The report is in.
My high school guidance counselor Mrs. Slauson sent me my report from freshman year her father, Marty Crowe, tucked away 40 years ago.
I can't read the first few words, Mrs. Slauson laughed about her father's handwriting, but he appears to write the paper would be a top-notch college paper.
Four decades later, that made me a little weepy.
The paper, of course, stinks to hi heaven. It's lightweight and immature -- so it's much like what I write today.
I found it hard to read the damn thing, not because of the aged paper but because I disliked it so.
But here's the thing that buoyed me -- it's 40 years later and I'm still writing.
In grade school, high school and college, I was discouraged from seeking life as a writer. My fourth-grade teacher said "Mr. Jackson, no one will pay to read what you write."
Here I am still pecking away at a keyboard, trying to improve with the idea the more you practice your craft, the better you will get.
Perhaps, after two score, I write gooder and gooder.
Peace and practice unto all of you my brothers and sisters.