A Worthwhile Project

I judged it a matter of practical wisdom to preserve my own handwriting as a TrueType font, that it might one day be left unto my children as a small remembrance of their father. It is nowhere near impressive as my father's, it simply says I was here. In this I have often reflected with regret that I paid so little attention to my own father's beautiful handwriting whilst it was still before me. Even as a child I delighted to look upon it. There was a peculiar grace in its long sweeping strokes, its flowing tails, its broken spaces, and its stately capital letters. I once asked him why he did not write as other men did. With a smile he answered, "I write as though I were conducting an orchestra."

He was a musician. I understand his meaning now.

In every stroke there was a measured movement, every line yielding to the next with something of rhythm and harmony, as though the pen itself obeyed an unseen cadence. I remember how it would flow, then suddenly pause, giving way to short, deliberate spaces like the staccato of a musical score, before sweeping again into a graceful crescendo. At times it seemed to ascend with quiet confidence; at others, to descend with equal elegance. I cannot fully express how it yet appears within my memory. It was not merely handwriting, but movement set to ink. Yet I possess none of his letters today. Nothing remains by which I may study again the hand I once admired so carelessly. The only time he sought to explain these things to me, I was only a boy. I shrugged my shoulders, thought little of it, and ran outside to play.

I thought not to make the same mistake for my children.