Scribble

 A while ago, I noticed Jim was either writing in mid air or holding an imaginary pencil and writing on the blanket... After he straightened and flattened it to suit. After all, he is a writer. He carries tiny notebooks in his pants pocket to keep running notes, notes to self, reminders, and thoughts to pursue later. It's what he has done forever. He writes. So, I pulled out my flip notepad and a pen and handed it to him. Back then, it was especially tiny writing...compacted upward and downward swings. A bumpy line at best. But, he was really good at writing numbers. No shock there. He thinks in numbers. They make sense to him. The numbers were easily identifiable and larger. They were also equations of a sort. Minus signs, equal signs, pluses.

Then numbers with dollar signs in later writings. We were visiting with very close friends and discussing hockey and baseball scores. Some of those numbers in the conversation showed up on the paper he had in front of him. He heard it. He wrote it.

Then more script. A beautiful handwriting is not a talent Jim has... his hand rather acts like a compass, covering all four hemispheres in north, south, east and west directions. Sometimes all within one word. So translating early Jim script is tricky.

More numbers. More equations.

Today he started writing while sitting at the table in the lobby area. So the big artist tablet came out. He chose a pen over a colored marker. 

J...i...m...W...W...W...Will...(noise interruption)

No prompting. No, what is your name question. Just him, a tablet and a pen. So when I see his writing, I say something like oh, you're writing your name are you? Yes. What is your name? He wrote it. Then spoke it out loud looking at me. James. (Middle name). Williams.

You are indeed. And, I am so very proud of you.