#10: Schooling

My last post reminded me how important it is for every child to have adults who invest consistently and fully into their well being. Given that my mom left when I was five and just entering Kindergarten, the female teachers I had in elementary school played a particularly important role in my life. I went to Dixon Elementary School for seven years, had a female teacher each year, and connected closely with each one except for my fifth grade teacher, a large and harsh teacher, whose presence intimidated me. Overall, my elementary school "schooling" provide me not only with an education but also with a safe environment. I was nurtured and found space to develop a sense of self.

I began to write down my most significant memories for each grade of elementary school. What fun! I am extremely grateful to these teachers for their expertise and kindness and know they likely inspired my interest in the profession of education as well. Perhaps my memories will remind you of your schooling for as much as education seems to change in America the framework of schooling remains the same, too.

Half-Day Kindergarten -- Miss Thompson:

• Art Easels; low round tables and chairs; wooden cubbies with hooks for our belongings; a rug for class gatherings; a wooden play kitchen; a bathroom in the classroom; a sink for clean up after doing art
• The competition for a tricycle at recess; jump ropes and red, rubber balls
• Naps and graham crackers and milk for snack
• Memorizing your name, address, and phone number to get a small candy cane at Christmas

First Grade -- Mrs. Luft:

• Wooden desks with chairs attached in rows
• SRA Reading Cards
• How I cried when we made Mother's Day cards, and Mrs. Luft suggested I make one for my aunt
• How Kris Krieger, who lived down the street from me and sat by me in class, drank his school glue and had to be sent to the nurse
• Sharpening pencils with a Sampson manual pencil sharpener attached to the wall by the door with a wastebasket beneath for dumping the shavings; I loved to sharpen my pencil, first fat and then thin; pens came sparingly much later

Second Grade -- Mrs. White:

• Four square and hop scotch
• Learning cursive, letter by letter, first small than capital; practicing on the chalkboard and then on manilla paper both with double solid lines divided by a dashed line; I thought it was very cool that our teacher had a special chalk holder that you ran across the chalkboard to make the lines
• Getting the stomach flu and throwing up in the hallway bubbler; having to go home sick which I never, ever wanted to do, because it felt like a burden to my dad or aunt and uncle (my aunt didn't learn to drive until well into her 60's) who had to come and get me; in the same vein, I was terrified that I might miss the bus home
• Loving art class which was done in the art room with the art teacher instead of in your regular class

Third Grade -- Mrs. Runkle:

• Learning multiplication and division; taking timed computation tests of 50 questions of addition through division to make sure you learned them thoroughly; getting stars by your name on a poster for each 100%; competing to get the most stars
• Kick ball on the playing fields outside at recess beside the dirt, concrete, and asphalt playground with insect structures and box-like concrete climbers that would never pass a safety test today
• Planning to marry the only black boy in school at recess until somehow I got the message at home and/or school that it wasn't a good idea -- can you say racism?; our friendship and our plans fell apart 
• How the entire school assembled in the gym to watch movies like Born Free, fire safety with Dick Van Dyke, and environmental movies from Smokey the Bear, Woodsy the Owl, and the Keep America Beautiful series

Fourth Grade -- Mrs. Erickson:

• How Mrs. Erickson read to us every day after recess for 20 minutes, including the book Watership Down, which I loved
• Researching and making informational books on birds and the state of Wisconsin, including pictures we would color
• Running the 50 yard dash at recess, competing against the fastest kid in class, Randy Roth (I had a crush on him!)
• Loving the school library -- I can still see its layout and shelves now, particularly the sections where I discovered favorite chapter books
• Desks marked with name cards and lifting lids where you stored your school supplies
• Spelling tests

Fifth Grade -- Mrs. Schmidt (we called her "Big Fat" Mrs. Schmidt to differentiate her from the 6th grade teacher Mrs. Schmidt who was slim and petite and also my teacher -- not so proud of that):

