Think I Can Fly

A Blank Slate

(prompt: 'allow' 30/8/2019)

"Writing on slate," Grandpa said. His voice was slow and easy. "Haven't thought of that for years and years. Let's see now . . . " Grandpa scratched his chin thoughtfully. "It must have been in about 1947, I think. Back in Denmark."

Jesse smiled broadly. Grandpa was going to tell him another of his great when I was a boy stories. Jesse wriggled and fidgeted and couldn't stay sitting in his chair any longer. He came over to Grandpa's chair and nestled into him.

"Way back when I was just a tiddler – even younger than you are now - we were saving paper in Denmark, without even knowing it!" Grandpa raised his eyebrows and chuckled. "Nothing to do with your famous conservation today. Didn't even know the word. Too busy with the Depression and War and 'conserving' ourselves."

Despite his eagerness, Jesse stayed quiet. There'd be no rushing Grandpa through his special memory moments. Not when his eyes went all dreamy and sad, like this. But then he did a small shake of himself and continued.

"There was NO paper for the students during World War 2 in Denmark, nor for a few years afterwards. There was some for the teachers - to keep their records, I guess."

"So...? This was when you wrote on slate, Grandpa?" Jesse couldn't imagine this.

"That's right Jesse. A slate board, actually."

""A slate board?"

Grandpa smiled down fondly on Jesse's golden hair, his serious little cherub face.

"Some people have slate on floors Jesse, but our 'slate boards' were in a timber frame, just like a picture, and we had to write our words on one side and our 'sums' – or 'maths', as you call them - on the other side."

Jesse screwed up his eyes... and his mouth too, trying to picture this. "Was it chalk you wrote with, Grandpa?"

"No. It was a slate pencil. That's what they called it. A different kind of pencil than you use. Softer. Must have been white to show up on the slate, I s'pose. We had to draw up all the lines ourselves with a ruler – to do neat writing on one side. Then, on the 'sums' side it had to be ruled up into equal squares. I reckon there were six of those squares, if I remember rightly."

Grandpa paused, his eyes twinkling even brighter, and then in a laughing voice, he said, "...and we had to bring our slates home at night to do our homework. If my Mum didn't think it was neat and careful enough, she would rub it all out – and I'd have to start again from the beginning! Ruling up all the lines and everything! She wouldn't allow any messiness or mistakes at all."

"Oh-h-h Grandpa . . . oh-h-h! That's awful." Jesse was almost speechless. Almost! "How could you bear it? Weren't you cross?"

"Oh yes, young Jesse. But it's too late when your work's all rubbed out. My word, imagine the strife with the teacher as well, with no homework to hand up." Grandpa smiled his slow, patient smile. "Of course, we really didn't know any different. That makes anything easier to bear...you know?"