My mother, in her incredible foresight, collected everything I ever brought home from school. Even stuff I don’t remember. My report cards from K-4, soldiers from the same army, tucked neatly in their manila envelopes, represent the longest continuous attendance of any one school in my life. There is a series of typed sheets from 1977, when a brilliant 1st grade teacher transcribed our thoughts and recorded them for our parents to keep. Then there is a pile of construction paper covered in crayon, or my favorite, a tabloid sized sheet with lines at the bottom and acres of drawing space above.
There is a refreshing looseness to all the drawings, and also a distinct need to tell a story as the years go by. Somewhere in the third or fourth grade a stylized character appeared, and it’s funny to see how I tried to reconcile the different sizes, expressions, and even angles to make it work. The writing is secondary, existing only so that I could draw pictures of the Blob, car chases a la Dukes of Hazzard, or planes from World War 2.
I have results from the PSAT’s, SAT’s, a pile of California Aptitude Battery Tests taken through my travels in the New Jersey school system, and even an ASVAB sheet (looks like I would either have been officer material or a clerk/typist) which led to an embarassing amount of calls from bored Armed Forces recruiters who were mortified when I told them I wanted to go to art school.
I also found an entire binder of fiction writing, done from about the 9th grade to the end of High School, scratched out in my illegible script on three-ring looseleaf. Reading that made my head hurt, but it also remains as a record of what i was thinking about and what I wanted to be.
There is a good chance that I am doing something wrong, but I wasn’t able to get Appletalk over IP working this morning. And I even have the same router this guy does. There must be something I’m missing.