Ticonderoga #2

Granted, this post is a little early as National Pencil Day is not celebrated until March 30th, but pencils in general got a shout out on the morning news and I thought I would go with it.  The discussion this morning was actually centered around the mixed reviews of taking the SAT College Entrance exam digitally.  It seems some members of the Class of 25, find entering their answers on an IPad difficult.  Wait, what?  My grand kids were swiping before their first birthday!  Right or wrong?  Who knows, but it is a topic for another day as today is Pre-National Pencil Day.  The panelists then recalled the challenges of using a pencil to fill the proper little answer bubble completely with a #2 pencil.  They were all encouraged to use Ticonderoga #2 pencils.  There were never enough to go around to those who failed to bring one to the test as per-instructed.  

I laughed at the memories this conversation conjured around pencils in my life.  Yes, I know, pencil memories?

Our childhood was filled with a lot of things but one of the big unspoken life lessons was always "maintain control."  Although the word control was not used, it was demonstrated in our daily life.  The best illustration can be found in the almost weekly/monthly cry that went through the house - "Who took my pencils?  I don't have much to call my own and now you take my pencils too?"  We would quickly survey the usual "writing" areas (mine was the window sill in the dining room even though there was always a little kids table close by).  I think I usually had the pencils, but we would all look out of fear that this outburst would escalate.  It just depended on how much control was needed or lacking that day.  

I really don't know now why she always needed pencils.  I just remember my mom sitting at my dad's desk which was strategically located to allow her plea for the pencils to be heard in every corner of the house.  Was it to write on the budget envelopes, adjust the grocery list, or to maintain a pristine check register?  Those were all areas of control in her life and evidently the pencil was her safe writing instrument. I should have helped everyone out and heeded the cry.  I was just one of those kids.

Jimmy Hart also comes to mind when I think about pencils.  Jimmy was in my third grade class at a time when we were still more trusted with a "lead" pencil rather than a ballpoint pen.  All of us except Jimmy.  Jimmy would chase kids trying to poke them with his pencil.  I didn't know then why Jimmy was hell bent on poking people with his pencil and I certainly can't find an explanation as I think of it now.  I just remember running or ducking whenever possible because we all believed we would die of lead poisoning, immediately, right there in school, if he did indeed get us.  They were called lead pencils after all and lead poisoning was a thing.  Little did I know that Ticonderoga has used graphite, not lead, for many years.  Also, I believe death by lead poisoning is a very long process.  It is also worth noting Jimmy Hart has no face in my memory - he's just an unkempt boy running around with his combat weapon of choice.  I wonder if he matured, got help, or is still out there with some sort of weapon?  I bothers me there is not a face in the memory!

As an adult, I have shopped for endless school supplies, exactly as defined by the district and the current year teacher.  The one item that is listed at the top each year?  #2 pencils.  Over the years that coveted first spot morphed into "Ticonderoga #2."  Not just any #2 pencil and god forbid not a Ticonderoga #1,  Just stick to the list.  The vast pencil research performed this morning, before getting all of this off my chest, reveals why a Ticonderoga #2 is important and the favorite for the schools.

• A Ticonderoga #2 can write 45,000 words.  Yes!  An unfathomable 45,000 (no wonder my mom wanted to hold on to her prized-possession)
• T#2 require less sharpening and make fewer shards, when sharpening is needed, due to superior graphite.
• T#2 include a well-developed eraser.  It is harder to break and it doesn't leave a lot of eraser dust.
• A T#2 is coated in a hard covering to prevent slivers and help reduce breakage.  

Who knew I had this much to say on pencils?  Certainly not me.  I do think it would be nice on this Pre-National Pencil Day to acknowledge the huge contribution of the Dixon Ticonderoga Company who conceived the idea of a pencil in 1812 in order to aid with the silliness around the use of quill pens as the most used writing implement.  Where's Jimmy Hart when you need him? If I could draw, I would include a cartoon of Jimmy running with a quill pen. 

 

Life Storage

Chapter One 

Self-storage complexes have popped up all over our area with what appears to be a surge in popularity in the post-pandemic period.  I haven't spent a lot of time to consider the surge but know that I now pass most of these facilities without much of a glance.  That is until we found ourselves regularly traveling a route used for the grandparent indoor soccer practice shuttle.  On this new route, a large sign proclaims "Life Storage."  Further investigation reveals a nicely maintained indoor self-storage facility built into an old BJ's Wholesale Club facility.  There is a good-sized drive-in entryway to be accessed only by key pad code.  

I can only imagine the rows of various-sized units on the inside of the facility as I don't possess the appropriate key card but I am struck by how the sign literally grabs me each time we pass.  The idea of anonymous people quietly passing through the entry to store, view or remove some aspect of their life is fascinating.  Oh I get it.  That is what happens at self-storage facilities, but by naming the facility "Life Storage," new life storage scenarios flood my mind each time we pass.    

As I first noticed the sign, I was visited by an image of a woman just approaching her mid-sixties.  Well-dressed, confident, and comfortable in her own skin.  She always visited her small storage unit alone. The unit was big enough only for a storage bin and a rocking chair.  She entered the facility to open the bin and took out the smallest of small piece of baby clothing and sat quietly rocking with the clothing between her hands.  Gently stroking the material with her eyes closed - just rocking.  There was a peace to her face with an occasional tear  slowly rolling down her cheek.  She occasionally looked at a grainy photo or a worn ultrasound image.   Documents were sometimes examined, a baby blanket often spread on her lap.  She would rock for half an hour and then gently return all contents to their bin.  She gently closes the door and locks it until she can return to the life she knows within her hidden life storage unit.

As she exits the facility, she leaves behind her early life until she visits again.  Her memories of the forbidden pregnancy that was denied by all but her come flooding back only when she is in her anonymous life storage unit.  It is only there where she can conjure the feelings she had of that first life growing within her.  It is only as she rocks surrounded by the earthly reminders of the life never realized, that she is able to feel the warmth and love she experienced alone.  Although she was not physically alone for those nine months, the course of her life was being decided by parents who had reputations to maintain. The joy and new life she felt growing within her - was hers alone.  The baby was to be placed for adoption and she would have limited time to touch her cheek, stroke her hair and gently place her lips on her head before she would be gone.  She had prepared herself for losing her first offspring.  She had not prepared herself for the agony of stillbirth.  She was not ready for the lifeless, pale body she held so tightly - never wanting to let go.  She was not prepared for the extreme grief as it followed the joy of new life growing. She was coaxed to let go physically, to resume her normal teenage life as if none of it had ever happened.  And so she did.  Finish high school, go to college - maintain the family name.  Until she started a her own life with a husband and a different family, the box of baby clothes was visited only occasionally in the back of her closet.  Once she was on her own, her secret, her box and the chair were placed in storage.   

And so it is within the confines of her life storage unit the memories of a first time mother, buried grief, and the possibilities of a life never to be realized in the outside world are allowed to exist.  Despite having realized a fulfilling life surrounded by family love, children, a career, and more - it is within the four walls of this small unit that she recalls her first true love and the grief that forever changed her life.