You will find moments inside our past that shape our vision. Under-going my childhood photo albums, I catch a glimpse of Anna noisy . grades, a nice girl who, if she remained as alive, does not recognize how even just in grade 4, she was pointing the best way to freedom of expression. There exists a lesson here which comes in handy for fogeys and grandparents.
I’ve often wondered if Anna’s life might have taken a different turn had she lived her early grades within the sixties if the ballpoint pen, replacing the fountain pen, dispensed if you use ink blotters in school. Kids of the fifties, we learnt writing the hard way–with steel-nibbed pens which we dipped in ink pots and which invariably turned the writing experience right into a mud-bath. It took us months to understand ale compromise: speed meant accidental globs and splotches; should you wanted to save time, you’d be far wiser to play the tortoise.
But Anna had not been turtle. Her mind moved quicker than light; she was figuring a means to Bali once we remained as stuck within the grade 3 reader; within the fourth grade, when people with older siblings counseled me agog over Elvis, she could find no more passionate than Japanese prints.
I recall Sister Mary Michael, the composition teacher in grade 4, who told us that writing was an act of God and that the writer would find his share of godliness within the holy trinity of pen, paper and blotter. From the three, the blotter was probably the most indispensable. “Why?” we asked. “Good writing is dependent upon the method that you control some of it.” There were much else that should be controlled also, as outlined by Sister Mary Michael. Reading Anna’s essay on why she liked chocolates, Sister became very still and angular. She peered down in the child, her eyes blue and hard above her spectacles. “Too many adjectives,” she snapped. “Too many words!”
When Anna viewed her, unmoved, Sister retrieved her pen. The nib drew a timely, thin line 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 if Anna had learnt her lesson. When I peered more closely over her shoulder, I noticed that it had been the blotter that was absorbing her interest. She had dribbled a location on the top right-hand corner with the sheet; she stuck the nib during lots of and watched the darkness grow; a few details using the nib and the blotch became a little bit of chocolate, its center dissolving right into a hole. Fascinated, I watched her work more blotches about the absorbent paper and much more dabs before entire blotter turned into some sort of chocolate swiss-cheese.
Out of her desk came more blotter sheets. As opposed to holes, she made lines on this occasion, dark molasses lines dribbled and dripped almost spider fashion from one corner to another; she paused just for a specified duration to thicken the guts stretch having to break the flow before entire sheet became criss-crossed with tubes of varying lengths and widths and the blotter sat on her behalf desk as being a chocolate web.
It had been an earlier sort of Acid Art, so distinctive it made hair climb onto end. But Sister Mary Michael can’t quite notice that.
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