In her own way, Miss McCarthy helped shape my life as a writer. She was one of my first English teachers, a severe, child-hating person – she had her hair up in a tight bun, she had a handkerchief tucked into her blouse sleeve, and when she pulled it out to blow her nose, she honked like a goose. I called her the Witch Of Contractions.There were many grammar drills, but little in the way of good writing in that class.

We did not get along, Miss McCarthy and I, she helped spark a lifelong resentment of authority, and a spotty relationship with education.  She gave me a lot of bad grades and her dislike for me and my young notions of writing were made quite clear to the class. I suppose I gave her some trouble, she burst into tears talking about me to my parents in a parent-teacher conference.

Miss McCarthy wrote her absolute grammatical dictums on a big white board in bold letters with many exclamation points: “Possessive Pronouns!,” and “Subjunctive Particles!!,” and “Contractions!” There were daily quizzes and drills, few of which I passed. That’s when I wrote “Witch Of Contractions” on her blackboard one day during recess, she kept all of us after class, but could not figure out who did it, I guess our penmanship was all equally bad.

One day, during a blinding snowstorm, I hid in the bushes outside of school and ambushed Miss McCarthy with a snowball  thrown from a far-away hedge that landed right on the back of her bun. It was the greatest athletic triumph of my life. I thought she was an ancient crone, but that was a miscalculation, she ran like a gazelle and came right through the hedge and grabbed me by collar and dragged me back to the principal.

I spent the winter writing “I will not throw snowballs at Miss McCarthy” 1,000 times on a chalk blackboard, and Miss McCarthy repeatedly made it a point to tell me how bad a writer I was, I could never get things like the difference between “its” and it’s” right or even grasp why I should. I think her mission was to discourage as many people from writing as possible, and she was good at it, everyone hated her class.

It was not until a librarian at the Rochambeau Branch of the Providence Public Library told me that good writing was not about grammar, but about story-telling and emotion that a bell finally went off in my head and I was reaffirmed in my believe that Miss McCarthy was an evil gnome masquerading as an educator.

I hope the librarian is in in librarian heaven. She will not meet Miss McCarthy there.

So I was somewhat unnerved when I went to my Post Office Box 205 to see a very different kind of letter than the ones I normally get. They are interesting and creative,  filled with stickers, photos, warm and touching observations, good wishes and greetings. This one looked like a grim letter from the bank or the IRS. In a way, it was. It was from a woman named Jean K who lives in Plymouth, Mass. “Dear, Mr. Katz,” she wrote, “I have been reading your blog for a while and one thing that has always stopped me in my tracks is your misuse of it’s.” No wasting time on pleasantries.

When she was working, Jean added, “there was more than one white board in an office with the following written on it by me:

“It’s is the contraction for it is.

Its is the possessive pronoun.”

This, she said, is perhaps not important in the scheme of things, but it’s misuse “is a real jolt, especially from a man who is a former reporter/editor.” That was about it, no hi to Maria, how is Minnie, I love Red, or how much I like the blog, have a good day. All of my other letters have been nice.  I confess to being jolted. She was alive.  Miss McCarthy clearly did not die, and cannot be killed. Her determination to write dictums on boards and demand that they be obeyed lives on.

Well, Jean, you perhaps know by now that this communication isn’t really going to fly with me. That’s the problem with focusing on grammar instead of context, you miss the point sometimes. First of all, I feel enormous gratitude that in my many jobs and travels, I managed to escape your office, it sounds like it is right out of one of those grim Dickens novels about children trapped in the unyielding rules of humorless adults.

Secondly, it is my sad but honest duty to inform you that the days are long gone when people like you (or me) can tell other people what is important or not, or what they must say and do. I don’t know how many reporters and editors you know, but the ones I loved and hung around with barely got through high school, rarely had all of their teeth, drank  liquor quite a bit, did not read the New Yorker. They weren’t much on grammar, but they sure told great stories, and knew one when they saw one. I learned a lot more from them than I did ever did from Miss McCarthy, or, if we are being frank with one another, from your letter.

I made this choice when I started my blog: I would write a lot, or spend much of the time with spell-check going over my grammar. Given the nature of my blog, that is the choice.  We all make choices, mine was right for me. I chose to write freely, spontaneously, and a lot. It has worked out for me, even you are reading my blog, despite it’s jolts. Here’s something to put on your board in your home: “if you don’t like a blog, go read another one. And go in peace, but quickly. Don’t try to tell Jon what to write. It didn’t work for Miss McCarthy, it won’t work for you. (assuming you really aren’t her.)”

Jolts are not healthy, no one should suffer them, unless they are jolts of love and encouragement or from unbearably cute animal photos.

And what is a possessive pronoun anyway? And who cares?  I never got that straight.

In addition to your concern over “its” and “it’s,” you are correct that your message is not important at all in the scheme of things, it is a waste of a neat letter, it stands out from all of the friendly and touching ones I usually get. It reminds me that good writing is not about contractions. I hope you will come and visit one of our Open Houses, you need to lighten up, kiss a donkey on the nose. Please don’t come when there is snow on the ground, I might not be able to contain myself.

I wish you a life of peace and compassion. Change is tough, but arrogance and self-righteousness only make its harder. Nobody is reading the boards anymore, or has to pay attention to them. Move on. I hope you are really Jean K., but I fear you are really Miss McCarthy and that worries me, she is destined to live on for all eternity teaching young spirits how not to write. Its worrisome.

(My P.O. address is P.O. Box 205 State Route 22, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816.)