Growing up, I was fascinated by my mom’s shorthand notes. The cryptic symbols she’d write blindly while listening through our 1980s-era phone with a 12-foot cord were a different language — vestiges of a different time.
“You’ll never need to learn shorthand because you’ll type all your notes,” she explained.
Growing up, I was fascinated by my mom’s shorthand notes. The cryptic symbols she’d write blindly while listening through our 1980s-era phone with a 12-foot cord were a different language — vestiges of a different time.
“You’ll never need to learn shorthand because you’ll type all your notes,” she explained.
Growing up, I was fascinated by my mom’s shorthand notes. The cryptic symbols she’d write blindly while listening through our 1980s-era phone with a 12-foot cord were a different language — vestiges of a different time.
“You’ll never need to learn shorthand because you’ll type all your notes,” she explained.
Growing up, I was fascinated by my mom’s shorthand notes. The cryptic symbols she’d write blindly while listening through our 1980s-era phone with a 12-foot cord were a different language — vestiges of a different time.
“You’ll never need to learn shorthand because you’ll type all your notes,” she explained.
Growing up, I was fascinated by my mom’s shorthand notes. The cryptic symbols she’d write blindly while listening through our 1980s-era phone with a 12-foot cord were a different language — vestiges of a different time.
“You’ll never need to learn shorthand because you’ll type all your notes,” she explained.