The Old Coot is a scribbler.
By Merlin Lessler
I’m typing this article into my computer from scribbles in
a notebook that are barely legible. The scribble comes when I write fast in a
vain attempt to keep up with my thoughts. It’s not real writing; it’s connected
printing. It’s not my fault. Let me explain. We learned to write the alphabet
in kindergarten, circa 1948 at Longfellow Elementary School on the south side
of Binghamton. Upper and lower case. It was really two distinct alphabets. Then
in first grade, we took on writing, now called script or cursive. We had
writing class every day, to develop the skill to connect letters in a
continuous flow of loops and swirls. We practiced swirls and other shapes,
filling page after page. We didn’t write the ABC’s until we could do the exercises
properly. Only then were we allowed to take on the Palmer Method of writing.
The teacher collected a sample of our writing at the end of
the term and placed it in a Student Writing Folder, for review by Elizabeth J.
Drake, the Director of Writing for the Binghamton School System. She visited
every elementary classroom, in every school in the city. That was a big job,
since grade schools were scattered all around the city within walking distance for
almost every kid in town. There was only one bus I know of, for kids living near
the Vestal town line. When we graduated from sixth grade, we were given our
writing folder. I still have mine. It wasn’t good enough to receive a gold seal
on the certificate like some kids did, but it was good enough.
Writing class stopped when I moved on to West Junior High
School on the west side. When I was in Broome Technical Community College, as
it was called at the time, one of my classes was in technical drawings, part of
the electrical technology curriculum. We were taught a rigid style of printing
that produced crisp letters, worthy of being placed on engineering and
architectural drawings. That training was as rigorous as the training we had in
grade school. I learned it and stopped writing from then on.
I’ve printed for well over 60 years, but since I “write”
articles all the time, I’ve ended up a scribbler; my rapid printing doesn’t keep
up; my hand and mind are out of sync. As a result, I can hardly read what I
write. Eventually, I get it into my computer. Then, for a few hours over the
week, I edit it into some semblance of sensibility. Sometimes it makes it;
sometimes it doesn’t.
