Among writers, a fondness for pencils runs deep. For example, John Steinbeck began every day with 24 freshly-sharpened pencils. Henry David Thoreau and his father manufactured the hardest, blackest pencils of the day. And, Jack London said,
"Keep a notebook. Travel with it, eat with it, sleep with it. Slap into it every stray thought that flutters up into your brain. Cheap paper is less perishable than gray matter, and lead pencil markings endure longer than memory."
Although I post here with
keyboard beneath my fingertips, I keep a stash of sharpened pencils close at
hand for the sake of nostalgia and superstition if no longer for practicality.
Of course, as far as I can tell, love of person, place, or thing has a tendency
to be deeply personal rather than imminently practical in my book.
Rudimentary
Mechanics for Elementary Minds
In
grade school, we arrived early to sharpen our pencils before the bell and
opening pledge lest a dull utensil impede flowing script on manila paper,
broadly lined and center dotted.
Erasing
thoroughly with tip or cap or block easily tore through the rough fibers
and
left pink rubber shavings in abundance on the page which we blew to the floor
with a great flourish of frustration.
Sloppy
work would require a rewrite as lead darkened fingers and easily smudged across
the page, cutting into recess and one’s allotted time with hula-hoop or four
square.
During
the day, the teacher reluctantly gave us permission to sharpen a pencil
and
one can only presume she found the sound of the hand crank Sanford distracting.
Secured
to the wall near the classroom door with a dial of incremental holes for insertion,
not too tight not too loose, metal met wood and caught shavings in the belly of
the tool.
No
job was more coveted than emptying the catch which overflowed with curled
shavings and graphite dust, requiring a wastebasket be situated underneath at
the janitor’s behest.
As
you turned the crank, you turned your pencil counter to insure an evenly
sharpened tip, but not too sharp or it would break off immediately and provoke
a reprimand for wastefulness.
Dixon
Ticonderogas were never thrown away but collected in the metal lip of the
pencil holder beneath the lid of each desk, a prized collection of yellow nubbins
to be counted at the end of the school year.
Evidence
of great exertion, this first exercise in quantity over quality led to
great
angst as we switched from pencil to pen along with buildings in junior high,
leaving
such rudimentary mechanics for elementary minds behind.
*****
Other sharpeners I have loved....
