Anita Sherman

Anita Sherman is the Community Editor at the Fauquier Times. Reach her at asherman@fauquier.com

 Virginia’s tax-free weekend has passed. For thousands of students, school is back in session. And it’s still August.  

My children are grown, so shopping for packs of colored pencils isn’t on my agenda, but I find myself reflecting on my back-to-school days. 

Yes, I know it’s a cliché, but things were simpler then. And, for me, the ritual of heading back to those small wooden desks with a hole in the upper right corner to hold a bottle of blue Sheaffer ink was sweet.  

By third or fourth grade we were expected to master the use of a fountain pen. I don’t even think ballpoints were invented. If they were, we didn’t use them. For us, it was pencils, always to be kept razor sharp, and fountain pens. 

We had to fine tune the art of filling a fountain pen by gently mastering that tiny, slim silver lever on the side. Pull a little and not enough ink went in. Pull too much and your fingers bore the permanent mark of your mistake. 

And then, of course, there was Stephen. I’ll never forget the image of him occasionally drinking the ink because it gave him a blue smile. Stephen was quirky. 

Rulers were your basic plastic variety with the tiny white numbers that eventually wore off and crayons were gradually getting packaged in bigger and bigger sets. For most of us, the varieties of crayons stopped at 24. 

Scissors were small, rounded and metal and didn’t cut very well. 

Marbled composition books were very much in vogue as they are today but mine were all black. There were no colors to choose from. 

All my folders looked the same. I knew them only as PG folders and they were cream colored, illustrated with sports figures in a cinnamon-colored ink. Lisa Frank (the designer of those cool psychedelic folders) wasn’t even born then and Tweety Bird and company were just beginning to make appearances on cereal boxes. 

Zippered pouches for holding all the precious pencils and pens were around but many of my classmates used old cigar boxes. These actually worked better because there was no zipper to break or plastic to get smeared with broken lead. 

Backpacks were around but they were used for hiking and canoeing trips. We had book bags and, if they had a strap, it was slung on one shoulder. They had lots of buckles and pockets but the best part was the large plastic handle centered on top. Strutting down the street (most of us walked to school then), your book bag would gaily swing from side to side suspended by that handle that rarely, if ever, broke. 

Taking your lunch to school was always risky in those days. Brown paper bags were acceptable but having a metal lunch box was much better. The tricky part was the thermos. Rarely did liquids make it through the morning without leaking into the rest of your lunch. 

My mother preferred the red plaid variety, but I was insistent one year and arrived on the scene with a brand-new metal lunch box featuring Superman. For weeks, this served as lunchtime entertainment as everyone took turns reading the cartoon bubbles and turning the box to see newspaperman Clark Kent throw off his glasses and fly into the air in resplendent caped attired. 

As today, books had to be covered, but book socks were unheard of. 

My father was a designing engineer and he always offered, and I always expected, that he would be the designated book coverer. I would leave my books on the dining room table with the plain brown paper or sometimes clear plastic. In the morning when I got up, the books would be neatly covered and piled ready for me to take to school. He did a beautiful job, measuring and folding each corner just so. 

While my father handled anything “technical,” under which school supplies and covering books fell, my mother took care of new shoes. 

My mother and I would walk down Wisteria Avenue and into the Hollywood District where the movie theater and several department stores were located. 

My mother’s favorite was Miller’s. I remember its creaky wooden floors and fussy sales clerks but, in one corner of the store, was the shoe department. It was there that we would look at Buster Brown shoes. 

For my mother, these were the shoes that she knew and trusted. They were made of leather and you could polish them over and over and always get a shine. The suited shoe-man would have me stand on this thing that resembled a scale, but I think it was an X-ray machine as he would always say, “they fit perfectly and she has room to grow.” 

Year after year, I would start the new school year with black and white saddle shoes or cream and brown saddle shoes or burgundy loafers. One year it was black MaryJanes. But they were always Buster Browns. 

Inside the shoe where your heel would sit was a round decal bearing the image of the little Dutch boy with his dog.  

I looked forward to our trips together to shop for school, the smell of her cologne, the brush of her coat against my cheek and walking out of Miller’s with a brand-new pair of Buster Browns. 

My pencils sharpened, my books meticulously covered and my fountain pen not leaking, I was ready to walk down the hallways and find a new classroom each year.  

I felt sorry for Stephen as he never mastered the fountain pen routine. He did, eventually, loose his taste for ink but then couldn’t keep away from that pasty white glue.  

Reach Anita Sherman at asherman@timespapers.com  

 

 

 

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