On The Gold Coast: In The Beginning
Here's a welcome to our new columnist, Judith Wallis, who lives on Australia's Gold Coast. In her first entry in Open Scrapbook she brings a reassuring message to all those who are bad spellers.
I have a childhood memory of a new book, a shiny white page and my small fingers smoothing the silky paper, while beneath the desk ten little toes clench themselves in anticipation. The weeks of drawing wobbly alphabet letters on a slate are over. Real writing is about to begin in my very first story book.
At last the teacher comes to my desk. Her hands guide mine and we rule neat lines one, two, three. I clutch the pencil firmly and with head bent, my brow furrowed with concentration, I began to write.
Each perfect letter is painstakingly arranged along the line until my story is complete. The teacher reappears carrying a stamp pad. I am rewarded with two stamps for very good work and my feeling of achievement soars as high as the kites stamped on the first page of my first book.
My schooling progressed. Teacher followed teacher, each different in their acceptance or rejection of my efforts to express creative thought in writing. Most saw the ability to spell as the greatest need and I alas, could not spell.
Bad spelling equaled bad child. I was pulled to the front of the class by an ear and ridiculed before my peers. Made to accept with fortitude the slash of the leather strap, my stinging hand then tucked safe in the warmth of an obliging armpit to ease the pain.
Under this regime English became a subject to be endured and a bright mind languished in fear of reprisal.
In the sixth year of my education a new teacher brought a different approach. I was labeled dyslexic. I did not mind because with the label came help. Spelling was forgotten. Neatness, grammar and originality ruled. The floodgate opened. Slowly I crept out of the sluggards’ group my marks rising from 65% to 95%. Accolades, admiration and prizes were beamingly received.
That year, in the last days before school closed for the Christmas holidays the class was restless, eager to be gone. The teacher, bargaining for a quiet hour, set a composition title. ‘The Tree. Tell me the story of a tree,’ he said.
With Santa’s visit only days away and young hearts filled with longing for the perfect gift beneath the Christmas tree, pens flew across the pages describing forests of pine and fir and the adventures encountered travelling the countryside to collect a Christmas tree, the decorating and the presents. Joy. Joy. Joy.
Not this kid. This kid chose a fine cedar cut and hewn into the beams that formed the wooden cross carried by Jesus on his walk through the crowds to Golgotha. Why? I do not know but it certainly attracted the teacher’s attention.
Where do ideas come from? And are they ever truly original or are they simply memories of experiences either factual or read or heard about? I only know that once in the grip of an idea I have a compelling need to write. Not only to express what I think, but for others to share with me, to be part of my experience.
I hope you will enjoy reading the stories, observations and comments from Open Scrapbook.
