A Stroke and A Flourish

I sat in the Kindergarten Parents’ Meeting on Literacy Night at my daughter’s public elementary school listening to the “Kindergarten Teaching Team” explain the newest “Language Arts Curriculum.” Words and phrases flew out of their mouths, flitted like hummingbirds around the room, hovered before me for but a moment while I tried to translate them, and then darted away to be replaced by the next buzz words.  A PowerPoint presentation, illustrated with numerous graphs, indicated that “Word Recognition” had replaced spelling. “Context clues” substituted for vocabulary lessons. There was talk of “Journaling” and “Narrative Construction.” Did I mention that this was a meeting for kindergarten?

Did I walk into the right presentation? These children are only 5 years old, I thought.  And their handwriting still needs serious practice. Wait a minute – during the entire presentation about reading and writing (pardon my gaff – I meant language arts) the teaching team never once mentioned handwriting.

“Does anyone have any questions?” an enthusiastic, fresh-out-of-school team member asked. I glanced around at faces wearing either stunned, confused, or bored expressions.

“I do,” I ventured, raising my hand (being in school takes you right back, doesn’t it?). “I didn’t hear anyone mention anything about handwriting. When will they be practicing their printing?”

The young teacher looked to the assemblage of seasoned team members standing at her side. “We no longer teach handwriting in the curriculum,” one stated. “And handwriting isn’t graded.”

“What?” I spluttered. “Why?... How are they supposed to learn how to write neatly if they aren’t practicing, and how will they know they are expected to write legibly, if they aren’t graded on it?”

“We have to cover what they’ll need to learn for the standardized tests. There’s not enough time for everything, so, unfortunately, handwriting had to go. But you can certainly work on it at home,” one of the teachers explained.

“Handwriting’s not important anymore,” a woman next to me grunted. “Kids type everything; all I use to write is a computer, and I keep notes on my phone. I don’t think I even own a pen anymore.”

Others around me nodded their agreement. My heart sank into my feet, and I sat there too shocked and saddened to respond.

Now I must pause to say that I have the utmost respect for teachers. The patience they have for not only dealing with a room packed with children, but with parents, administrators, and all the continuing education requirements, coupled with constant “improvements” to curriculum, and tight budgets merits a gold medal – a real gold one.  And I realize that these teachers were adhering to the curriculum they were expected to teach - one chosen by administrators focused on test scores and how the school district measures up against others.  But handwriting  - gone? So, despite the facts that I work full-time, and the evenings are filled with cooking supper, eating, homework, bath time, a bedtime story, and who can predict what else, I tried to squeeze-in printing practice and to make sure that anything printed sloppily on homework sheets was erased and re-written.

When the Literacy Night for Second Grade was held, I asked about learning cursive. “We’ll work on that ‘some,’ but we’ll be sending home guides for you to practice at home.” 

“Gee, thanks. Is the school district going to pay me to teach at home what should be included in the curriculum?” I didn’t say it, but I wanted to.

My daughter is in 4^th Grade now. Her printing is neat sometimes but messy when she hurries. Her cursive is pretty – when she uses it, because she complains that she can’t write very fast that way. “That’s because you don’t use it enough to gain speed,” I reply. “When I was your age, everything was required to be written in cursive.  After we were taught it, we were expected to use it, unless printing was specified for a form.”

“That’s not the way it is at my school,” my daughter answered. “We don’t have to use cursive, and we don’t get anything marked off for not writing neatly.”

“I know,” I agreed, despondently, pining for days gone by. I recently read that on the 2006 SAT exam, only 15 percent of the students wrote their essay answers in cursive.  Printing seems to have replaced cursive, and typing has replaced most of even that. But oh, the beautiful handwriting of the past! Flourishes! How I love those!

 Though a number of cultures developed handwriting styles featuring connected letters and flourishes, the Romans first developed a script handwriting style similar to what we would recognize. Versions dating back to at least the 5^th century A.D. featured words containing lowercase letters connected together. Monasteries preserved and perfected handwriting, with monks tasked with copying religious and classical texts. Charlemagne, 1^st Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire (reign: December 25, 800–January 28, 814), assigned an English monk in the late 8^th century to create a standardized style from the various regional styles in his realm. The Carolingian miniscule was born, designed to be legible, with punctuation and separation between words containing lowercase letters. During the Middle Ages (5^th-15^th centuries A.D.), the cost of parchment escalated with the demand for books, so a denser style of writing evolved in Europe.  In the mid-15^th century, Johannes Gutenberg (c. 1395–1468) utilized this Gothic style as the first typeface for his printing press.

