When I was ten and going into the fifth grade, we moved out to where my parents lived now and were living in a pick-up camper (sans pickup) while they built our house from scratch (we had stored all of our stuff in various places, and used the shower/facilities at my aunts house next door.)....My parents didn't close on the house til well into September, but the Rockford teachers strike had delayed the start of school by several weeks and we didn't have to get ready for that first day in those tight confines. But there we were, our clothes procured from the K-mart layaway, school supplies bought, raring to go..
I'm always way to excited by back to school sales, clothes, and supplies (I just recently bought a whole pack of Strawberry Shortcake ones just for nostalgia's sake--I don't really use pencils to write at all..). That feeling of trepidation, and possibility, of newness. New clothes. New shoes. Shiny new virginal notebooks and backpacks. Those hefty textbooks they handed out, their slightly glossy pages. The excitement of first year we were allowed to use ink. I miss being a kid sometimes so much it make my chest hurt. Not that I've given up my back to school pleasures entirely. I plan to go shoe shopping this week. I need a new sketchbook/notebook for classes (which actually start this week, though since both of mine are on Monday I have to wait). I've traded thick text books in favor of slim poetry volumes. Trapper Keepers in favor of loose files full of manuscripts and poems. Mechanical pencils for my Pilot G-2's.
Maybe I'll start something wonderfully new this week. Write a new poem, start a new project. Go somewhere I've never been. One day, instead of defaulting to Subway, take a smashed pb&j sandwhich in a rumpled paper bag. A thermos of chocolate milk. A shiny apple.
