Hand Writing
In English class, seventh grade, I could not keep my attention on Mr. Potratz, reaching high and carefully diagramming sentences on the blackboard with white chalk. He was perhaps not born in America but somewhere in Europe. He wore a formal pinstriped suit, a vest with watch chain, a carefully knotted tie. The suit had been tailored to fit his short, mis-shapen, hump-backed body. We students did not make fun of him openly. It was 1958 and such a thing wasn’t done. But we were not interested in whether a word was an adverb, and where it belonged in a diagram! I sat writing my name over and over in precise penmanship. It was a long name. I loved the capital letters, especially the magnificent “K,” flowing with extra flourishes as it began and ended. My cartridge pen was full of blue ink. I kept writing throughout the class. When I tired of my own name, I started in on someone else’s, careful not to reveal my favorite friends. None of us knew how Mr. Potratz ended up in a small town i...