Meanwhile, elegant handwriting became synonymous with the educated, higher classes. How you wrote represented who you were. Penmanship schools opened in the 1700s to train master scribes. The word “cursive” was coined during this period from the 18^th century Italian word “corsivo” which was derived from the Medieval Latin word “cursivus” which means “running.” During both the colonial period and the early days of the United States, professional penmen copied documents such as the Declaration of Independence (1776) and the Constitution (1787) in cursive. Various professions adopted certain styles as representative of their occupations, and men and women developed flourishes associated with their sex. Platt Rogers Spencer (1800-1864), an abolitionist and bookkeeper, created a distinctly American style of cursive - the Spencerian method- which was taught in school. Businesses embraced the Spencerian script, and you can see an example of it in the original Coca-Cola logo.

By 1900 in America, Austin Norman Palmer’s (1860-1927) method of loopy characters replaced the Spencerian style. Charles Zaner (1864-1918) and Elmer Bloser (1865-1929) created a cursive style utilized in children’s textbooks during the 20^th century. And of course, everyone adds their own personal style to whichever method of cursive they have been taught. That’s what makes our individual handwriting unique. Our handwriting can even be analyzed to assess our personalities.  In 1977, National Handwriting Day was established to celebrate the power of handwriting. This day falls each year on January 23^rd. The significance of that date?  It’s the birthday of John Hancock (1737-1793), who famously penned his signature on the Declaration of Independence in script large enough so that everyone could read it, damn the consequences!

I can picture John Hancock dipping his quill in the inkwell and signing his name. I can imagine the sound of his pen scratching on the paper. You know the sound Harry’s quill made when he wrote in Tom Riddle’s diary (which really was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s diary but I’m brave so I’ll name him anyway – Lord Voldemort) in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (2002)? I love that sound. But the reality is that dipping quills in ink wells is tedious and much messier than what we see transpire at Hogwarts. Of course, instead of blotters and stained fingers, witches and wizards do have magic.

Though I must say,  I’ve always found fountain pens – the closest practical thing to a quill that we Muggles can possess - to hold an air of magic. Back when I held my first job as a paralegal at law firm, a pricey Montblanc Meisterstück fountain pen was a must-have for the attorneys. To acquire one indicated the young associates had become established in their chosen profession. I once asked an associate if I could borrow his for a moment, and he actually said, “No. I don’t lend my pen. Not to anyone. Not even for a moment. Not even if I’m standing right here.”

“O-kaaaay…”

I’ve never been that possessive of a pen, but I am particular about what kind I use. I like the grip to feel just right. And I don’t like ink that smears. My current favorite is the B2P gel ink pen made by Pilot from recycled water bottles. With it, I record on paper the drama and particulars of managing my life: grocery lists, errands, flashes of brilliance for my latest writing project, post cards, greeting cards, and thank you notes.  I think most everyone still appreciates the thought and effort you make when you record words on paper and send them via the U.S. Postal Service. How unexpectedly exciting it is to receive something hand-addressed, just to you, that isn’t a bill or junk mail! And, despite blogs and Facebook, girls still buy diaries in book form that lock with keys to record on paper the musings of their minds and the longing of their hearts. (I know, because my daughter has one.) Yes, texts, direct messages, and emails are quicker for communicating now, but in this instantaneous world, folks still wait minutes for tea bags to steep, spend nine months growing babies, pursue dreams for years, and mark lifetimes loving those held dear.

I type for work all day long. And then, I type personal things, such as this blog. But when I write by hand, I am conscious of the fact that my handwriting represents me on paper – not as a mark of my class, education level, or profession, as in days past, but as a sign that I care enough about others and about myself to write neatly and legibly. That’s why I insist that my daughter endeavor to master her handwriting skills. And I hope there will always be pens and paper - and people who cherish them with each stroke and flourish.

May your tea be sweet and your cotton high,

Leigh Ann Thornton

Livin’ in High Cotton

            I recently had someone ask me what “high cotton” means. I was somewhat perplexed. I thought even folks outside of the South knew the George Gershwin song, “Summertime,” from Porgy and Bess:

“Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high.”

I explained that the phrase “livin’ in high cotton” originated during the Antebellum-era in the Deep South. When cotton had grown high (tall), the crop promised to be good, bringing a profit to the grower. And when the cotton was high, there wasn’t a lot of work to do until the harvest – the livin’ was easy. The phrase passed into the Southern lexicon and now “livin’ in high cotton” means that a person is successful.