• The presidential, physical fitness test -- I hated the chin ups and mile run
• All the math problems on area and perimeter that Mrs. Schmidt made up about her dog's crates and fences; she was my first teacher who yelled at the students and really frightened me
• Diagramming sentences which never made sense to me -- I don't think I ever really learned English grammar until I formally studied the German language
• Scoliosis testing, vision and hearing tests, and vaccines at various times through the years
• Gifted and Talented Class several times a week with Mrs. Navin, a more stoic female version of Mr. Rogers, throughout elementary school

Sixth Grade -- Mrs. Schmidt:

• How biased our gym teacher was in favor of the athletic kids, particularly the boys; how we picked teams, and I was always among those picked last
• Hot lunch always included a carton of milk and hot food, often casseroles, with a veggie; you couldn't leave until you ate everything, so we used to try to shove things we didn't like into our milk cartons while the lunch monitors weren't watching
• Switching classes for math with Mr. Rosenthal (we called him Rosie Toes), who had quite a temper
• Doing a unit on weather and becoming meteorologists by monitoring temperature, barometric weather, etc. on charts long-term and using the data to do science; launching weather balloons
• Overhead projectors and screens; pull down maps

An excerpt from “Spring Glen Grammar School”

Donald Hall

For weeks we learned
the alphabet—practicing it, reciting
             in unison singsong,
printing letters in block capitals
             on paper with wide blue
lines, responding out loud to flash cards.
             Then she said: "Tomorrow
you learn to read."
                              Miss Stephanie Ford
             wrote on the blackboard
in large square letters: T H A T. "That,"
             she said, gesticulating
with her wooden pointer, "is 'that.'"

             Each year began
in September with a new room and a new
             teacher: I started with
Stephanie Ford, then Miss Flint, Miss Gold,
              Miss Sudel whom I loved,
Miss Stroker, Miss Fehm, Miss Pikosky...
             I was announcer
at assemblies. I was elected class
             president not because
I was popular but because I
             was polite to grown-ups, spoke
distinctly, held my hands straight down
             at my sides, and kept
my shirt tucked in: I was presidential.

#9: Ordinary

Last weekend, my husband and I listened to "Three Miles," a segment on This American Life. (I can't urge you enough to listen to this program, if not right now then as soon as possible!) Our political climate has been charged in the last few years with issues of race and class and immigration which are all so clearly laid out in this piece and impact the American education system in varied and complex ways. Similar to the students profiled, I am living proof of the impact on a child's life by the school attended which is connected to the location of one's home which is connected to the socio-economic mobility of one's family.

Like most elementary school kids, who are immigrants themselves or are the children of immigrants, I wanted nothing more as a child than to be ordinary. I wanted to blend into my elementary school and lead an average American life even though I really had no idea what that meant. So much of child psychology revolves around love and acceptance which can be more convoluted for an immigrant child, especially one as shy and quiet as I was, who had to find a way to acculturate and still retain her heritage. And, I knew I was far from ordinary.

When I entered Kindergarten at Dixon Elementary School, I didn't speak English, and it took years for my pronunciation and vocabulary to catch up to that of my peers. My father had worked very hard and scrimped and saved for years to finally move his children to the suburbs from the urban core where the education of my older sister and brother had come into question. However, my mother had just left home and never turned back. In the early 1970's, no one talked about divorce and I certainly didn't either. As a result, I assumed I was the only child from a broken home, particularly a single family home headed by a father with a sixth grade education. As the years passed, I figured out I was wrong about the prevalence of divorce but certainly not in error about how mothers dominated the custody scene.

Being raised by a working class immigrant father, my looks were never of great concern. My clothes were often hand sewn by my aunts or secondhand, and I took charge of my hair and personal cleanliness. I must have garnered a fair bit of attention in my affluent, suburban public school, particularly after I had to get glasses in the third grade and chose octagonal-shaped frames. I was also born with a cerebral cyst which caused a skull deformation on the right side of my head. No clothing or hairstyle would ever hide this fact. However, to be honest, I don't ever, EVER, remember being bullied or teased which would not have been a surprise given how different I was from everybody else. I can only surmise that I must have blocked it out over the years or been extremely good at ignoring the world around me in real time as I tried to blend into the background.

