When I was a kid, I was very grateful that my birthday fell during summer vacation (August 24, in case anyone wants to start saving up, and you should). I couldn’t imagine having to spend your birthday in school, bringing in cupcakes for the other kids and having to share your special day with the masses. (I’ve also never been a fan of the big birthday party where all the kids are invited – I kept my gatherings to Suzie and one or two other people, quite happily.) What brings this to mind is the date: January 4. I suddenly and out of the blue recalled that this was the birthday of one of my childhood friends, Jill. I don’t remember how she celebrated or what sort of cupcakes she brought in to school, but I know she must have had a few birthdays at McNulty, as did most of the class. Summer babies were not as common as those populating the rest of the year given our two-month window.
Jill was one of the top students in the class, and she had a special pencil to which I attributed all her success. It was a simple #2 yellow pencil, the kind we all had, but it had been worn and whittled down to a manageable two-thirds of its original length – perfect for a kid’s smaller hands. It also had a worn and perfectly rounded eraser on its end – the whole thing achieving a darker patina and lived-in vibe that appealed to my search for comfort. A new pencil had to be broken in and used before it became comfortable, its sharper edges dulled to a softer feel. I coveted Jill’s because it glided with ease across the page, and she could make the neatest hand-writing with it. At least, that was the questionable reasoning I worked out in my head.
For months, I begged her for that pencil. Every time there was something I had that she wanted, I offered to trade it for the pencil. Snacks, markers, fancy erasers, a place in front of me in line – I tried all the tactics a school kid once used to get ahead in the classroom – all to no avail. Through my desperation she had seen the value of that magical pencil, and she held onto it all the tighter. I didn’t blame her. But I didn’t give up.
Eventually, I had something she wanted just as badly as I wanted the pencil. I don’t remember what it was – obviously it wasn’t anything that meant much to me – but she gave in and traded me for it. As with all similar stories, the magic left the pencil as soon as it was in my hands. My writing didn’t suddenly turn neater. My test scores didn’t suddenly change. Though I liked the way it felt in my hand, and the way it wrote across the page, it didn’t magically transform my life the way I thought, and expected, it would.
Still, it was a good trade, and Jill was a good friend. It’s a happy memory because it reminds me of how our school-day drama was once about a magical pencil and not a gun. It was about birthday cupcakes and bags filled with Valentine cards. It was, I fear to say it, a better time.
Here’s wishing a Happy Birthday to Jill, wherever she may be. (And thanks for the pencil.)
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