            Our conversation “got me thinking” about other words and phrases that were part of everyday conversations I heard growing up in the South.  If you aren’t familiar with Southern vernacular, let me explain. I’ve found that these terms can be sorted into three categories: about People, about Food, and about Activities.

            Now the most familiar “People” term to those outside of the South is “y’all.” And even if delivered in the best drawl, nothing gives you away faster as a faux Southerner than the incorrect use of this term. “Y’all” is the contraction for “you” and “all.” It is always plural. One person can never be a “y’all.” I must say that I find it impossible to address a group of people without using “y’all.” If I just say “you,” how do they know I’m not speaking to only one of them? “Y’all” is practical – just saying’. You can even add “all” to make a phrase if need be, as in, “Are all y’all going to the Auburn game on Saturday?”

            Yes, incorrect use of the term “y’all” is a dead giveaway that you’re a Yankee. Now let me explain that term. New England residents will tell you that “Yankee” properly refers to descendants of English Colonial Settlers.  But when a Southerner uses the term, it means anyone not from the South, be they from California, or Montana, or Ohio. Here’s an example of proper use of the word: “We were worried when Lila Rose told us she was marrying that Yankee boy from Michigan that she’s been goin’ ’round with, since we don’t know anything about his family, but he seems to have had some raisin’.” Yes, we Southerners may call anyone from outside of the South a Yankee, but that doesn’t mean we don’t know good people come from all over. And even in the South, you can find people who’ve had no raisin’. In fact, one of the worst things you can say about a person is that he or she’s “got no raisin’.” This indicates a total lack of manners and class.

Now, a person may have been raised to know the difference between a salad fork and a dinner fork and to say “Ma’am” and “Sir” and still not have any common sense. That person is described as such: “Oh, no. Here comes Rob, Jr. That boy ‘doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground’.” If he winds up making a well-thought-out blunder, such as “cheating on Mary Elizabeth with that ‘white trash’ Donna Jean,” well, his “sorry ass” better not show up around here. Excuse me for cussing – now let’s move on.

            A happy person is “happy as a dead pig in the sunshine.” A lazy person “won’t hit a lick at a snake” and is probably “a no account, good-for-nothing.” And that lazy person most likely “doesn’t have a pot to pee in” due to his or her lack of ability to hold a job. It may be the person spends too much time imbibing. In that case the person might be found “drunker than Cooter Brown.” I don’t know who Cooter Brown is, but obviously he needs help from AA. He may have gotten so drunk that he couldn’t see clearly and took to procreating with a “gal” who was “uglier than homemade sin.” Hopefully that gal moved on to a better fellow – “a good ol’ boy.” “A good ol’ boy” is entirely different from a “redneck,” who is completely different from “trash.” The distinctions are hard to explain, but quite apparent if you spend enough time around folks from these three classes.

            Before leaving the “People” category, I feel I should address the issue of proper Southern names. Southerners love family names; that is to say, that to name your child after a long dead relative is a sign you know the value of a family legacy. Last names often show up in successive generations as first names. And no Southern child has less than two names, preferably three, and is possibly known casually by a nickname that has been handed down in the family as well. If the child is a boy, then the designations “Jr.,” “II,” “III,” “IV,” etc. are highly prized. Here’s an example: Rutledge Tutwiler Lee McAlister, III, commonly known as “Rut.” And when you meet someone, you always want to find out as soon as possible who that person’s family is. Perhaps you are distantly related, and then you’ll have found a long-lost cousin to invite to the next family reunion. Yes, we Southerners love genealogy! If all this seems silly to you, then all I can say is “bless your heart!” May I also explain that this phrase is said with a smile, but the meaning is anything but magnanimous.