In part, I may also have benefited from being identified as "gifted." I remember being given the IQ test, I believe, in my first or second year of school which resulted in being shuttled off to GT (Gifted and Talented Class) a few times each week for supplemental, educational programming with Ms. Naven. GT allowed me to enter into a select, social group with status and led me down the path to college from nearly the first day I entered school until I graduated. College was never an option; it was expected and driven by my teachers. My intellect was nurtured until I was fully prepared to succeed in higher education such that my father soon believed, too, acquiesced, and financially supported me to the best of his ability.

My education also gave me two intangible and invaluable gifts: a sense of self worth and the ability to embrace the extraordinary. Children's self-perception is driven in large part by what the adults and environment tell them. I was identified as smart; thus, my intelligence was cultivated. So, I performed at a high level, and I came to believe I was smart. My intellectual abilities built my self esteem and slowly encouraged me to welcome the extraordinary, to accept myself for who I was in ways both ordinary and exceptional. Even though a college education was new to my family, I believed I deserved to go to college and would excel there.

I realize that the greatest injustice currently perpetuated and reinforced by our institutions is very simple: some individuals are worthy; some are not. Some are worthy of world class educations; some are not. Some are worthy of comprehensive, preventative health care; some are not. Some are worthy of justice; some are not. Of course, I could go on and on. Instead, I would like to suggest that perhaps opportunity and excellence ought to be ordinary. An outstanding public school education ought not be the exception but the rule. In fact, democracy demands we accept nothing less. If people are among our most important resources, then we must invest in each and every one until our highest standards become every day. And, as my elementary teachers best exemplified, believing remains the first and most important step in making the extraordinary ordinary.

Ordinary Life

Barbara Crooker

This was a day when nothing happened,
the children went off to school
without a murmur, remembering
their books, lunches, gloves.
All morning, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blended into naptime,
I cleaned out kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that never gets done,
then sat in a circle of sunlight
and drank ginger tea,
watched the birds at the feeder
jostle over lunch's little scraps.
A pheasant strutted from the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jeweled head.
Now a chicken roasts in the pan,
and the children return,
the murmur of their stories dappling the air.
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no bickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa's ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken's diminished to skin & skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night. 

#2: Intermission

Growing up in Wisconsin, winters tended to be long and snowy and cold. The season demanded respect and preparation and a hardiness of its subjects -- it was inevitable and was best embraced. Snow tires, ice scrapers, shovels, picks, wood burning fireplaces and stoves, snow pants, down coats, woolen mittens, long underwear, ski pants, flannel bedding, hearty soups, and hot chocolates and hot teas and hot toddies were all a part of life, part of the rituals that helped one endure the deep freeze. 

Our childhoods were filled with snow angels, snow fights, snow men, and snow houses. Local parks and schools had ice rinks and shanties, sledding hills and toboggan runs, trails for snowshoes and cross country skis. Despite snow drifts that often hit the roof of our home and temperatures well below freezing for weeks at a time, school closings were infrequent. I remember waiting for the bus with my brother when the plow passed by, scooping up our book bags and lunches and musical instruments and athletic equipment. We had to dig them out of the tightly packed mounds of snow piled at the street corner and continue to wait for the bus which was late but certain to arrive. 

This year, our second winter in Virginia certainly has more bite, but I would still describe Virginia winters as tender. And, I really appreciate tender, although I do miss the snow. Don't get me wrong, I don't think I'll ever wish for snow drifts and blizzard conditions again. However, I deeply long for a long, soft snowfall that blankets the streets, nestles the branches of the trees, and silences the neighborhood. Such a snowfall opens up space for one to nest at home, to read a book cover to cover, to binge watch favorite movies or a new series, to bake and cook and nap and dream. 

Right before Christmas, we received a dusting of snow, and the forecast indicates we may get more in January. January is really the right time of year for snowfall, a bit of winter grace, an intermission from daily life that can add stress but also cultivate gratitude and foster reflection. I am thankful that the leaves cup the flakes and the ground permits snow cover and the air, cold and brisk, beckons for me to breathe deeply. For those in the throws of winter's grip north of here, I wish you strength and safety and solace in the knowledge that time and seasons march on. Written with warm thoughts, dear friends.

