Well, this explains a lot. About my writing, I mean.
Last night, Wendy and I cracked open an old trunk containing memorabilia from when I left Owensboro, Kentucky, back in 1988. After my parents passed away, and just before I left Owensboro permanently, I squirreled away tons of stuff in a blue, Kmart-purchased, trunk. So, with snow on the ground, a nice fire from our fireplace, kitties all curious, we had a glass of wine and a glass of good Porter, and opened...the Trunk.
It was a small miracle that I was able to find the key to open the thing, but there it was, accompanied by several other keys in a plastic bag in our kitchen everything drawer.
Among the many treasures discovered was this obvious class lesson from English class back in 1967. From the date, I had just turned 12. And there it was. Evidence as to my love for commas. In the date, I uses backslashes to separate month, day, year. But just to make sure, I threw in a couple of commas.
This was also back when I could write cursive. I've written about this before, how cursive is becoming a long-lost art. And, whereas I wasn't brilliant my any stretch in my penmanship, it was legible. These days, my signature looks like I wrote it in my sleep.
Also, this perhaps goes a long ways to explaining my fascination for word meanings and word play in general. I'm sure my young mind never fully understood how words could be so pliable depending on context, but it must've tripped a couple of synapses that kept puzzling over that for years.
So, here I am today, using forward slashes for dates, no commas, but sprinkling the commas hither and yon liberally. And still wondering why we cover something with a cover, and we show up for the show. Perhaps it's all a cover-up...or all for show...
Keep writing, friends.