Dead Trees, Puppy Killers, and Freshly Sharpened Pencils

This Column appeared in print on August 29, 2007.


This week I had something particularly brilliant to say about a dead tree in my front yard, some sort of metaphor about weeding out a garden that I cannot seem to reconstruct.

Then I thought I’d write about NFL Quarterback and general low-life Michael Vick, who seemed more afraid of losing his job than the apparent loss of his soul. Except, oh Goody, Vick found Jesus just in the nick of time for his widely televised and totally insincere apology for his “immature acts.” An immature act is giving your best bud a “cosmic wedgie,” man, not torturing and killing animals. For those who think that after he “serves his time” Vick should be allowed to play football and not be deprived of his livelihood, I submit that Vick is not going to be deprived of making a living, just not through the NFL. And if the NFL hires him back, then that organization is the bigger fool by far.

Then I went to “Back to School” night and you know, the Crier is published on the first day of school.

The summer fairly flew for my family and no, this is not an essay on what our family did this summer, but rather a call for all things great about fall and school and darn it, pencils.

I remember with nostalgia the night-before-school jitters. Packing and unpacking my school bag. Picking out my outfit, which was always too warm because the first day of school is usually hot and I wanted to wear my new “school clothes.” I am convinced that the first day of school is hot just to torture the kids into thinking of swimming and the teachers into thinking of the beach.

I liked to gather my new pencils together and sharpen them in preparation for the big day. I wanted a healthy supply ready when the work began. When my mother brought home an electric pencil sharpener it was better than Atari 2600. I would ratchet through a pack of Ticonderogas in twenty minutes, savoring the sweet smell of shaved cedar and the throaty hum of that sharpener.

So I bought my kids one of these sharpeners, now with batteries. It doesn’t have quite the same purr sort of like the difference between a 1963 Corvette and a 1980 Honda Civic. Still and all, the fascination is there. The kids whip through a pack of double A’s in no time and I’m stuck going back to Staples to stock up on more pencils. Hmmm.

When I met my husband he was a mechanical pencil devotee. This was partly due to the fact that as an engineering student, he spent hours and hours doing homework in pencil. It was also due in part to his penchant for writing left handed, which caused pens to smear and make an awful mess. In my desk to this day I have mechanical pencil refills from our college days. I’m not sure he knows.

As much as I loved school I really hated riding the bus. In elementary school my town saved money by cutting bus routes. We kids sat THREE to a seat, in assigned seats, forced by our fascist driver. SO there I was, a little third grader squashed between two fifth graders, when the kid in the middle seat behind me thought it would be funny to reach under my seat and wrench my shoes off.

Every day for what seemed like months but was probably more like two weeks, this girl would wrestle off my shoes while the bus driver screamed at the kids and I kicked at her futilely. I’d have to fight not to get caught up in the swell getting off the bus in order to stay behind and figure out where she stashed them. More than once I got off the bus and walked through snow barefoot to the office before the matter was finally settled. And who did it? My parents? The Principal? Nope, it was another, older girl who rode my bus. She overheard me talking to the principal and offered to “make it go away.” And I didn’t even have to pay her.

The next year I got a new bus driver, because my parents decided it was time for Catholic School (we weren’t Catholic, but my parents knew a good thing when they saw it). That driver used to ask me if I thought my mom would like to date him. Are you kidding, buddy? I didn’t know if I ought to be happy for my mother or horrified. He didn’t last, but he also didn’t assign seats.

So, gentle reader, if you have a child that saw the inside of a classroom today and is still excited about going again tomorrow, bravo. When I taught Chemistry to third graders as part of a program in high school I always marveled at the unbridled enthusiasm for learning… hands raised, interest etched on little faces, and lots of questions. As we get older that enthusiasm loses out to wit, sarcasm, disinterest and disregard. I wanted to know, talking to older kids, where did all the questions go? As students of life, and payers of taxes, questions become the name of game. Once we stop asking questions, as a society, our apathy becomes a vacuum filled by problems and we can hardly find our way out.

So, tie your kids’ shoes tightly lest they lose them, sharpen the pencils, watch the weather report before picking out your outfit, and keep asking questions. Sometimes its amazing what you can learn.