I’ve long thought that my years in the printing industry and my affection for typography were the result of my Penmanship PTSD. In spite of all their Christen love for me, the good Sisters of Mercy would not let my sorry penmanship go without much more accordance with the teachings of one Mr. Palmer and his notorious medieval “Method”. I can still remember trying to convince my father that Sister Mary Evangeline had mistakenly put the initial of my first name in the Penmanship mark box on my report card rather than one of its alphabetical predecessors.
And, let me just add this. At Saint Margaret Mary’s Grammar School, there wasn’t no fooling around and no emerging “high tech” nonsense allowed ’round there. It was fountain pens and only fountain pens. No ball point nothing. And getting caught with a BIC pen (which could easily be converted (non-religiously, that is) into an effective spitball blowgun of intermediate range was like getting caught with a 9mm these days. And ink-wise, there wasn’t no black, and red was for teachers only, and Navy blue was too easily mistaken for black, and so it was only and always blue blue.
And if your mother was sick to death of you coming home with leaked-ink stains on your Chinese laundered white dress shirt, well, she should just think of it as an opportunity to take something off her Purgatory time. And that will be that.
Greetings:
I’ve long thought that my years in the printing industry and my affection for typography were the result of my Penmanship PTSD. In spite of all their Christen love for me, the good Sisters of Mercy would not let my sorry penmanship go without much more accordance with the teachings of one Mr. Palmer and his notorious medieval “Method”. I can still remember trying to convince my father that Sister Mary Evangeline had mistakenly put the initial of my first name in the Penmanship mark box on my report card rather than one of its alphabetical predecessors.
And, let me just add this. At Saint Margaret Mary’s Grammar School, there wasn’t no fooling around and no emerging “high tech” nonsense allowed ’round there. It was fountain pens and only fountain pens. No ball point nothing. And getting caught with a BIC pen (which could easily be converted (non-religiously, that is) into an effective spitball blowgun of intermediate range was like getting caught with a 9mm these days. And ink-wise, there wasn’t no black, and red was for teachers only, and Navy blue was too easily mistaken for black, and so it was only and always blue blue.
And if your mother was sick to death of you coming home with leaked-ink stains on your Chinese laundered white dress shirt, well, she should just think of it as an opportunity to take something off her Purgatory time. And that will be that.
Bravo, 11B40.