If you know me (even casually) then you know that I am pretty much obsessed with the line of . I was working on Apple IIe machines when I was about 8 years old and I was there in 1984 hanging around UNC Student Stores so I could produce my Sixth Grade book reports on the first Macintoshes. I used the Mac labs pretty exclusively while attending and have always felt happier and more productive using a Mac.
But there’s one thing I’ll always hold on to – my writing. From sixth grade book reports to 30-page term papers, newspaper clippings to poems, I love seeing how I’ve evolved as a writer. Often, I cringe and my face gets red with embarrassment. How could I have written such garbage? Where was my premise? Why did I even write about such a topic for my newspaper column? No wonder I only got a ‘B’ on that short story.
Sixth Grade Summer Book Report Form - DOC
You read books, of course: Dodsworth by Sinclair Lewis was one of your sixth grade book reports. It was about divorce, and it had a dark green, sticky library binding with the title, all capitals deeply impressed in gummy white, that ran perpendicular to the length of the spine. The pages were yellowed with age even then, and there were lots of them. You looked good carrying that book. You looked like you could handle just about anything. And though divorce never blossomed in your parents’ lives, all the attendant screaming, slamming, and crying disputes and separations had, and that was close enough. The book had been an anomalous addition to the sixth grade reading list, but your teacher had understood, and her name is gone now—you just can’t believe it—but you did know it for a very long time; she was an older, short, squat woman who was very kind to you for some reason you still do not understand and who scared the hell out of all the other students. Her gray hair was pulled tight against her head; her breasts hung over what served as her waist. You loved her. You knew she would keep you safe. And keep you from having any real fun. And you feel sick, ungrateful, and shamed at having forgotten her name.