Mama J Had a Typewriter

When we moved from Starr, South Carolina, to Amarillo, Texas, I was seven years old and starting third grade. That move was the result of my grandfather, Daddy B, getting a promotion at Owens Corning Fiberglass, where much of Starr’s small farming community worked. Owens Corning had been the backbone of that community for decades, offering steady work in manufacturing fiberglass—a material critical for insulating homes.

Founded in 1938, Owens Corning opened its Anderson, South Carolina location during the post-war industrial boom, providing opportunities for many who had farmed the land for generations. For our family, it was a stepping stone to something bigger. By the time Daddy B’s promotion came, Owens Corning had become synonymous with modern progress. But that’s a story for another day—a darker one about what happened to the community after the plant’s closure, leaving only sickness and heartbreak behind.

For now, let’s focus on the typewriter.

Amarillo was a world away from Starr, but for my mom, it was a lifeline. She had been through two marriages by the time I was in third grade. My parents had a shotgun wedding as teenagers, but their union unraveled under the weight of my dad’s struggles with addiction and likely undiagnosed mental health conditions. My mom, however, always seemed to find a way forward, even if it meant starting over time and again.

In Amarillo, we moved in with my grandparents, Mama J and Daddy B. Their new house had three bedrooms: one for them, one for my mom, and one I shared with my Aunt L whenever she came home from college. The room I shared with L had a four-poster canopy bed that I hated because I was convinced monsters lurked beneath it. My safe haven was my mom’s room, where Mama J kept her typewriter.

The typewriter had an olive-green hard case, and Mama J guarded it like a treasure. She taught me how to use it properly, showing me how to place my fingers on the keys and trust their movement. The clack of the keys became a comforting rhythm, a way to channel the restless energy of my young mind. Soon, the typewriter became my escape—a tool to make sense of the chaos swirling around me.