I have had the aches and pains of nostalgia all week. I am plagued with longing for a time before I knew of the cruelness of life, and the pressures of responsibilities. A time when all I had to do was change into my swim suit (as long as time and temperature said it was at least 80 degrees) and my mother would drive us to the pool. I tried to recreate that for myself this summer, by spending every free moment I had swimming at the same public pool, the one mom would take us to every free summer day we had (which was many, every year.) She was a teacher so we spent our summers off together lounging, tanning, and doing lots of jumping in with our noses pinched. I never wanted to leave, and one more jump was always accepted as two or three more jumps in to the crystal water. I hadn’t handed over a five dollar bill to enter the pool for the day in 25 years, at least, until this past summer. I put fifty dollars in $5 bills into my purse in June and went every single chance I got. I swam laps, I jumped off the diving board, I read books, I cheered on kids who were scared, I watched them make friends, I saw dads be good dads, I witnessed pure human joy, and felt that joy myself too. The pool exists in a moment in time, that is untainted by time; simple floaties on little arms, hot dogs from the concession stand, cannonballs, belly flops, watchful lifeguards, and adults and kids alike sharing the understanding of what’s REALLY fun. I walked away from the pool for the last time this year on Sunday, my last free day before school started back.
The pool always closes the day before the first day of school, probably because the lifeguards are students too. This is a part of the changing of the seasons, as happy as I am to welcome one I am also sad to let go of the other. Even letting go of winter leaves me sad knowing I will not see the pink sunrise on snow for another long while, and I miss my sweaters and my faithful electric blanket. But with change being life’s dearest constant I do my best to embrace what is new, again.
This brings us to something I am happy to share with you, my pencil collection. It is simple, you see the middle school is a block over or so from my house, and for many years now my evening walks consist of picking up perfectly good pencils I find on the ground. This “hobby” of mine started when we moved into our house, on my walks I couldn’t help but to notice the litter of pencils all along the school grounds. I decided one day to pick them up and bring them home.
Little genius tools, they are… writers’ tools, instruments of knowledge, understanding, and learning. Pure, and in no need of upgrades. A solemn reminder to me that keyboards haven’t stopped the practice of drawing letters on a page. They need sharpened, can be broken, and come in different styles, each one branded with it’s maker’s name. Rarely but still, some are found with deep bite marks, perhaps from the more nervous students, or ones who aren’t (middle schoolers are wild cards.)
All in a week’s time I have gone from swimming back to pencil hunting for another season, a transition that has left me wading through nostalgia for my own first days back to school. For now, the days are still long as the seasons overlap. The garden is still thriving although the bean vines are turning yellow, and the tomato stalks are getting woody. Tomorrow is the first football game and I will likely go, if just to soak up a sense of belonging and to remember a world that existed before. As the lines on my face become drawn by the pencils of time, so do my memories multiply. For now I will be grateful for all of the watermelon in the world until it’s time to embrace the pumpkin spice.
Thank you for reading, drop me a line sometime… I DO love to chat!
justicesarah67@yahoo.com
The Mint Patch Monologue 