Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Writing (01/11/07)
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TITLE: Of Rulers and Hard Wooden Desks | Previous Challenge Entry
By Karen Deikun
01/17/07 -
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Seeing that paper brings it all back. I can smell the chalk dust and varnish from a long ago classroom. I remember sun shining into the room, illuminating swaths of dust-filled air. My small desk is in the first row - either because my last name is first in the alphabet, or because I’m the shortest student in the room. The desk’s wood is rubbed smooth by decades of children sliding on and off the bench seat. The back of my seat forms the front of the desk behind me. Billy Frampton sits there and his breath blows on the back of my neck. Billy has adenoid problems and his loud breathing increases my feeling of doom. It is time for writing class.
Lifting the slanted top of my desk, I take out a sheet of the green paper along with a pen and nib, and finally, the glass inkwell. The inkwell slides securely into a small hole on the upper right corner of the desk, just above the hinges.
I am afraid of the cork on the inkwell – afraid to spill the ink. It has happened before with dreadful results to my books and skirt. My fingers shake as I carefully pry the cork loose. Mrs. Mintmeyer is watching, probably holding her breath, until all the inkwells are open. I attach the silvery nib to the wooden holder and dip it ever so carefully into the ink. It is important not to have your nib too full, because the ink will blot on the paper – but there must be enough ink for a full line. Mrs. Mintmeyer cruises the aisles chanting “Oval, one-two-three-four!” My small hand painstakingly circles on my paper to form the required perfect ovals.
I am always nervous during writing class. Mrs. Mintmeyer carries a ruler in one hand to rap the knuckles of any child who does not hold their fountain pen with perfect form, or who dares to round their back. Form and discipline are all important if a child is to have good hand-writing. My stomach hurts a bit as Mrs. Mintmeyer approaches me, observing my carefully held posture and hand position. I relax as she passes me by.
Stepping out of the past, I thank my old teacher though she is now surely in heaven. As a child I considered writing class a form of torture. I never perfected the beautiful flowing lines that dignified the Palmer method, nor the precise up and down strokes that were favored by those who taught the Peterson method. I did not make “A”s in writing. But I did learn to write legibly.
Writing class sometimes made me cry, and often I felt stupid, sloppy and inadequate. But looking at my green paper, I now realize what a gift those sessions were. They taught me discipline. They taught me not to be satisfied with sloppy work. The taught me not to give up. They even taught me to sit up straight and tall – no small gift for a short person!
Most of all they bestowed on me the wonderful ability to write. The fruits of my class room instruction fill diaries, notebooks and letters. I am able to sign my name to a contract or insurance form. Writing supports my desire for self expression, and enabled me to handle my first job.
The sore knuckles have long since healed, and I no longer shake with fear when I pick up a pen. Now those magical strokes effortlessly fill pages and pages of my life. What a gift! What a wonderful, incredible gift.
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