I inked myself with a pen the other day, something that rarely happens anymore. Generally, I only pick up a pen to write thank-you notes to the gardener, not much else.
The two-inch ink mark on my leg took me back to the days when I had blue pen marks all over my fingers and wrists. They got on my pants, my shirts. In high school, in the early ’70s, we even scribbled on our faded jeans.
It took me back to the fifth grade, when BIC pens were all the rage — 19 cents, almost free. We’d take them apart to make spit-ball shooters.
Then Magic Markers came along, fat and glorious, a barroom scent.
Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end…
Now pens are nearly obsolete. We don’t write checks or letters. Best we can do, now and again, is a grocery list or a thank-you note.
My granddaughter Cakes started school the other day. Milestone moment. Tweedy Catholic school skirts. Braids. Backpacks. Happy tears.
The first day of kindergarten is the first day of the rest of your life. And only college dropoffs are harder on moms and dads.
It’s a leap of faith to finally march them off to kindergarten, to put them under the spell of somebody else for large chunks of the day. We should be quite wary of conformist, factory-made kids.
That said, a good American education is a gift.
Hey Cakes, hand your mom a Kleenex. She’s a mess. We Irish cry at touchdowns and first dates, but never at funerals. Go figure. We’re an excessively odd brand of people.
One of my earliest memories is my own first day of kindergarten. The year: 1960, dawn of the space age. I’ve been taking credit ever since.
I was only 3, quite a bit younger than the rest of the kindergarteners. Mom sensed I was ready.
“Time to fly, buddy,” she said, and booted me out the door.
Woooooomp. So much for gentle parenting.
On that first morning, all the mothers came to school. Not mine. I actually liked that she sent me off with the tribe of neighborhood children who walked the six blocks to Hough Street School, an old red brick building right out of a storybook.
When I realized I was the only kindergartner without his mom, I didn’t panic. I was too young to panic. I didn’t even know what panic was.
I remember my classmates and I brought beach towels on which to nap on the floor. We stored them in cubicles with our slippers. In 1960, everybody wore slippers in kindergarten. It was a gentler time.
We quickly fell into a routine. A bit of alphabet. Story time. Snacks: graham crackers and cartons of waxy milk.
Such a life. At age 3, I felt as if I’d retired. I was living better than Harry Truman.
“I like this,” I thought to myself as I kicked off my shoes to nap.
In kindergarten, I quickly established myself as a good kid to mess with at recess, and an easy mark in card games and craps. In short, I was very popular.
To this day, I don’t remember my teacher’s name. My kindergarten teacher was just another adult to me — and that’s the way I wanted it. I was not yet ready to answer to anyone, or forge a personal relationship that I would be unable to maintain over time.
I do know this. The teacher smelled like crayons and potted paste. And Aqua Net, the super-hold hair spray, an adhesive that defined the era.
Eventually, I loved her, just as I would love all my elementary teachers, especially the old ones in support hose and sensible shoes.
It went fast, that year of kindergarten.
Did I learn anything? Well, I was 3, so I learned everything. I learned how not to show fear. I learned that, when you cry in public, everybody laughs — wah-wah-wah — like in a Peanuts cartoon.
I learned how to chew…how to throw up…the best way to get under a classmate’s skin, to tease, to prod, to annoy.
Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end…
I mean, what did we know about the passage of time?
From all reports, Cakes did quite well on her first day of kindergarten as well.
I called her later that day for a full report.
Me: Did you make any friends?
Cakes: No.
Me: Good. Don’t rush into relationships. Worst thing you can do.
Cakes: OK, Papa.
Me: Did you have some nice snacks?
Cakes: Pirate’s Booty and apples.
Me: Cool. How’s the wine list there? I mean, you Catholics and your red wine…
And then her mom hung up on me.
By most metrics, a fine first day.
Next week: The puppy’s heartbeat is a caress, a tick without a tock. It’s like a thought that barely registers as you drift off to sleep.
“Dad, you sound like you have dust in your grooves,” Spartacus teased the other day.
—From next week’s column
