的一台旧打字机留作纪念品，意义非同寻常。每当遇到困难，畏缩不前时，或是受到挫折，自叹不走运时，他就坐在打字机前打上几行，这样就会获得一往无前的勇气。

Coming home from school that dark winter’s day so long ago, I was filled with hope. I bounded up the steps, burst into the living room and switched on a light.

I was shocked into stillness by what I saw. Mother, pulled into a tight ball with her face in her hands, sat at the far end of the couch. She was crying. I had never seen her cry.

I approached cautiously and touched her shoulder “What’s happened?”

She took a long breath and managed a weak smile. “It’s nothing, really. Nothing important. Just that I’m going to lose this new job. I can’t type fast enough.”

“But you’ve only been there three days,” I said. “You’ll catch on.” I was repeating a line she had spoken to me a hundred times when I was having trouble learning or doing something important to me.

“No,” she said sadly. “I always said I could do anything I set my mind to, and I still think I can in most things. But I can’t do this.”

I felt helpless and out of place. At age 16 I still thought Mother could do anything. Some years before, Mother had decided to open a day nursery. She had had no training, but that didn’t stand in her way. She sent away for correspondence courses in child care, did the lessons and in six months formally qualified herself for the task. It wasn’t long before she had a full enrollment and a waiting list.

A few months after we’d moved to this new place, Mother arrived home with a used typewriter. It skipped between certain letters and the keyboard was soft. At dinner that night I pronounced the machine a “piece of junk.”

“That’s all we can afford,” Mother said. “It’s good enough to learn on.” And from that day on, as soon as the table was cleared and the dishes were done, Mother would disappear into her sewing room to practice. The slow tap, tap, tap went on some nights until midnight.

It was nearly Christmas when I heard Mother got a job at the radio station. I was not the least bit surprised, or impressed. But she was more than happy.

Monday, after her first day at work, I could see that the excitement was gone. Mother looked tired and drawn. I responded by ignoring her.

Tuesday, Dad made dinner and cleaned the kitchen. Mother stayed in her sewing room, practicing. “She’s having a little trouble with her typing,” he said. “She needs to practice. You might just remember that she is working primarily so you can go to college.” I honestly didn’t care. I wished she would just forget the whole.

My shock and embarrassment at finding Mother in tears on Wednesday was a perfect index of how little I understood the pressures on her. Sitting beside her on the couch, I began very slowly to understand. “I guess we all have to fail sometime,” Mother said quietly. I could sense her pain. Suddenly, something inside me turned. I reached out and put my arms around her.

A week later Mother took a job selling dry goods at half the salary the radio station had offered. “It’s a job I can do,” she said simply. But the evening practice on the old green typewriter continued. I had a very different feeling now when I passed her door at night and heard her tapping away. I knew there was something more going on in there than a woman learning to type...

Several years later, when I had finished school and proudly accepted a job as a newspaper reporter, she had already been a journalist with our hometown paper for six months.

The old green typewriter sits in my office now, unrepaired. It is a memento, but what it recalls for me is not quite what it recalled for Mother. When I’m having trouble with a story and think about giving up or when I start to feel sorry for myself and think things should be easier for me, I roll a piece of paper into that old machine and type, word by painful word, just the way Mother did. What I remember then is not her failure, but her courage, the courage to go ahead.

It’s the best memento anyone ever gave me.

在很久以前一个昏暗的冬天，我放学回家，心中充满着期待。我跳上台阶，冲进起居室，啪嗒一声打开电灯。

我被眼前的景象惊呆了。妈妈双手捂着脸，身子紧缩成一团，坐在长沙发的一端哭泣着。这是我第一次见到妈妈哭。

我小心地走向她，轻轻拍她的肩膀问道：“妈，怎么啦？”

妈妈深深吸了一口气，强作微笑。“没什么，真的，没有什么要紧的事。只是我这份新工作要丢了。我字打得不够快。”

“可你上班才3 天，”我说，“你会熟练起来的。”我这是在重复她讲过上百次的一句话，每当我学习或做一件与自己关系重大的事情而遇到困难时，她总是这样跟我说。

“不行，”妈黯然神伤地说。“过去我总是讲，只要我下决心，什么事都能干成。现在我仍然认为大多数的事我都能做。但打字这件事不了了。”

我感到无能为力，而且十分尴尬。我虽然16岁了，但仍然以为妈妈什么都能干。几年前，搬到城里住的时候，妈妈决定开办日托所。她过去没有受过这方面的训练，但这并不能阻碍她。她写信要求参加幼托函授课程，学习了6个月就正式获得从事这项工作的资格。不久，她的日托所招生满员，而且还有不少小孩登记等着入托呢。

我们到这个新地方没几个月，妈妈搬回来一台旧打字机。这架打字机有时要跳字，键盘也很松。那天吃晚饭时，我说这台机器是“废物一件”。

“我们只买得起这样旧的，”妈说，“能用它学打字就行了。”从那天起，餐桌一收拾，盘子一洗好，妈妈就马上到她的缝纫间去练习。有几天，那缓慢的嗒、嗒、嗒的声音持续到午夜。

临近圣诞节的时候，我听说妈妈在电台找到一份工作。我一点也不惊奇，也不觉得有什么特别，但妈妈却欣喜万分。

星期一，妈妈第一天上班回来，我发觉妈妈的高兴劲儿已经烟消云散。妈妈绷着脸，看上去很疲劳，我没对她做任何表示。

星期二，爸爸在做晚饭，收拾厨房。妈妈待在缝纫间练打字。“你妈打字碰到点困难，”他说，“她需要练习。你要记住，她现在工作就是为了能供你上大学。”老实说，上不上大学我并不在乎。我真希望妈妈一点也不要把这事放在心上。

星期三，当发现妈妈哭时我所感到的震惊和窘迫，完全表明了我对妈妈所承受的压力是多么不理解。我坐在她的身旁，慢慢开始理解了。“我想我们都免不了有失败的时候，”妈妈平静地说。我可以感觉到她的痛苦。突然，我心里一酸，伸开双臂，把妈妈搂在怀里。

一周过后，妈妈找到一个卖纺织品的工作，工资只有原先电台的一半。“这是一个我能胜任的工作。”她简单地说道。但在晚上，她继续在那台绿色的旧打字机上练习。如今，每当我在夜晚走过她的房门前，听着她那一刻不停的嗒、嗒的打字声时，我的感情与过去迥然不同了。我深知，在那个房间里进行着的绝不仅仅只是一个女人在学习打字……

几年后，我大学毕业了，自豪地受聘担任报纸记者时，妈妈已在我们家乡的报社里当了6个月的记者了。

那台绿色旧打字机现在放在我的办公室里，至今没有修理过。它是一件纪念品。但它所勾起的我的回忆与妈妈的不尽相同。每当我写文章遇到困难想打退堂鼓时，或是自叹不走运时，我就往那台破旧的打字机里卷进一张纸，像妈妈当年一样，一个字一个字地吃力地打着。这时，我回忆起的不是妈妈的失败，而是她的勇气，她那一往无前的勇气。

这台打字机是我一生中得到的最好的纪念品。