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?