Back in my grade-grubbing days (which ended sometime soon after I finished grammar [sic] school), I used to dread the biweekly appearance of our roving penmanship teacher. I got lots of 90s and 92s in my regular classes (numbers in lower elementary: yes) but in penmanship I used to get 65, maybe 68. She was beautiful; she was sweet; she was patient; and I failed her every time. Indeed, maybe it wasn't even "penmanship" that she taught; maybe it was "roving penmanship"; I would hardly know because the skill of putting pen to paper was one I was not then, and am not now, and never have been in between, able to conquer. About the best that can be said for it is that it gives me some compassion for kids who aren't good at school. I was always pretty good at most classroom stuff, but when it comes to penmanship, I whiffed every at-bat.
My ticket of admission to the human race was when I registered for Mary Jane Glennon's typing class in my first year of high school. Ever since I have been able to type like a bat out of a cave--fast enough to use it as a weapon, I used to intimidate my classmates with a blaze of typing skill during exams (not always accurate, but who knew?). In my newspaper days, I even learned to shift with my elbow, though that skill seems to have receded. Whatever penmanship skill I had has faded as well
"Whatever I had;" maybe none. But if I did, I surely belong here.
Afterthought: I never considered the point before, but what kind of life must it have been to travel from country school to country school all day long, teaching penmanship?
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