Today's little ones chuckle when great-grandpa relates the story of being an eraser monitor, a task that took a student outside the classroom to the playground to bang erasers against each other, removing the chalk dust from the pads. Short students could never aspire to being the blackboard cleaner because they couldn't reach the top of the blackboard.

Just being in the fourth grade was a status symbol. Imagine! An inkwell sat in the right top corner of my desk.

"It is time to grow up," the teacher would caution.

Kids in the lower grades were still required to use No. 2 lead pencils when writing. Ballpoint pens were not in existence in the '30s. A grown-up used a fountain pen, an instrument with a rubber bladder inside. A writer would dip the tip of the fountain pen in the ink bottle and, by pulling out a small vertical metal tab on the body of the instrument, compress the bladder inside. Releasing the clip would draw in fluid to fill the bladder. I remember the hush in the classroom the day we were issued steel nibs for writing. The event was coordinated with the standard speech that we were no longer babies.

"From now on," the teacher would drone on, "it is time to show you are responsible."

Once issued a steel nib, a student carefully inserted one side of the nib into the cork end of the pen. There was a zero level of tolerance for those who bent or disfigured the nib. This meant countless hours of practice relegated to using a No. 2 lead pencil again. Other classmates might turn at their desks and giggle while watching this recalcitrant student struggle to be out from under the spotlight of embarrassment.

The keen eye of the teacher watched every stroke of the writing instrument to ensure the hand position of the pencil was correct. There would be no ink assignments until the unfortunate student had completed an inordinate amount of time creating endless pages of push-pulls and ovals on every inch of lined paper issued. At times, I saw frustration on the face of the teacher as she would forcefully attempt to uncurl a child's fist. Then, holding his smaller hand inside her own, she would bend it into position to allow him to demonstrate the flow of writing. Once the teacher was convinced the student had mastered the correct hand posture of holding a writing instrument, his ink privileges were restored. Most of the scribblers grew up to be doctors.

"Inkwell monitor" was a status symbol. These privileged "B" or better students traveled through the aisles of the classroom once a week, filling desk inkwells. The desk inkwells served more than one purpose. When the metal cover was lifted and the girl in the seat in front of you was the teacher's pet, she learned to keep her pigtails short; otherwise she might discover her long braid had a purple end.

Anyone who has suffered through the rudimentary rigors of education found out later in life that an educator's tenacity, his or her sheer determination not to give up on you, has earned the undying gratitude of the silent generation.

Calling solution

Doesn't it gall one to hang on a phone for long periods of time to have a question answered or speak to a medical representative?

Suggestion: Consider a program from the health provider that allows members to punch in their medical member numbers and phone numbers. Then, when a screener is available, the representative can dial back the members in the same queue they were in. This would permit those logged in to be able to do other chores while waiting.

— Star columnist David Nankivell may be reached by e-mail at calendar@VenturaCountyStar.com.