My day is almost over, but before “I lay me down to sleep,” I want to offer this minor regret about the craft I pursued for 37 years.
My handwriting has gone straight to hell.
I was blessed with good penmanship as a child. I got good grades from my elementary school teachers who used to actually grade students’ penmanship. My parents both had exquisite penmanship. I have in my possession a stack of letters Mom wrote to one of her brothers in the late 1940s. Her handwriting was impeccable.
I came of age with that kind of handwriting. I was inducted into the Army in 1968 and wrote letters home constantly. Dad would share them with friends and other family members.
I came home from the Army in the summer of 1970, re-enrolled in college in January 1971 and started taking mass communications classes.
I became a reporter, which required those of us in the profession at the time to learn how to write rapidly. I had to take copious notes from subjects I would interview. When one has to write like that so frequently, it stands to reason that one’s penmanship is going to suffer.
I finished school, got started in journalism. I kept writing quickly. My handwriting kept deteriorating.
Now? It’s shot all to hell. My wife needles me good-naturedly about it on occasion. She remembers my good penmanship.
Yes, I know that penmanship no longer is even taught in school these days. Children operate handheld “devices” to communicate. Many of them can’t tell time by looking at an old-fashioned clock dial.
My handwriting got so bad that I actually fantasized about some judge issuing a subpoena ordering me to turn over my notes. Hah! Go ahead and try to decipher this scribble, Your Honor!
But I do regret that I no longer can write with precision.
Mom and Dad no doubt would be unhappy with this admission.
