More on Learning to Write
When each unit of work was complete I felt great satisfaction watching the teacher, my mother, address a returning envelope:
Elementary Correspondence School, Parliament Buildings, Victoria, B.C.
Mom eventually taught me to write the address, but first she taught me to print. She showed me how to hold the fat, red pencil she had whittled to a point, using her whetstone-honed paring knife. The thick, soft lead required frequent sharpening as I practiced the steps, according to her instruction. The blank paper I used was a pale oatmeal colour with a characteristic pulpy texture. My practice, combined with her persistence, proved fruitful: I slowly learned to correctly shape the letters of the alphabet. Then, when I could form the letters more or less consistently, she promoted me to working on paper with lines.
Although stiff and rough, this new paper had alternate solid and dotted lines. It allowed a pupil to more accurately establish the correct height for each letter. Capital letters were printed two spaces high, but the smaller letters, the ones without a ‘leg’ going either up or down, required only one space. Teachers began using terms such as ‘upper case’ and ‘lower case’ long after I had learned to write.
For practice, Mom assigned printing of a whole row of one capital letter, and then a whole row of that same letter in the non-capitalized form. If some of my shapes were a bit ragged, I could try another row, following a tried and true adage, “Practice makes perfect.” I’m not as sure about that as I may have been then. Allowing one day for learning each letter of the alphabet, meant my perfecting the printing of all 26 characters took weeks of dedicated effort.
When I had mastered the shaping and heights of each letter, my next writing lesson consisted of printing within the lines on standard lined paper, without the dots. We called this smoother paper ‘foolscap’, and the resulting letters were considerably smaller.
I had barely perfected the forming of printed words when my mother insisted that I begin ‘writing.’ Since that early time I have never really stopped doing it. During my school day the practice of writing sometimes had a greater purpose than simply perfecting the forming of the letters and words. Although our contact with other people was rare, and always cause for celebration of some sort, Mom was also teaching me the importance of etiquette, and that included creating my own “thank you” notes. After each Christmas and birthday, the requisite personal letters of thanks were sent.
So began a lifelong practice of writing letters. To this day, the habit continues. I still enjoy writing and sending a hand written and addressed, stamped letter, or card. With determination I attempt to make time to do it, because I know that in our busy email and text-message entrusted lives, the infrequent arrival of a “real letter” will add a bright spot to the recipient’s day.
By third grade I was considered to be ready to write script, and the esteemed Mr. MacLean entered my life. His penmanship methods were taught to all pupils in British Columbia from the 1920s to 1960s. I suppose the goal was for all schoolchildren to emerge from Grade 8 with uniformly legible handwriting. It would have been a miracle had it happened so easily. I am apparently one of the system’s failures.
Marching across the top of every blackboard in BC schools was Mr. MacLean’s version of both the large and small letters. I first observed this when I began school at Rock Bay. The Elementary Correspondence School had established a strict MacLean system for answers to the lessons. As pupils, and for every subject, we were required to write out our answers, in full sentence form, once for practice, and then rewritten in our best handwriting. The latter was submitted by mail for correction - and handwriting counted! As an early-developing writer, my handwriting met the expected standard. It no longer does.
My mother also taught me most of what I know of grammar and spelling. My spelling is still not consistently accurate. Even during high school when a teacher attempted instruction on the parts of speech, and offered examples of the rules for their use, my thoughts returned to the little rhymes and songs Mom had learned when she was a child at school. There was a light-hearted common sense about them, as long as you could remember the rhyming words, and it seemed so much less complicated than the explanations in the grammar textbook.
Among the songs she taught me was one about “a, e, i, o, u.” There were spelling rhymes too. “I before e, except after c,” has served me well when writing cheques to The Receiver General of Canada. I’ve since learned that Spell-check is dependable only if I am able to program the computer to acknowledge the appropriate version of the English language. Additionally the program does not correct for word usage. So, like many writers, I’m still learning to spell.
My apprenticeship in writing has taken me from learning my letters in Mom’s stuffy floathouse kitchen, to creating essays in high school, producing university term reports, formulating policy books, revising and initiating the writing of high school textbooks, compiling family history, and now writing memoir. Seventy years later I’m still learning to write. This creative practice called writing is truly the ultimate challenge.