Winter Grace

Patricia Fargnoli

If you have seen the snow
under the lamppost
piled up like a white beaver hat on the picnic table
or somewhere slowly falling
into the brook
to be swallowed by water,
then you have seen beauty
and know it for its transience.
And if you have gone out in the snow
for only the pleasure
of walking barely protected
from the galaxies,
the flakes settling on your parka
like the dust from just-born stars,
the cold waking you
as if from long sleeping,
then you can understand
how, more often than not,
truth is found in silence,
how the natural world comes to you
if you go out to meet it,
its icy ditches filled with dead weeds,
its vacant birdhouses, and dens
full of the sleeping.
But this is the slowed-down season
held fast by darkness
and if no one comes to keep you company
then keep watch over your own solitude.
In that stillness, you will learn
with your whole body
the significance of cold
and the night,
which is otherwise always eluding you.

Trash

One woman's trash is another's treasure.

I have a penchant for old things and am more than happy to scour secondhand and vintage stores for unique goods. Since my parents arrived from war torn Germany with little but a suitcase, and family heirlooms are few and far between, I think I like the link to the past that old finds provide. And, since manufactured items all look the same in stores today, I appreciate the distinctive dress from a consignment shop still with the tags on or the solid hardwood table from the used furniture store with nary a scratch. Yes, one woman's trash is another's treasure.

Of course, this wasn't always the case. I grew up in a working class family with six children in a Midwestern community of mostly middle to upper income professional families. Hand me downs and Goodwill outfits were a staple in my life. I am not complaining, but I would be lying that it wasn't a sharp contrast and difficult pill to swallow when I was also around peers who got brand new cars for their 16th birthday. 

And, thrifting back then wasn't chic like thrifting is today. I remember leaving Goodwill bathed in an aroma of must and mold and feeling dirty and a sense of shame. I hate to admit this as I have grandparents that barely scraped by in the Great Depression and parents that knew hunger, violence, and fear all too well as children in WWII. I give myself a break as I was only a child then. Now, the values of basic respect for food and monetary goods still form part of the foundation of my being. A penny saved is a penny earned after all.

More importantly, I must remind myself that in a world of over seven billion people, I am among the wealthiest and most privileged. This is due, in part, to my good fortune of being born in the United States. In part, this is also due to the work ethic instilled by my parents and the life my husband and I have worked very hard to create over many years. As such, I try to be a good steward of what luck and hard work provided. 

Since we moved into Nara in June, I have been slowly working my way around the yard, clearing out beds, walkways, and underneath bushes and trees of weeds, sticks, debris, and undergrowth. In the process (and I am so far from done), I have been shocked at the trash I have found scattered throughout the property. I decided to keep a list of items, many broken, that I have unearthed:

• Baseball bat
• Two arrows
• Numerous Lego pieces
• Multiple pens and pencils
• Rusty nails and screws of all sizes
• Hammer handle
• Two metal posts
• Nylon string in blue, yellow, red and white
• Birdhouse
• Dart
• Plastic toy shovel
• Canadian and American coins
• Numerous plastic drink bottles (hate those things!)
• Pieces of glass
• Duffel bag
• Aluminum cans
• Bricks
• Sock
• Balls of all shapes and sizes
• A dog's chew toys
• Various metal plates and parts
• Barbie accessories
• Plastic caps, ties, pieces and gizmos in every color

I have no idea where all this stuff came from. One way or the other, it was trashed. And one of my all time pet peeves is how people treat the earth like a trash can. I don't understand how someone can just throw a cigarette butt out the car window or refuse to recycle a water bottle or toss a half eaten sandwich into a landfill without a second thought. 