If you’re still interested in learning more Southern expressions, then “let’s kiss and make-up” and move on to the next category of Southern expressions: those involving Food. Yes, food is very important in the South. Many family squabbles have been forgotten while eating a “mess” of greens (be they collards, turnip, mustard, or kale) and sopping a “pone” of cornbread in the “pot liquor.” No, this isn’t whiskey served in a pot; it is the juice produced by cooking the greens in water with ham and some sugar to cut the bitter taste. Learning to put sugar in your greens is just one of the many kitchen tips handed down in families, along with coveted family recipes, such as ones for moist cornbread dressing. And by “dressing,” I don’t mean something you put on your salad, but a side dish for your turkey. This dish is made not with white bread but with cornbread (which is never sweet), and the finish product is never stuffed inside a bird. The cornbread dressing snuggles up nicely on your plate next to sweet potato (not yam) casserole with the little marshmallows on top. To round out your meal, have some macaroni & cheese, Southern-style, a food-for-the-gods dish that is baked after stirring raw eggs into the mixture of noodles, milk, and cheese. Green beans would also be a nice addition to the meal. In the South, they are never sautéed or served “crisp tender.” Instead, they are boiled for at least an hour, with ham cut up in them, until they surrender completely and turn limp, sporting a slightly grayish-green color. Boy, do they taste good! But if that isn’t to your liking, then maybe have some fried okra – cut in pieces, stems trimmed, tossed in cornmeal and flour, salt & pepper, and fried in a little bit of oil. Have some sweet tea with lemon to wash it all down and either Banana Puddin’ or Lemon Ice Box Pie to finish up before you flop on the sofa for a nap. My, my, I do have a “hankerin’” for some Southern cookin’ about now!

 But first, let me tell you about the last category of Southern expressions: Activities. Here’s one: I’m “fixin’ to” “fix” chicken and dumplings for supper. No they don’t need repair; I’m just getting ready to make them. The fix you’re thinking about is the kind done to your car. If your car just needs gas, then take it to the “fillin’ station,” not the gas station. The “g” word is best not used in polite company. After filling up your car, you can head over to the grocery store. You should go there “directly” (that means quickly), because they are having triple coupons today. I hope you get a good “buggy” (shopping cart), not one with a wobbly wheel. A word of advice: Keep your pocketbook (not purse) on your arm rather than putting it in the buggy; you never know what germs may be on the thing! When you take your groceries to the car, I hope it’s not raining, but if it’s summer in the South, then it’s most likely “hot as blue blazes” (not to be confused with navy blazers). Don’t ask me what “blue blazes” are; I haven’t a clue, and I’m too “tuckered out” to Google it. Instead, why don’t you “pull up a chair and sit awhile.” I’ll have baby Anna Belle with me. Her little face has gotten so plump that Grandma can’t help saying, “Gimme some sugar” (kisses), every time she sees her. Maybe Cousin Judson will stop by, and we can “talk some sense into him,” after we greet him with a proper “hey,” first. Ever since he retired, all he does is “piddle around” in his garage, and Cousin Opal Ann is “fit to be tied” about it. She was so “riled up” the last time I saw her!

After our visit, I do need to get to the Washateria (not laundrymat), because my washing machine is broken, and Sears can’t come out ’til next week.  Johnny Lee said he was going to fix it last night, but he was making such a racket that I went in there and said, “What in tarnation is going on in here!” (I don’t exactly know what ‘tarnation’ means, but suffice it to say, it’s nothing good.) Johnny Lee was “torn up” that I didn’t trust him to fix it, but I think the work is best left to a professional. While Johnny Lee cleaned up his mess, I stepped outside to look at the “lightin’ bugs” (fireflies), and I caught a glimpse of that “varmint” possum going back under the porch after eating all the cat food. Then Johnny Lee started calling to me to cut him a piece of pie to eat while he watched the Braves game. I said, “I’ll be there by and by” (in a short while), but instead I just went on to bed.  My head was pounding from too much stress, not to mention the fact that Johnny Lee doesn’t need to eat any more pie! Anyway, this morning, I felt “fit as a fiddle.”

However, I must admit that now all this explaining has left me “plum tuckered out.” So before I conclude, let me give you a final test of how you put these expressions all together:

Jackson was torn up over Gracie Pearl leavin’ him for that no-account, good-for-nothin’ nephew of Judson’s who’s always drunk as Cooter Brown and never has hit a lick at a snake, so Mama fixed a mess of collards and a pone of cornbread to go with that Honey-Baked ham Savannah gave her to make up for mangling that iced tea spoon from Grandma’s Francis I silverware in the garbage disposal. Anyway, Mama invited Jackson over for Sunday dinner. We talked some sense into him, and now he realizes that he’s better off without Gracie Pearl. That gal never did have any raisin’, and that fella she’s run off with doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground, so they never will have a pot to pee in. Jackson says now that he thinks about it, he realizes she was as ugly as homemade sin, so now he’s feelin’ happy as a dead pig in the sunshine to be rid of her.

Do you follow what I’m sayin’?

Well, if you don’t, then bless your heart!

May your tea be sweet and your cotton high,

Leigh Ann Thornton