Elementary Correspondence School, Parliament Buildings, Victoria, B.C.
Mom eventually taught me to write the address, but first she taught me to print. She showed me how to hold the fat, red pencil she had whittled to a point, using her whetstone-honed paring knife. The thick, soft lead required frequent sharpening as I practiced the steps, according to her instruction. The blank paper I used was a pale oatmeal colour with a characteristic pulpy texture. My practice, combined with her persistence, proved fruitful: I slowly learned to correctly shape the letters of the alphabet. Then, when I could form the letters more or less consistently, she promoted me to working on paper with lines.
Although stiff and rough, this new paper had alternate solid and dotted lines. It allowed a pupil to more accurately establish the correct height for each letter. Capital letters were printed two spaces high, but the smaller letters, the ones without a ‘leg’ going either up or down, required only one space. Teachers began using terms such as ‘upper case’ and ‘lower case’ long after I had learned to write.
For practice, Mom assigned printing of a whole row of one capital letter, and then a whole row of that same letter in the non-capitalized form. If some of my shapes were a bit ragged, I could try another row, following a tried and true adage, “Practice makes perfect.” I’m not as sure about that as I may have been then. Allowing one day for learning each letter of the alphabet, meant my perfecting the printing of all 26 characters took weeks of dedicated effort.
When I had mastered the shaping and heights of each letter, my next writing lesson consisted of printing within the lines on standard lined paper, without the dots. We called this smoother paper ‘foolscap’, and the resulting letters were considerably smaller.
I had barely perfected the forming of printed words when my mother insisted that I begin ‘writing.’ Since that early time I have never really stopped doing it. During my school day the practice of writing sometimes had a greater purpose than simply perfecting the forming of the letters and words. Although our contact with other people was rare, and always cause for celebration of some sort, Mom was also teaching me the importance of etiquette, and that included creating my own “thank you” notes. After each Christmas and birthday, the requisite personal letters of thanks were sent.
So began a lifelong practice of writing letters. To this day, the habit continues. I still enjoy writing and sending a hand written and addressed, stamped letter, or card. With determination I attempt to make time to do it, because I know that in our busy email and text-message entrusted lives, the infrequent arrival of a “real letter” will add a bright spot to the recipient’s day.
By third grade I was considered to be ready to write script, and the esteemed Mr. MacLean entered my life. His penmanship methods were taught to all pupils in British Columbia from the 1920s to 1960s. I suppose the goal was for all schoolchildren to emerge from Grade 8 with uniformly legible handwriting. It would have been a miracle had it happened so easily. I am apparently one of the system’s failures.
Marching across the top of every blackboard in BC schools was Mr. MacLean’s version of both the large and small letters. I first observed this when I began school at Rock Bay. The Elementary Correspondence School had established a strict MacLean system for answers to the lessons. As pupils, and for every subject, we were required to write out our answers, in full sentence form, once for practice, and then rewritten in our best handwriting. The latter was submitted by mail for correction - and handwriting counted! As an early-developing writer, my handwriting met the expected standard. It no longer does.
My mother also taught me most of what I know of grammar and spelling. My spelling is still not consistently accurate. Even during high school when a teacher attempted instruction on the parts of speech, and offered examples of the rules for their use, my thoughts returned to the little rhymes and songs Mom had learned when she was a child at school. There was a light-hearted common sense about them, as long as you could remember the rhyming words, and it seemed so much less complicated than the explanations in the grammar textbook.
Among the songs she taught me was one about “a, e, i, o, u.” There were spelling rhymes too. “I before e, except after c,” has served me well when writing cheques to The Receiver General of Canada. I’ve since learned that Spell-check is dependable only if I am able to program the computer to acknowledge the appropriate version of the English language. Additionally the program does not correct for word usage. So, like many writers, I’m still learning to spell.
My apprenticeship in writing has taken me from learning my letters in Mom’s stuffy floathouse kitchen, to creating essays in high school, producing university term reports, formulating policy books, revising and initiating the writing of high school textbooks, compiling family history, and now writing memoir. Seventy years later I’m still learning to write. This creative practice called writing is truly the ultimate challenge.
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