Days before my birthday, I always receive a card from Auntie Ida in an envelope addressed in the most exquisite handwriting.
I figured out where my late mother-in-law went to school when I received my first note from her in the mail, written with the green pen she often used. “Wow, superb script,” I said to my partner, Leslie. “Did your mum go to Central Commerce?”
When my own mother slowed down to the point where she could hardly walk, she was still able to wield the pen. She addressed every invitation to my daughter’s bat mitzvah, her hand unbelievably steady, all the flourishes still there.
We can measure progress, I suppose, in the fact that nowadays boys can type up a storm by the time they’re six. But the art of handwriting? It’s dying out with the generation of women who perfected it. [continued…]