I am a product of the US Forest Service's campaign to protect the environment with the Woodsy Owl motto, "Give a hoot -- don't pollute!" I clearly remember the programming in elementary school in the 1970s. As a result, I am a big proponent of environmental stewardship, including recycling, composting and thrifting. After all, one woman's trash is another woman's treasure only when donated.

In the Basement of the Goodwill Store

Ted Kooser

In the musty light, in the thin brown air

of damp carpet, doll heads and rust,

beneath long rows of sharp footfalls

like nails in a lid, an old man stands

trying on glasses, lifting each pair

from the box like a glittering fish

and holding it up to the light

of a dirty bulb. Near him, a heap

of enameled pans as white as skulls

looms in the catacomb shadows,

and old toilets with dry red throats

cough up bouquets of curtain rods.

You've seen him somewhere before.

He's wearing the green leisure suit

you threw out with the garbage,

and the Christmas tie you hated,

and the ventilated wingtip shoes

you found in your father's closet

and wore as a joke. And the glasses

which finally fit him, through which

he looks to see you looking back—

two mirrors which flash and glance—

are those through which one day

you too will look down over the years,

when you have grown old and thin

and no longer particular,

and the things you once thought

you were rid of forever

have taken you back in their arms.

History

I double majored in German and history -- not German history, although I did take European history courses. I then went on to earn a masters in education as well as my secondary school teaching certification in social studies and German. Education was a logical extension for a liberal arts education, but I have always struggled to explain how I landed on history as a major. After all, I did apply to college thinking I would major in chemistry and become a physician. And, I certainly am not a history buff like my brother, who I remember plowing through thick tomes on wars and leaders and eras long gone just for fun even as an adolescent.

In some way, I often think that children of immigrants tend to have a penchant for history. Our parents speak of times and places and movements long gone that shape the way they approach their new home and parent us. I heard about WWII and Germany and fascism that cultivated a deep gratitude for what American offered in the second half of the 20th century. Working hard was expected, although questions about the past were often ignored. We waited for bits and pieces of information to fall into our laps while eavesdropping on adult conversations to explain tears and tirades and religious fervor and convoluted decision making.

Lately, I have been immersing myself in history once again. In the current political climate, I have found that looking back has helped me make sense of the present. Please don't think that I always find comfort in some worrisome conclusions that history can uncover, but I find that understanding often is the first step to positive action and nothing could be more useful in these times. Let me share three journeys into history you might find enlightening and enjoyable as well:

1) My husband and I have been watching the National Geographic series Genius about Albert Einstein. The series places Einstein in historical, political, and cultural context such that you not only learn about the man but also how he was shaped by the times which do have some parallels to today.

2) I have been listening to the podcast Revisionist History by Malcolm Gladwell. Each episode looks back at a person or idea or event: "Something overlooked. Something misunderstood." As I am cooking dinner, I turn on the podcast. It gets me thinking, deeply, such that I return to its content in my mind repeatedly in the days that follow, making connections to my own experiences, understanding of current events, and passionate pursuits.

3) I am reading On Tyranny by Timothy Snyder. A straightforward, short book of 20 chapters, it looks at current political times through the lens of our Founding Fathers and European totalitarianism of the last century. Please do not take this to be a book of one political persuasion or another. Rather, this is a book about the basis for democracy and freedom and our responsibility as citizens to protect the foundation and integrity of our nation.

What I love most about immersing myself in history like this is the connections I am making. These mediums are lighting the light bulbs in my brain, helping me through the dis-ease I am feeling since the last election, and directing my thinking and decisions for the future as a voter, community member, and citizen. Of course, historians know that this is the greatest value of their academic pursuits: the past may illuminate the present and direct the future for one individual or an entire nation. Personally, I invite you to join me in the pursuit. As such, we might have greater confidence in where we collectively take our country.

History

Andrew Gent

Every poem has been written before

at least fifteen times.

Every song

sung better.

The Neanderthals discovered caves

already painted with the story of their lives.

They invented fire

over and over again.

And you & I

whisper the same sweet nothings

we were born with.

Mettle

Discrepancies, Happy and Sad

Li-Young Lee

We’ve moved into a bigger house.
Now our voices wander among the rooms
calling, Where are you?

