Back to School

Back to School

Every year without fail, there comes an evening in late summer when The Songwriter is especially happy, almost gleeful.  His joy has nothing necessarily to do with his surroundings, although the evening in question did happen to fall this year while we were enjoying near perfect weather at our favourite beach.  But I’ve seen the same reaction at the end of sweltering days spent mostly in traffic; days spent mowing the lawn or washing the dogs; or even when he’s had the misfortune to be caught in the throes of a summer cold.  It doesn’t really matter what his day has been like, there will come a moment when he suddenly realizes that school starts the very next morning.  And he doesn’t have to go. 

 I was one of those children who loved school; The Songwriter positively loathed it.  Trapped and bored, he would look forward to summer holidays with the intensity of a convict awaiting parole.  They stretched before him, a breezy golden road with no end in sight, as far away to a child as September from May.  His high spirits dwindled with the summer days, however, and, whereas the night before the start of school always found me happily laying out a brand-new pleated tartan skirt alongside a crisp Blue Horse notebook, it found him in the lowest depths of misery. 

So I couldn’t help but find it amusing when he was recently asked by our town to sing at the dedication of our grand, sparkling new, primary school.  It was the first time I had been inside a school in years and years, and I was tickled to go along.  Sitting in the back of the auditorium, memories came flooding back as I gazed around me.  I remembered the thrill of being the very first person to use a gleaming new text book; the tantalizing crack when it opened; the delicious fragrance of the fresh, crisp pages. I remembered the smell of yeast rolls wafting from the school cafeteria at lunchtime.  It was easy to see myself in math class, fighting to stay awake as an autumn breeze blew in through the open windows, bringing with it the faintest scent of woodsmoke and falling leaves. Good memories, all. 

 As the program went on that afternoon I saw replicas of both The Songwriter and myself in the little faces sitting round me: scowling little boys, stunned at the unfairness of shortened summer holidays; prim little girls, bright-eyed and eager to impress.  While The Songwriter practically skipped out the doors when the program was over, I was tempted to linger, just a tad wistful for those long ago days when all I was responsible for was learning new things. 

It is no doubt an excitement held over from my own school days that causes me to consider this time on the calendar as the beginning of a new year.  When children start lining up at bus stops in the wee hours of morning, my dreams take on the hues of olive green and orange.  Yes, we can technically wear our white linen for a few more weeks without risking sartorial ruin, but my thoughts, and my heart, have already turned towards knitted scarves and tweeds.  Fresh pumpkin potpourri is now in the old Irish cache pot on my entry table.  Ginger tea is my current drink of choice.  I find myself looking at new art calendars; going over Christmas lists; checking the firewood stack.  As southern summers go, this has been a mild one, unusually so, but still... just as school seems to start earlier and earlier every single year, Autumn seduces me a bit earlier too.  I cannot help myself.  Perhaps I should go back to school?

But then came the early morning last week when I heard the faint rumble of the school bus making its way up the street.  It was just after dawn, much colder than normal for this time of year, and the rain outside my bedroom window was nothing short of torrential.  Crossing firmly over to The Songwriter’s way of thinking, I was happier than ever to be an adult.  Happy to snuggle back down in my downy bed.  Happy not to have to go to school.  I’ll just bake a pumpkin pie instead.

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Thanks to all of you for allowing me a bit of poetry indulgence while I was
away at the beach.  I had hoped you would enjoy some of my favourites... and judging by
the emails I've received... you did!  Makes me happy!