I can be the master of procrastination. My mother’s house was never so clean as when I had a paper due for school. There is no point in cleaning this house while it is under construction so I am going to write a blog post instead of my article for Tidelines. Give me a deadline for an essay (Tidelines deadline is today) and I will find any reason at all to delay its completion to the last moment.
My mother began university at 40 when my Dad took off. To help pay the bills she would mark essays for her English profs. Before laptops and proof spell she would give an automatic ten percent advantage to students who typed their essays instead of hand written. As such, I was
forced encouraged to type anything and everything I ever submitted in school. I would sit in my bedroom at my Moms manual black Underwood typewriter, balls of rejected drafts surrounded me on the floor.
I would give the pages of canary yellow paper to my Mom to proof before I carefully typed the final draft on the expensive white paper. I was suspicious of how happy Mom seemed to be when she covered my drafts in circles of red ink. Was she disappointed when she couldn’t find anything?
In grade twelve my imbecile of an English teacher failed my essay on women in literature “Chivalry is dead” because I had used resources unavailable to other students. (My Mother’s extensive women’s studies library). Mom, who had never been to a PTA meeting, concert or field trip in all of my years of school, took time off work to march into the principals office and demand an apology.
The first storm of winter continues. We are into our fourth day. High winds and crazy rain has us reluctant to venture outside for much longer than the time required to bring down a load of wood. The dog is miserable.
Anne has offered to read my article and see that it makes sense. Maybe I should bring her a red
pen like Moms