My mom’s cursive writing was beautiful. She’d learned the Palmer Method of handwriting, and that’s what she taught me. I would sit for hours at a time drawing circles and push-pulls, just the right size and just the right angle, on lined tablet paper. All that practice made for nice writing, except that mine was so large that it was hard to fit my name on most signature lines.I worked for a credit union in the 1970’s, when credit reports were obtained by calling a credit bureau and speaking with a real person. The real person would read the report to me and I would write it on a wide-lined form for our credit committee. I used every bit of the height of those wide lines, and had to make a form with narrower lines because the credit committee couldn’t read my huge writing, even though the circles and push-pulls were written perfectly. Today, I’m often sloppy about my cursive writing. I’m used to speeding along on my keyboard, so when I have to slow down and write by hand, my words scrunch up and tip every which way. But still, I hate to see cursive writing come to an end. It feels good, and even relaxing, to take my time and write beautifully now and then. And I appreciate the beautiful penmanship of others. My mom has been gone for many years now, but whenever I see her lovely cursive writing, I recognize it as a piece of her, and I hear her voice. When I’m gone, will anyone recognize my keystrokes?
Monthly Archives: March 2012
Sometimes when the skies are cloudy, it feels like life stands still. Those are the days when I can’t find motivation, when I shuffle papers all day long, without even having the energy to turn over a rock to look for something exciting. Since I live in the Pacific Northwest, there are plenty of those gray days. But for the past three days, the sun has been out. Right now, I’m looking out at a glassy-smooth lake, with only a tiny ripple from a short aluminum boat with electric motor that cruises noiselessly. Two fishermen, bundled for warmth on this chilly day, raise steaming cups of what I assume is coffee. I think of my dad and the many hours I spent drifting along in our boat with him when I was a child, waiting for a fish to bite.
I-5 passes by the end of the lake, and the cars, trucks, motor homes and green highway signs reflect in the still water, giving me a view of twice as much traffic, twice as many signs.
Seagulls stroll through the park across the lake. There are three cliques of gulls this morning. Those on the right walk in an easterly direction. Those on the left turn in circles. Those in the middle stand still. Two crows have joined those on the right.
The hills beyond the lake are dotted with houses whose occupants, if they are not at work, have a grand vista on this beautiful day.
A blue jay just landed in my flower pot and flew away with a peanut in its beak, the peanut reminding me of a gemstone held carefully in tweezers. To the jay, I’m sure that nut was a gem of a find. I’d pulled dead plants from that pot just yesterday and I hadn’t seen any peanuts then. How did the jay discover it?
Now, a man in a tank top and shorts walks briskly through the park, even though the temperature was below freezing last night. A seagull follows him, hoping he’ll drop a tasty morsel.
The sunny skies have filled me with motivation. It’s time to get out there with the fishermen, the gulls, and the crows and take on the day.
It’s about time! Yes, it is about time for me to start writing again. I’ve taken way too long of a break from my favorite pastime/hobby/profession. I’ve been offered a great opportunity, and I’ll tell you all about it as soon as I sign the contract! And I’m going to need your help, so bookmark this page, please, and check back.