1 September 09
Giganticide as Brand New Trapper Keeper
I was born in October, and with the crisp air, changing light, brace for cold months, and back-to-school atmosphere--especially now with a son entering kindergarten--the start of fall is a major deal for me.
Fresh notebooks have never lost their power as literal clean slates. Every year in high school, I'd swear to myself I'd keep ahead of homework, study for tests, and take beautifully organized notes. By mid-November or December, my notes would be a mess and I'd have scarred my Trapper Keeper beyond recognition. My locker would barely shut with all the crap and paper bursting out the bottom, and I'd usually spend lunch cramming for tests and wondering where it all went wrong. Report cards were rarely bad but rarely great, and there was typically a sense, in parents, teachers, and myself, that I could have accomplished more if only I'd stayed on target.
Prior to that, in elementary school, we used to be graded on Desk, as in overall neatness of the homeroom desk, one of those melamine and steel numbers with the open-front book compartment under the desktop. Desk counted the same as Math and English and other traditional subjects, and I usually scored an F. I remember a horizontal groove in the desk shelf for easy pen and pencil organization, but even this required too much commitment and my writing implements would vanish in the crush of books and folders. My desk was regularly dumped, right there in front of the class, and I'd be forced to clean it up and start a new disorder the following day.
I had a knack for exploding pens in my pants. The ink would warm against my leg and escape the breathing hole in the pen's plastic shell, blooming on my leg and ruining pair after pair of navy blue Dickies. It drove my mother nuts, and it usually took the green side of a dish scrubber to clean the ink off my thigh.
But every fall, with a new set of notebooks, pens, and Dickies, I'd smell the fresh October air, celebrate my birth, and make my annual resolutions with far more genuine faith and hope than I ever managed to summon on New Year's Day. By January 1, with three months of school behind me, it'd already feel too late to make serious changes in the school year. My grades would stay about the same. My peer position wouldn't shift. I wouldn't impress girls without another full summer's preparation, and even the long Christmas recess wasn't be enough to make it all new. October was the time to rejuvenate, and part of me still hasn't lost that seasonal rush, a blend of optimism and nostalgia that arrives without effort, sure as the red leaves and woodsmoke and frost. This year I can make something of fall. This Christmas, I'll have truly earned a holiday. It doesn't generally go that way, but every year I try anew. And this year, this year, I'm going to make something of fall.
This week we reached the 40s overnight, cold enough to close the bedroom windows and cover the backyard pumpkin with a quilt. The squirrels are getting busy, almost frantic at the birdfeeder. We had a yard sale and cleaned out the house, organized storage. I've had an appetite for apples and an urge to buy a spice-scented candle. I'm drawn to Vermont, if only an afternoon trip to Bennington for fudge. Most of all, I'm unable to find a productive rhythm, falling instead to planning--planning for the fall when kindergarten starts and I'm alone all day, with hours of work at home and a serious need of self-regulation.
It's an exciting time, and as usual I'm optimistic, nostalgic, mentally nesting in the home, and establishing goals and routines that are liable to fall apart once I have to quit planning and actually make them happen. But this year, this year...
In the spirit of sharing and excessive preparation, I intend to post my goals for fall and write updates throughout the season. I'm hoping it'll work as a personal spur, a sense of accountability that comes from making private effort public. The basic idea is NOT to show what a swell productive fellow I am, but to remind myself of what a loaf I often am, of where I'm falling short or lying to myself, of when I need to work and when, ideally, I'm permitted to feel proud of my accomplishments.
More soon...
Brief pumpkin update: Herman seems to have stopped growing at around 150 lbs. Nothing jaw-dropping, but more than double my personal best from last year. I'll keep it on the vine a few more weeks, unless the groundhogs become too great a threat, and post an official weight with photos.
I was born in October, and with the crisp air, changing light, brace for cold months, and back-to-school atmosphere--especially now with a son entering kindergarten--the start of fall is a major deal for me.
Fresh notebooks have never lost their power as literal clean slates. Every year in high school, I'd swear to myself I'd keep ahead of homework, study for tests, and take beautifully organized notes. By mid-November or December, my notes would be a mess and I'd have scarred my Trapper Keeper beyond recognition. My locker would barely shut with all the crap and paper bursting out the bottom, and I'd usually spend lunch cramming for tests and wondering where it all went wrong. Report cards were rarely bad but rarely great, and there was typically a sense, in parents, teachers, and myself, that I could have accomplished more if only I'd stayed on target.
Prior to that, in elementary school, we used to be graded on Desk, as in overall neatness of the homeroom desk, one of those melamine and steel numbers with the open-front book compartment under the desktop. Desk counted the same as Math and English and other traditional subjects, and I usually scored an F. I remember a horizontal groove in the desk shelf for easy pen and pencil organization, but even this required too much commitment and my writing implements would vanish in the crush of books and folders. My desk was regularly dumped, right there in front of the class, and I'd be forced to clean it up and start a new disorder the following day.
I had a knack for exploding pens in my pants. The ink would warm against my leg and escape the breathing hole in the pen's plastic shell, blooming on my leg and ruining pair after pair of navy blue Dickies. It drove my mother nuts, and it usually took the green side of a dish scrubber to clean the ink off my thigh.
But every fall, with a new set of notebooks, pens, and Dickies, I'd smell the fresh October air, celebrate my birth, and make my annual resolutions with far more genuine faith and hope than I ever managed to summon on New Year's Day. By January 1, with three months of school behind me, it'd already feel too late to make serious changes in the school year. My grades would stay about the same. My peer position wouldn't shift. I wouldn't impress girls without another full summer's preparation, and even the long Christmas recess wasn't be enough to make it all new. October was the time to rejuvenate, and part of me still hasn't lost that seasonal rush, a blend of optimism and nostalgia that arrives without effort, sure as the red leaves and woodsmoke and frost. This year I can make something of fall. This Christmas, I'll have truly earned a holiday. It doesn't generally go that way, but every year I try anew. And this year, this year, I'm going to make something of fall.
This week we reached the 40s overnight, cold enough to close the bedroom windows and cover the backyard pumpkin with a quilt. The squirrels are getting busy, almost frantic at the birdfeeder. We had a yard sale and cleaned out the house, organized storage. I've had an appetite for apples and an urge to buy a spice-scented candle. I'm drawn to Vermont, if only an afternoon trip to Bennington for fudge. Most of all, I'm unable to find a productive rhythm, falling instead to planning--planning for the fall when kindergarten starts and I'm alone all day, with hours of work at home and a serious need of self-regulation.
It's an exciting time, and as usual I'm optimistic, nostalgic, mentally nesting in the home, and establishing goals and routines that are liable to fall apart once I have to quit planning and actually make them happen. But this year, this year...
In the spirit of sharing and excessive preparation, I intend to post my goals for fall and write updates throughout the season. I'm hoping it'll work as a personal spur, a sense of accountability that comes from making private effort public. The basic idea is NOT to show what a swell productive fellow I am, but to remind myself of what a loaf I often am, of where I'm falling short or lying to myself, of when I need to work and when, ideally, I'm permitted to feel proud of my accomplishments.
More soon...
Brief pumpkin update: Herman seems to have stopped growing at around 150 lbs. Nothing jaw-dropping, but more than double my personal best from last year. I'll keep it on the vine a few more weeks, unless the groundhogs become too great a threat, and post an official weight with photos.
at
11:36 PM
