We humans spend more time with keyboards than with handwriting implements. Our society has forgone what was once considered a measure of one’s character for what requires little effort. Keyboards can be used by anybody who can hunt and peck at the buttons (those little horizontal raised lines at the bottom of the F and J keys even clue in a user as to where “home row” is for those who have taken typing, itself nearly a dead art). If you could peck, you could produce.
I took semesters of typing in high school on what was then state of the art equipment: the IBM Selectric typewriter, a metal behemoth perfectly designed for the classroom. It was too heavy to move, and the only loose part was the interchangeable type font ball, which was a miracle of evolution. One could type in Arial or Times New Roman with just a click of an inset black lever and a snap to remove one font and install the other. Our hands flew across the keyboard at the speed of sixty words per minute (that was an A with no errors). A few years later, I tested at ninety words per minute. What a joy.
My handwriting was a neglected part of my education, but when I sat myself down one afternoon and devised my own unique penmanship method, I was happy to write anything out by hand, but it’s an art going out of favor with the dying Boomer generation, of which I have the distinction of being on the latter end of its run. Writing checks is disappearing, card shops are struggling, and newspapers may soon be replaced by digital only editions. Back in my work commuting days, you could enjoy watching fellow riders filling out crosswords and puzzles in pencil. Or ink. With a pen. Today’s online games are “play as long as you can until you lose,” though I still enjoy Sudoku, Connections and Wordle online.
People are in such a hurry today that they can’t take a few minutes to actually craft something with their hands and some requisite patience. Before our offices shut down, live interviews were still the norm, and I’ll never forget the first time we encountered an applicant who had never developed a handwritten signature for himself. Imagine that: in the olden days the illiterate would at least mark an “X” on a document, but this person never gave his own name a unique look with a pen.
My maternal great-grandfather, according to my mother’s story, had an elaborate autograph; he would begin his first name, swirl the ink to the end of his last name and back again to fill in the rest. It likely resembled how our founding fathers signed our first national documents. Quill pens are out of style, of course, but those beautiful letters flourished with elaborate dips and trails are an art today’s youth cannot understand or appreciate.
Why do I bring this up?
Today in the mail, among the demands for charitable donations and meaningless junk, I received a small envelope with my name and address handwritten on the front. I had received similar ones for events in which I had no interest, but I opened it to find, to my delight, that it was an actual thank you note.
Now, this friend who sent the note, and I, see each other every week. We have a regular date during which we eat food we shouldn’t and enjoy each other’s company while watching movies or programs and sharing conversation. She took the time to write out a note because I had attended her surprise milestone birthday party a few weeks ago. I brought a gift I knew she would like, and it was a fun afternoon. She could have just thanked me on that day and been done with it, but we’re both late Boomers, so she kept the tradition alive by actually sending a card to thank me.
She not only thanked me for the gift, but for being her friend. In her handwriting that she developed for herself in her growth as a person.
That is what is dying when we don’t do things that require handwriting; not just the act itself, but the human qualities that go with it. Saying please and thank you, and making it tangible. In ink. And it cost a stamp.
Try doing that in Times New Roman.
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