Typewriter: 1934 Remie Scout

Hey, kids, fun fact! Did you know that when you remove a Royal Eldorado’s lefthand platen knob to replace it, the entire line spacing mechanism falls out? I’ll bet you didn’t. It’ll turn your two-minute repair into hours of agonizing frustration as you attempt to reconstruct which little whatzit goes where.

Machines of Loving Grace has been relaunched, with a whole new look, new photos and new content! My lack of HTML skillz still shows, and there are some gaps which I hope to fill soon, but I couldn’t keep the new site to myself any longer.

I bought a set of typewriter keys today. Just the keys. From a…a…keychopper. I feel so dirty. This must be how Republicans feel when they get caught by vice cops in airport bathroom stalls. Is it wrong to patronize one of the denizens of typewriting’s sleazy underbelly if the goal is to restore another typewriter? It wasn’t a collectible or particularly old typewriter. A late-’60s Montgomery Ward model whose keys happen to be identical matches for an Olivetti Valentine’s.

Afterward, I saw all the other sets of keys the person was selling. Perfect, round, chromed keys, looking at me like puppies in a mill as I walk away with one of their siblings inside my coat.

I’m going to hell for sure.

Good news! The green script Royal FP arrived today!

Bad news. It was left sitting on-end on the front stoop.

Good news! The seller packed it exceptionally well, and no damage was done. Carriage hadn’t even twitched.

Bad news. It has no ribbon spools, and standard spools don’t fit.

Good news! The spools from a Royal HH fit!

Bad news. The carriage doesn’t move when I hit the keys.

And that’s where it sits. There must be an unobtrusive little lever somewhere that “unlocks” the keyboard, because the escapement and all other functions work fine. Carriage moves when I hit the spacebar, or tab key, or backspace. Just not when you hit anything connected to a typebar. Not much time right now to delve deeply into the issue, but quite frankly, I’m flummoxed. Typically, the spacebar uses the same escapement release mechanism as the keys. I assume since everything else related to the carriage and escapement work that I must be overlooking some “feature”.

And no, Monda, this isn’t a sign that I should send the Royal to you right away. Though I am wondering about your little curse hoodoo.

Today we visit a couple of classrooms from the past. Back before “keyboarding” classes, nearly every high school student learned touch-typing, in rooms full of clacking, dinging, ratcheting clamor. And lest those of you who didn’t have to take one of those classes believes that there is no difference between “typing” and “keyboarding”, the two are worlds apart. Touch-typing is an art. The keys are not neatly compressed together and nearly level, as on a computer keyboard. The vertical and horizontal finger reach of a manual typewriter is nearly twice that of a keyboard. Shifting required actual muscle strength. You had to align forms with the type; calculate centering, right-justification, columns; keep track of your bottom margin; plan ahead for footnotes. There was no word wrap.

If you made a mistake–oops!–backspace and delete could not save you. Heaven forbid you didn’t discover the typo immediately and had to use half-spacing to insert a missing character. If you were being timed for speed, there was no going back and correcting your mistakes with a quick backspace or Ctrl-<-. Those flubs counted against your word count.

And you did most of this without looking at the machine.

First up is a postcard, c.1915, of the Spencerian Commercial School typewriting room. Click to see it full-size and try to find as many different typewriters as you can. Is that a Smith Premier 10 next to the Monarch and the Remington in the near row?

Next is a Library of Congress photo of a typing class at Eastern High School in Washington, D.C., c.1920. Most of the typewriters are Remington #10s. Click the photo to view it larger and enjoy the fashions which were popular then. If you click here, you’ll see the most wonderful thing about this photo: the list of classroom typewriter serial numbers and reported problems (“Remington RX85832 – Bell does not ring”).

Interestingly, while the fashions and the machines in use indicate that this undated photo was taken in the 1920s, a couple of those serial numbers cross-reference to much later dates.

Meet the incredibly scarce Keaton Music Typewriter. It’s not quite a typewriter as one would think of one in the traditional sense, is it? It’s a bit of an exoskeletor typing machine. Blank sheet music (not included in the photo for the sake of showing detail) rests on the board beneath the machine; the typebars downstrike to hit it. The shift scale indicator (curved part) delineates different points on the musical scale and the scale shift handle moves the type segment back and forth accordingly. (Click here to see the main keyboard separated from the smaller staff marks keyboard.) It has three spacebars which can move the machine from a partial note to an entire chord. If I knew the first thing about musical notation, I’m sure I could tell you all sorts of other fascinating things that it can do. Alas, I do not, and the manual is missing.

Very little is known about these machines, including how many may have been made. We know from patent records that a smaller, 14-key version was made from 1936 to 1953, when the 33-key version appeared. The one above is the 1950s model. Obviously, the market for such a contraption was small to begin with. They seem to have been purchased primarily by school music departments and small sheet-music publishing companies. Certainly, the device is too plodding to have been of much use to an individual composer. A Keaton is to a regular typewriter what a large-format plate camera is to a 35mm with autofocus and built-in light meter. It seems to be best suited for producing a single master copy to use to make multiple additional copies.

