You’ll find moments within our past that shape our vision. Dealing with my childhood photo albums, I catch a glimpse of Anna noisy . grades, an abandoned girl who, if she were alive, doesn’t know how even during grade 4, she was pointing how you can freedom of expression. There exists a lesson here which comes in handy for moms and dads and grandparents.
I have often wondered if Anna’s life probably have taken another turn had she lived her early grades from the sixties if the ballpoint pen, replacing the fountain pen, dispensed by using ink blotters at school. Kids of the fifties, we learnt writing the tough way–with steel-nibbed pens which we drizzled with ink pots and which invariably turned the writing experience in a mud-bath. It took us months to find out ale compromise: speed meant accidental globs and splotches; if you really wanted to avoid wasting time, you’d be far wiser to experience the tortoise.
But Anna wasn’t any turtle. Her mind moved quicker than light; she was figuring a way to Bali if we were stuck from the grade 3 reader; from the fourth grade, when those of us with older siblings were all agog over Elvis, she may find anything passionate than Japanese prints.
From the Sister Mary Michael, the composition teacher in grade 4, who told us that writing was an action of God which the writer would find his share of godliness from the holy trinity of pen, paper and blotter. With the three, the blotter was the most indispensable. “Why?” we asked. “Good writing is dependent upon how we control a lot of it.” There were anything more that needed to be controlled too, according to Sister Mary Michael. Reading Anna’s essay on why she liked chocolates, Sister became very still and angular. She peered down at the child, her eyes blue and difficult above her spectacles. “Too many adjectives,” she snapped. “Too many words!”
When Anna looked over her, unmoved, Sister retrieved her pen. The nib drew an easy, little difference over Anna’s script; the blotter followed; there came more red lines, more words slashed away.
I watched Anna after she returned to her desk. She began writing, dabbing the blotter after her pen in true Sister Mary Michael fashion. For some time, it seemed as though Anna had learnt her lesson. However when I peered more closely over her shoulder, I pointed out that it was the blotter that was absorbing her interest. She had dribbled a spot at the top right-hand corner of the sheet; she stuck the nib in the heart of lots of and watched the darkness grow; a number of details with all the nib and the blotch was a bit of chocolate, its center dissolving in a hole. Fascinated, I watched her work more blotches around the absorbent paper plus much more dabs prior to the entire blotter become a kind of chocolate swiss-cheese.
Beyond her desk came more blotter sheets. Rather than holes, she made lines this time around, dark molasses lines dribbled and dripped almost spider fashion from one corner to another; she paused just long enough to thicken the center stretch without having to break the flow prior to the entire sheet became criss-crossed with tubes of varying lengths and widths and the blotter sat on her behalf desk like a chocolate web.
It had been a young type of Blotter Art Company, so distinctive it made flowing hair get up on end. But Sister Mary Michael can’t quite observe that.
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