Today I discarded my old Smith-Corona SL-460 portable electric typewriter at the local transfer station. Long ago, someone bought it for me for a dollar at a church auction, when I said I needed a typewriter. I wrote a lot of fiction and poetry on that thing. It had a neat gray plastic cover that was easy to open; it was compact and low-slung in form, with a calm, satisfying, slightly dull look to its design. No crazed, morphing swirls distorted its flat, simple lines.

It was perfectly functional when it left my hands this morning. At least I think so -- I hadn't used it for years. The only trouble with it was, the ribbon cost about eight dollars, and I needed a new one every two or three months. For me that was a considerable expense. Also, of course, one can't move blocks of type around with a typewriter, or all the other things one can do with a PC.

But I will miss the old fellow. After abandoning its modest bulk on the Metal section of the loading dock, next to a rusty green washing machine and some other disheveled appliances, I walked away with a feeling of wistful sorrow for the lost verities of the American Fifties from which I spring. Then I announced to the lounging men in the transfer station's breezy office that I was observing the passing of my old typewriter. "His name was Smith-Corona SL-460," I said, in clear, ringing tones. They all chuckled.

Thus ends an era.