Essays can be fun or serious.
My essays lean toward reminiscences and the humorous side of life--from a story about our three dogs to the difference between Fords and Chevys and what it's like in Tomato Heaven. On the serious side, one of my favorite essays is So Few Words, So Much Sacrifice. It's about our countless veterans and their service to our country, including the astonishing story of a man who lied about his age to enlist as World War II was getting underway and rose (at least in my mind) to become a true National Treasure. -bf
My essays lean toward reminiscences and the humorous side of life--from a story about our three dogs to the difference between Fords and Chevys and what it's like in Tomato Heaven. On the serious side, one of my favorite essays is So Few Words, So Much Sacrifice. It's about our countless veterans and their service to our country, including the astonishing story of a man who lied about his age to enlist as World War II was getting underway and rose (at least in my mind) to become a true National Treasure. -bf
Brian Faulkner is an occasional essayist contributor to local magazines.
Essay 1: The Sad State of Cursive.
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Not long ago, my nine-year-old grandson stood by amazed while I wrote a note in cursive. The smooth swoops of the curvy connected lines that somehow spelled out words and sentences seemed mysterious. I wonder how long cursive will survive after we ancient creatures of this habit are gone? Come along on this brief journey back to a time when cursive was considered cool. At least by me. - bf
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I was nearly shocked recently to learn that elementary schools no longer teach “cursive”, the style of penmanship that connects letter after letter as sentences flow and paragraphs build across one’s paper, linking thoughts and dreams and telling stories in elegant lines of prose.
I choose the word “elegant” guardedly, of course, because even as I take pencil to paper to begin this essay while waiting for a doctor’s appointment, my handwriting isn’t all that great – a little sloppy if the truth be told because of my poor posture and use of a wavy waiting room magazine for a desk. I can’t imagine slowing the writing process down any further by writing in “print” letters, which my mother did for most of her life and many children still do today.
All this reminds me of my fifth-grade teacher, an older woman surely close to retirement at the time, who changed my life in a small but enduring way. Miss Battige was a gentle soul who never spoke an unkind word – at least to us. Rather than scold her charges, she inspired by example, filling the chalkboard with beautiful dancing script. And cursive was, indeed, like a dance compared to placing chunky block letter after block letter on the paper. She was my favorite teacher in all of elementary school except possibly for the young fourth-grade teacher I had an impossible crush on, and any hint of disapproval from Miss Battige would have been devastating.
I looked forward to each day in her classroom ...
The Sad State of Cursive copyright 2023 by Brian E. Faulkner
All rights reserved
I choose the word “elegant” guardedly, of course, because even as I take pencil to paper to begin this essay while waiting for a doctor’s appointment, my handwriting isn’t all that great – a little sloppy if the truth be told because of my poor posture and use of a wavy waiting room magazine for a desk. I can’t imagine slowing the writing process down any further by writing in “print” letters, which my mother did for most of her life and many children still do today.
All this reminds me of my fifth-grade teacher, an older woman surely close to retirement at the time, who changed my life in a small but enduring way. Miss Battige was a gentle soul who never spoke an unkind word – at least to us. Rather than scold her charges, she inspired by example, filling the chalkboard with beautiful dancing script. And cursive was, indeed, like a dance compared to placing chunky block letter after block letter on the paper. She was my favorite teacher in all of elementary school except possibly for the young fourth-grade teacher I had an impossible crush on, and any hint of disapproval from Miss Battige would have been devastating.
I looked forward to each day in her classroom ...
The Sad State of Cursive copyright 2023 by Brian E. Faulkner
All rights reserved
READ THE COMPLETE STORY BY CLICKING BELOW.
| the_sad_state_of_cursive.docx |
READ SUMMARIES OF ADDITIONAL ESSAYS BY CLICKING BELOW.
| brian_faulkner_essay_samples.docx |
Essay 2: So Few Words, So Much Sacrifice
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Some of the most anticipated events in our small New England town during the 1950s were patriotic observances that began on Memorial Day and stretched through the Fourth of July, especially the annual veterans' parade. We kids would string red, white and blue crepe paper strips through our bicycle spokes and attach playing card “motors” to them, held in place with clothes pins borrowed from Mom’s laundry bag. That way everybody could not only see us but hear us as we rode along beside the participants.
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First stop was a cemetery beside the old Meeting House. That’s where things got exciting and serious, both at the same time. The moment of silence commanded our attention, but the 21-gun salute shocked our ears. No more had the hot shell casings spun to earth than we were on them like chickens on fresh corn, to the chagrin of a gaggle of oldsters standing off to the side clucking their tongues about how thoughtless we were ...
So Few Words, So Much Sacrifice Copyright 2018 by Brian E. Faulkner
All rights reserved.
So Few Words, So Much Sacrifice Copyright 2018 by Brian E. Faulkner
All rights reserved.
READ THE COMPLETE ESSAY BY CLICKING BELOW.
| so_few_words.docx |
READ SAMPLES OF ADDITIONAL ESSAYS BY CLICKING BELOW.
| brian_faulkner_essay_samples.docx |
Essay 3: Wag More, Bark Less
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My next-door neighbor has a dog down the street. It’s not his dog, but the pup hasn’t figured that out. So, every time my friend approaches the house where the little guy lives, the thing starts to shimmy and shake and whimper until Gordon gets there and scratches the dog’s neck. It’s quite the sight, really, which makes me think that maybe Charles Schulz was right about happiness being a warm puppy. |
“Why not get yourself a dog like that?” I quizzed my neighbor. “No need,” he says. “Fritz and I are happy with things the way they are.” I recall the same sort of situation from years back when a neighborhood dog called Wiggins adopted our family. He just showed up on our front porch one evening, came inside and reserved himself a spot on the couch. Day after day he arrived, and day after day we’d pop him in the car and drive him a couple of blocks home after his nap. He was back the next day, happiness shining.
This isn’t just an essay about dogs, although it does seem to be drifting that way --
This isn’t just an essay about dogs, although it does seem to be drifting that way --
READ THE COMPLETE STORY BY CLICKING BELOW.
| happiness_is_a_dog_named_fritz.docx |
READ SAMPLES OF ADDITIONAL ESSAYS BY CLICKING BELOW.
| brian_faulkner_essay_samples.docx |