The best source of information I’ve found is, not surprisingly, an article Darryl Rehr wrote for issue #25 of ETCetera. You may note that the Keaton featured in Rehr’s article is serial #3184. Mine is #3180. As of 1993, when the article was published, there were about half a dozen known Keatons. I’ve learned that a handful of additional examples have turned up since then. Certainly the total number of known Keatons is less than two dozen. Undoubtedly, additional machines will crop up as schools and shops clear out their back rooms.

On a personal note, if you haven’t guessed by now, this is the typewriter I hinted at in a previous post. It was hidden away from general sight in a back room of an antique dealer’s storage barn, where I found out it has sat for a decade. The case is dirty and beaten, but the typewriter itself is in splendid condition, all things considered. I only had to reattach a few disconnected typebars; an easy fix. (Loose or missing typebars and missing keytops seem to be a common failure point among the handful of other specimens I’ve seen. The typebars are held in place by only a weak pair of brass finger-stockings, and they keytops are simply pushed onto their posts.) Despite its intricacy, it has a wonderful semi-homemade feel, from its ALCOA-stamped pots-n-pans aluminum frame to the re-purposed battery clips manufactured by the Mueller Elec. Co. of Cleveland, OH. Oddly, the typewriter collecting community in general doesn’t seem very interested in Keatons. Perhaps it’s because one can’t type actual words with them, or perhaps it’s the nontraditional design. Or perhaps it’s just too new. If this were an equally odd and only somewhat more scarce 1800s Hansen Typing Ball, collectors would be going ape over its discovery. Oh, well. I like it, and that’s all I care about.

Maybe I’ll do a coded typecast on it someday. Everybody get out your Oliver Hammond secret decoder rings!

Photos of the Remie Scout, 3-bank Underwood, and Erika with her folding Corona cousin have been uploaded to Flickr!

The Remie Scout

The 3-bank Underwood Standard Portable

The folding Erika with her kissing cousin, the Corona #3. Very different bodies, but if you looked at the folding carriage mechanics, you’d hardly tell the difference.

Speaking of typewriter photos, it seems that I was caught in action on Typewriter Day by fellow Flickrite Jonathunder! My insanity is famous!

So yesterday, I come home to find M. Clemen’s gorgeous Erika folding portable awaiting, on it’s side, by my back gate. Fortunately, he had packed it well, and no damage was done by the Three Stooges Postal Service. This is the one I received in trade for my 1951/2 Smith-Corona Sterling. Hardly a fair trade, but I’ve committed to repairing the Erika’s few functional shortcomings. Such as the platen that spins freely around its core, the crumbling feed roller, and the mangled paperclip that serves as the bell-dinger spring.

At the same time, my first round of Traveling Type arrived from Strikethru! My, she has a nice pair of
rubber stamps. A large Remington standard adorns the front of the envelope, while a large Western Union telegram facsimile fills a large portion of the back. Inside is a Travelling Type log entry form which I dare any of the other participants, including myself, to best. The script Hermes 3000 she typed her submission on makes my Escort 55 quail.

This morning, because I’d had them sent to the office to protect against potentially being left out in the rain, I had two more typewriters waiting for me! (Yes, you may assume at this point, if you haven’t already, that I have a collecting problem.) These were eBay machines that were about to be won by keychoppers, for insultingly low prices. I impulsively threw in a pair of lowball bids and walked away, only to be surprised in the morning by a pair of “You won!” emails. Suffice it to say that the total cost of both machines, including shipping, was less than the one usually goes for, minus shipping. I don’t know what typewriter gods were smiling down upon me that day.

One is a Remington Remie Scout, made sometime from 1932-1934. The serial number has been deliberately obliterated, so I can’t find out for sure. The Remie Scout was another inexpensive, no-frills Depression-era typewriter, sometimes sold as the Monarch or the Pioneer. Update: the serial number has been found! It was behind the top row of keys, hidden beneath several layers of dust. Not sure what the mangled number on the side of the segment piece was supposed to be.

The other is a 1929 Underwood Standard Portable 3-bank in forest green. I’ve lusted after one of these 3-bank Underwoods for ages. The fact that it isn’t the standard black is just icing on the cake. Alas, the ribbon spool covers are missing, but that’s fairly typical with these guys. Too soon to have photos yet, but it looks just like this one on Richard Polt’s site.

So far my promise to the spousal unit to begin unloading typewriters has resulted in exactly one typewriter removed from the house, which was canceled out by the Erika, and four new ones coming in.

I should look on the bright side: an addition to typewriters is highly unlikely to kill me with an infected needle.