You’ll find moments inside our past that shape our vision. Under-going my childhood photo albums, I catch a glimpse of Anna noisy . grades, a basic girl who, if she were alive, does not recognize how even just in grade 4, she was pointing the way to freedom of expression. There is a lesson here which will come in handy for folks and grandparents.
We’ve often wondered if Anna’s life probably have taken some other turn had she lived her early grades within the sixties in the event the ballpoint pen, replacing the fountain pen, dispensed with the aid of ink blotters at school. Kids of the fifties, we learnt writing the difficult way–with steel-nibbed pens which we drizzled with ink pots and which invariably turned the writing experience in to a mud-bath. It took us months to find out the art of compromise: speed meant accidental globs and splotches; should you wanted to save time, you’d be far wiser to try out the tortoise.
But Anna had not been turtle. Her mind moved faster than light; she was figuring a way to Bali whenever we were stuck within the grade 3 reader; within the fourth grade, when those of us with older siblings were all agog over Elvis, she may find anything passionate than Japanese prints.
I remember Sister Mary Michael, the composition teacher in grade 4, who told us that writing was an act of God understanding that the real writer would find his share of godliness within the holy trinity of pen, paper and blotter. From the three, the blotter was essentially the most indispensable. “Why?” we asked. “Good writing depends on the method that you control the ink.” There was anything else that needed to be controlled also, in accordance with 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 hard above her spectacles. “Too many adjectives,” she snapped. “Too many words!”
When Anna looked at 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 a time, it seemed that Anna had learnt her lesson. When I peered more closely over her shoulder, I realized that it was the blotter that has been absorbing her interest. She’d dribbled a spot on top right-hand corner of the sheet; she stuck the nib in the heart of lots of and watched the darkness grow; a couple of details with the nib as well as the blotch has been a little bit of chocolate, its center dissolving in to a hole. Fascinated, I watched her work more blotches on the absorbent paper and much more dabs until the entire blotter converted into some sort of chocolate swiss-cheese.
From her desk came more blotter sheets. Instead of holes, she made lines this time around, dark molasses lines dribbled and dripped almost spider fashion from corner to the next; she paused just good enough to thicken the very center stretch without breaking the flow until the entire sheet became criss-crossed with tubes of varying lengths and widths as well as the blotter sat for my child desk just like a chocolate web.
It had been an early on sort of Blotter Art, so distinctive it made flowing hair get up on end. But Sister Mary Michael cannot quite note that.
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