PETERSEN
Hunting and Woody Woodpecker pecking were the order of the day at Elmer Fudd High School as 30 students, mostly girls, tapped away at manual Underwood typewriters.
It was second period. Rain drummed on a
steel-gray December
Forty words per minute was a distant dream for my typing class.
Our teacher, Mr. Butts, interrupted my reverie. He was scratching away on a ukulele, ordering us to keep the beat as he played âSplish Splashâ and âYakety Yak.â
I had just come from first period, welding class. Sparks had showered down the back of my neck and tried to convince me to seek a less painful way to make a living.