You will find moments inside our past that shape our vision. Dealing with my childhood photo albums, I catch a glimpse of Anna noisy . grades, a nice girl who, if she were still alive, does not recognize how even in grade 4, she was pointing how you can freedom of expression. There is a lesson here which will come in handy for fogeys and grandparents.
We’ve often wondered if Anna’s life could have taken a different turn had she lived her early grades in the sixties in the event the ballpoint pen, replacing the fountain pen, dispensed if you use ink blotters in college. Kids of the fifties, we learnt writing hard way–with steel-nibbed pens which we dipped in ink pots and which invariably turned the writing experience into a mud-bath. It took us months to understand the art of 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 was no turtle. Her mind moved faster than light; she was figuring a way to Bali if we were still stuck in the grade 3 reader; in the fourth grade, when folks with older siblings were all agog over Elvis, she may find nothing at all passionate than Japanese prints.
Going Sister Mary Michael, the composition teacher in grade 4, who told us that writing was an action of God understanding that the actual writer would find his share of godliness in the holy trinity of pen, paper and blotter. From the three, the blotter was one of the most indispensable. “Why?” we asked. “Good writing is determined by the way you control the ink.” There is anything more that needed to be controlled too, as outlined by Sister Mary Michael. Reading Anna’s essay on why she liked chocolates, Sister became very still and angular. She peered down on 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 fast, 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. When I peered more closely over her shoulder, I pointed out that it had been the blotter that was absorbing her interest. She’d dribbled a location at the top right-hand corner with the sheet; she stuck the nib in the center of lots of and watched the darkness grow; a couple of details with all the nib and the blotch has been a piece of chocolate, its center dissolving into a hole. Fascinated, I watched her work more blotches for the absorbent paper plus much more dabs before entire blotter converted into some sort of chocolate swiss-cheese.
Beyond her desk came more blotter sheets. As opposed to holes, she made lines this time, dark molasses lines dribbled and dripped almost spider fashion derived from one of corner to another; she paused just long enough to thicken the center stretch without having to break the flow before entire sheet became criss-crossed with tubes of varying lengths and widths and the blotter sat on her desk as being a chocolate web.
It absolutely was a young version of Blotter Art Company, so distinctive it made flowing hair get up on end. But Sister Mary Michael cannot quite notice that.
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