The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
Do you recognize that sentence? It’s taught in Typing 101 because it uses every letter of the alphabet.
I grudgingly took typing my junior year of high school (1970-71) because my teachers didn’t consider me college material. I was smart enough. Just not motivated. So, without consulting me about my future, I was placed on the secretarial track.
My typing teacher was built like a linebacker, barked instructions like a drill sergeant, and sounded like Julia Child. Intimidating. I decided to humor her.
Each desk had a manual typewriter. You had to firmly punch the keys for a letter to strike the paper. Quite a workout. The keys operated separately, so if you pressed too many too quickly, they’d jam up. You’d have to stop to untangle them. And end up with inky fingers.
We weren’t allowed to peek at the keyboard. So, we memorized where all the vowels, consonants, numbers and punctuation marks were located.
This was back when we used all of our fingers—not just our thumbs.
In our low-tech world, when we came to the end of a line, we reached over and pumped the carriage return lever to advance to the next line. Type. Zing. Type. Zing—in a crazy rhythm.
We were expected to type fast. And flawlessly. Long fingernails were forbidden. They could sabotage our efficiency. No problem. I was a compulsive nail biter.
If we did make a mistake, we started over with a clean sheet of paper, unless it was a minor “oops.” Then, we could apply “Wite-Out” to make it disappear. It was messy but mostly effective.
Our spell checker was a thick Webster’s Dictionary.
I practiced my brown fox sentence tirelessly and secretly wished the lazy dog would nip the fox’s nimble toes as it jumped over him, just for some variety.
My perseverance eventually was rewarded by my scoring the best speed record in class—65 words per minute. The average was 40, not that I’m bragging. Still, this impressive feat seemed futile, since I didn’t want to work in a 9-to-5 office.
Shockingly, after some twists and turns in my life, I went to college, earned two degrees in communication, and became a broadcast journalist. Guess what skill has been invaluable throughout that journey?
Typing.
Typing assignments. Term papers. And newscasts.
In my career, my agile fingers flew over the keyboard as I banged out stories on impossible deadlines. Fortunately, I didn’t have to spell every word correctly—just phonetically, so the newscaster could recognize it.
My early newsrooms in Kentucky provided only manual typewriters. No problem for a veteran like me whose dexterous fingers could still pound away on those keys with Herculean strength and endurance.
Later, we added Selectrics, which responded to a gentler touch. Out of habit, I continued to press down hard on the keys, like I was whacking a mole with my bare hands. The letters were on a single rotating ball, which avoided those annoying key jams. The Selectrics also had an automatic carriage return and built-in correction tape. They spoiled us.
Next up: computers. My hero. And my nemesis. They simplified—and complicated—my life with their impressive time-saving features and exasperating glitches at the most inconvenient times. Still, we forged a working relationship that got the job done.
If my typing teacher were still around, I’d salute her. I should also thank that quick brown fox and its legendary jump that made me such a typing superstar.
Marie Mitchell, Richmond