I love the idea of the Hand Written community on Hive. There's something deeply personal about seeing someone's written script, especially in a world where everything is typed on screens. It's quite lovely, to see someone's handwritten poetry, shopping lists, love letters, life sketches.

I didn't think I could write a whole post by hand though, as per community specifications.

Then I realised how little I write, and how merely typing up a shopping list scrawled on the kitchen chalkboard was probably not enough.

Then I thought @holoz0r wouldn't mind if I bent the rules a little. Maybe I could just talk a little about hand written posts of another kind? Surely this was the spirit of things anyway - handwritten things?

So off I went to the archives, looking for handwriting in my Google photos.

Here's a few hand written memories.

Firstly, of my little boy, not so little now, and with a boy of his own, whose hand writing we are yet to see. On his fists, scrawled Hate and Love, at some festival we went to - he's wearing a wig and a bandana, though you can't see that here. My friend Clare wrote the letters.

A memory too of a note to the tooth fairy. His handwriting was awful back then, though he'd end up an excellent writer, particularly of music equipment and new albums in an online music magazine. Here, his note pleads to the tooth fairy - he had swallowed the tooth when it broke off eating candy from a candy bracelet. I want to go hug that little boy again. He must have been so worried.

His handwriting was so awful because he moved from kinder straight into Year 2 in the UK, because of his age. In Australia kids don't start school til a little later, so most kids were ahead of him learning to handwrite. I remember he had to practice at home for homework. He was so bloody smart, but that was so painful, poor little hands, poor little vegemite.

And then further back in time, to me writing ghost stories in primary school. I have always loved to write - it wasn't til Hive that I really started writing stories again in earnest. I like to think I've improved somewhat since Grade 3, and my handwriting is completely different. Thanks, Chat GPT, for scribing it for me.

^{Drawn from the stair, there was something unusual about 11 Backwood Alley, from the moment I stepped inside the summer holidays. The bathroom could be seen from the hallway, which was a disconnected room. Mum would often say it was a corner house. Then I walked into the hall and tight, tense suspense hit me, slamming the door shut. I forced it open for Mum and Dad.
My room was in the attic above the lounge. This also overlooked the sea. The room was decorated blood red and I loved it. The very first night (as always, Mum and Dad had me out to sand and dinner) I stayed behind, made myself a snack and crawled into bed. Every sleep I had, I began to read. I read for hours. Suddenly the night, the lightning and thunder again terrorized the skies. I turned off the light and something storm-powered out onto the rough stormy seas.
The large ship sailed into the white light. My attention was looking out there. What caught my attention was the sails. The ship was way out of control, was a sailing ship.
It rocked from side to side & finally, a bolt of lightning struck the deck, sending flames leaping everywhere. Shocked, I watched the ship sink ten minutes later. A ghostly white figure staggered ashore (quite certain I was dreaming) & broke into my home, my door cracked (or burst?) open like half an hour later, the dark figure was there, and I saw a bleeding, burnt figure sobbing with a small sad sob.}

Then there are notes from Jamie, of which there have been many - birthday cards, post it notes, scraps of paper. All words of love. We still love going on adventures together. I bet you can't guess what 'hbbb' means. Not in a million years.

Then there's the board notes - I can't believe they are still in there. When OneNote started as a tool to organise school work, I used to take a photo of the board and put it in their folders so they had no excuse if they hadn't been in class, or if I wanted them to concentrate on the discussion, I'd make them shut their laptops on the promise they'd get the board notes later. I was lucky to teach at a school where I stayed in the same classroom all the time.

You can see how my handwriting has changed since my ghost story, can't you?

But perhaps after all this, there's not much better than a shopping list to tell something a little personal about my life.

What handwritten things are in your archives? What stories do they tell, or what memories are evoked?

With Love,

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