And what we can’t forget
of other houses confuses us
as we answer back and forth, Over here!

It’s a little like returning to the village
where you were born, the sad bewilderment
of discrepancies between
what you remember and what’s there.

No. It’s more like a memory of heaven.
Voices coming closer, voices moving away,

and what we thought we knew
about life on earth confounding us.

And then that question
from which all the other questions begin.

I attended a garden tour on Saturday with a friend. The owners created a beautiful home and garden over 36 years. 36 years! I know plenty of people live in one place for their entire lives, but 36 years seems incredibly long to me. I began to think through all the homes I have lived in over the years, and I have lived in more homes than most millennials have jobs these days. Like each vein on the leaf of the perennial Evans Begonia above photographed on the garden tour, each address marked a significant place and time in my life that has helped shape me into who I am today. 

Upon review, this list evokes not only a feeling of exhaustion but also of pride. One gains invaluable insight into human beings and human behavior when moving similar to that of travel. I see more commonalities and fundamentals among people. And, I see myself as more adaptable to change and confident in the face of challenges. Building new relationships takes great effort but our closest friendships move with us over time and space, too. Choosing a new home, choosing change, tests your mettle. 

Read on and you'll see what I mean:

1) Milwaukee Duplex of My Birth with Leopard Lamp and Seamstress Bust in the Attic

2) Childhood home: Brookfield, WI Ranch for the Entirety of My Schooling From Age 5 to 18

3) McCaffrey House Dorm Room in Sullivan Hall on the Lakeshore at UW-Madison Freshman Year

4) Another McCaffrey House Dorm Room at UW-Madison Sophomore Year

5) Studentensiedlung Dorm Room at Albert Ludwigs Universitaet in Freiburg, Germany for My Junior Year Abroad

6) First Floor of Mill Street Duplex with the "Stomper" Upstairs for Senior Year Back at UW-Madison

7) Cronkite Graduate Center Single Dorm Room Off of Brattle Row in Cambridge, MA for as I Worked to Earn my MEd at Harvard

8) Apartment in Pastel Colored Stucco Complex in Hollywood Florida for First Teaching Position

9) First Floor "Fourplex" in Wauwatosa, WI in Transition Year Before Return to Graduate School

10) Four Month Stint in the Basement of My Older Sister's House After My Roommate Moved Out to Get Married

11) Studio Apartment Back in Madison for More Graduate School

12) Second Floor of Duplex on Madison's Near West Side Owned by Friend's Family Whose Grandfather Was a Longtime Professor

13) Moved in With My Then Fiance/Soon Husband into a Mississippi River Boulevard Apartment with Art Deco Bathroom in St. Paul, MN

14) Second Floor Duplex on St. Clair Avenue Owned and Meticulously Maintained by Our 90 Year Old Landlord, Ciel Garry, Who Lived in the Basement

15) 1,100 Square Foot 1929 Bungalow on Stanford Avenue, Our First Home

16) Return to Harvard and Completely Renovated (Once Owned By a Woman Who Had 200 Cats) Second Floor Duplex on Sycamore Street in Watertown, MA

17) First Floor Duplex on Hillcrest Circle in Watertown, MA

18) My Husband's First Faculty Job and Our Second Home on Nimitz Avenue in State College, PA

19) Third Home on Upland Road in Ithaca, NY as We Moved onto Cornell

20) Fourth Home Called "NOLD" on Highland Road in Ithaca, NY

21) Wayside Place Rental Home in Transition to Charlottesville, VA

22) Fifth Home, Our Current Brick Colonial Called "Nara"

I want to say this is our "forever" house, but who can predict the future? Upon review, the majority of my moves were dictated by academia and the partnership my husband and I formed. From the beginning, he and I shared a vision for the future and a life plan which remains steadfast. However, I think some of the terms are evolving as the time to enjoy life a bit more in the present may be at hand and the desire to stay connected to our girls as they themselves move on in life will be a priority as well. For now, we are settling in and growing new roots with mettle.

Pencils

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....