Lynn's Comments: Among other things, my mom worked as a calligrapher for my grandfather - a philatelist who dealt in rare stamps and forgeries. Her tools consisted of the finest brushes and pens with needle sharp points. I was fascinated, watching her do the beautiful handwritten text that went with each "cover". There were times, if I was good, when she would patiently sit and teach me the art of fine lettering. Everyone in our family was encouraged to write well. Handwriting, my parents said, was something which not only allowed you to communicate in a beautiful, intelligent way, but held in its uniqueness a key to your identity. I loved to write. I enjoyed the process of putting words onto paper and when I was told to write lines after school, I didn't mind, really. It gave me a chance to show off! If I was told to write: "I will not talk in class" 100 times, I'd go down the foolscap with the "I" first. IIIIIIIIIIIII wwwwwwww iiiiiiiii lllllll and so on. Sometimes, I'd swerve the vertical lines of lettering out to make waves and patterns in an effort to seriously tick off the teacher who was also doing penance, just by having to be there. Sometimes I'd print it all in capitals or write each line in a different colour. I just loved to write. I loved to write lessons and poems and copy the stuff on the board. I loved it when we could finally use ball-point pens. I continued to learn calligraphy and when Dad got a part time job with a sign company, I practiced lettering along with him, using poster paint with chisel-tipped brushes on newspaper, the columns making easy lines to follow. Where am I taking this? Well, it's funny, that with all my graphic equipment and all my hours of writing practice, I was still being nagged - a month after Christmas - to write my thank you letters!!!