B is also for Burger

Darn! B really fit yesterday’s activities, but I just checked my notes for what I want to blog this month and I already had some B-designates, ones that won’t really fit into another category, at least not if I want to group them together. So I guess we’ll proceed with a B-addendum.

So yes, B is for Burger.

When I was growing up — back in the olden days — burgers were a treat. Yes, we ate them at home — or more accurately, my grandparents’ or great aunt’s homes when they were having picnic. We sometimes ate out, but that was definitely not a weekly occurrence. We went to HoJo’s on birthdays since the birthday person could then eat for free. Or maybe another restaurant, though I can’t remember much about that. Sometimes we ordered food when we went to the drive-in (as in movie) but that stuff was expensive, so we usually took our own snacks. 

Our favorite treat places were the ones where we went for ice cream. Carvel’s for soft-serve or flying saucers. 

Local Mom & Pop stands for scoops of frozen goodness made with fresh peaches or strawberries. Or Twin Kiss. 

We may have had burgers or other sandwiches there, though not often. French fries to share if we were lucky, or a root beer float, but if not, a mug of root beer was certainly enough!

However, when I hit high school, those places met with new competition: the golden arches of McDonald’s. For a quarter we could buy a burger or a fish sandwich. And we could get it fast. And. . . This was the place that the guys from our high school found part time jobs. Not the girls, at least not that I knew of. There were some OLD ladies (I wonder how I’d see them nowadays) who worked there, especially during weekdays, but other than that, it was the guys. That really changed how often we went out and where.

Oh, we still went to Banks’ drug store. No, we didn’t buy burgers there, but we visited just about every day. You see, my best friend, Kathy, and I would skip lunch, saving the lunch money we had been given, and have the bus drop us at the corner of Union and Water Streets, and make our purchases. No, not drugs. They had a soda fountain and that’s where we bought our hot fudge sundaes made with mint chocolate chip ice cream — in cups to go — and a cherry coke and bag of Middleswarth barbecue chips. We’d tromp the two and a half blocks to Kathy’s house and devour our snack there.

Ok, Bank’s was a detour. I didn’t expect to write about that, had forgotten to add it to the list.

Back to Burger.

When I was growing up, the word “Burger” brought to mind something completely different. To me, that meant “Betty Burger.” I first ran into Mrs. Burger at church. She was probably one of my early Sunday School teachers. Maybe. Or maybe she wasn’t. She was definitely my kindergarten teacher. In those days there was no such thing as a public kindergarten. Not for many years after. Yes, the private schools offered classes. And the place to send a child for kindergarten was Phoebe Etter’s, which was only half a block from my home. But Mrs. Etter had a long waiting list and my parents didn’t get my name on the list in time.

Instead, I attended kindergarten at our church, First Church of God, which was even closer to my house than Mrs. Etter’s place. And Mrs. Burger was our teacher. I remember lots of things about kindergarten: the smell of fresh made play dough, that white paste may smell minty but tastes terrible, that the little wooden rocking boat/steps that is still used in preschools is ideal for acting out “The Three Billy Goats Gruff.” I also remember that the boys in the class — especially Eddie — were in trouble more often than the girls.

Except for me. The boys may have been in trouble more often, but I was the one who got spanked. Yes, folks, in those days it was okay to spank a child. It only happened once and years later Mrs. Burger told me that I was the only child she had ever spanked. Great. What a distinction. And what was my infraction? I kept tipping my chair back on two legs. And she kept warning me. And finally she’d had enough and I was spanked for that. I never did it again. And I never (at least not so far) tipped my chair over backwards and fell.

The other trauma I remember from kindergarten was in the big assignment that all of us had: memorizing our name, address, and phone number. We met in the children’s Sunday School rooms, but for this Mrs. Burger took us one at a time to the adult Sunday School room — a huge and imposing room located just under the sanctuary — and had us recite our information. When we got it right for the first time, she gave us a Hersey bar — a full-sized one — to take home.

I got the name. I got the address. But I couldn’t get the phone number.

My friends returned from that room proudly clutching chocolate wrapped in a silver and brown wrapper. Not me. I returned with nothing. Again and again and again. At least, that’s the way I remember it. I finally got it right, but I still have trouble remembering phone numbers.

Those may seem like negative memories of Mrs. Burger, but they really aren’t. For the most part she was very supportive of us, all of us. And she cared about us.

And she cared about others as well. A few years later it was discovered that our church had termites. The building was condemned and we met at the old high school building next door until our new church was built. And in that new church, thanks to the persistence of Mrs. Burger, there were two special education classrooms, an educable and a trainable room (yes, that’s how they were classified at that time). This was something no one else was doing, something none of the other churches had. Pretty special, eh?

So yes, B is for Burger. Not a bad thing to be.

B is for Boxes and Bags and Barbie Dolls and Bananas

This is actually yesterday’s entry. I already composed it in my head but was too lazy to move my fingers to add it to the screen. Yep, lazy. That’s me.

Boxes and bags. Yesterday I saw many of them. Yesterday I helped to fill many of them. And because of filling them yesterday, today I’ve also spent some time emptying boxes and filling boxes and bags.

You see, yesterday was the day that we (me, my sister, my sister-in-law, one of my nieces, and occasionally my dad) met to go through Mom’s clothes. It’s been two months since her funeral, so it was time. We held off until Dad started to make noise about it, waiting for him to be ready. I’m not sure whether he truly was, not as ready as what he thought, but he held up very well.

Of course, he mostly stayed out of the rooms where we were working.

First off, Mom had a whole more clothes than I suspected. We found several items that she never wore, several that she seldom wore, and others that she had worn so often that they really weren’t even suitable for the thrift shop.

Bags. Those were for the throw-aways. All of the underwear, bras, socks. That was the easy stuff, though some looked brand new.

Boxes. Originally for the items to go to the thrift shop.

Of course, we each claimed some items.

Many items.

And we also gifted one of my SIL’s coworkers with several boxes of stuff.

I should have taken a photo of all of the stuff, all of the bags and boxes from her closet and two dressers and an indeterminate number of storage containers brought from the attic. But of course, I didn’t. I took a photo here at home showing one of the boxes I brought home with me as well as an Ikea bag that I’ve filled with items that I’ll be taking to my local thrift shop — had to remove items from the closet to make space for Mom’s hand-me-downs.

I guess I should mention that there were moments of sadness and moments of laughter yesterday. There were sweaters that we remembered Mom wearing. Some of those went home with one or the other of us while others we had to let go. And there was laughter as we tried to picture one of us wearing other items.

So what did I come home with? Coats, a few shirts, shoes, bags (canvas, not trash style), puzzles, one book that looked interesting, some jewelry.

And bananas. No, not from Mom’s stuff. I stopped at Sharp Shopper on the way home (much more organized now that they’ve remodeled) and came home with bananas (what can I say, I like them), cheese, and bologna. Hmm. Bologna starts with B as well. Kutztown garlic ring bologna. Of course, I bought a chunk of it, not a whole ring.

One of those B-words in the title doesn’t really fit in with yesterday’s activities, but I’ll throw it in anyhow. When I was growing up in the 1960’s, Barbie dolls were the rage.

I didn’t have one.

*sniffle*

My Mom’s rationale was “then I’d have to buy all of the clothes for it.” Disappointing, but I survived. Besides, I really liked paper dolls better. (Oh — just found a picture of Betsy McCall paper dolls. I’d forgotten about them. I think I’ll have to talk about them later this month).

Okay, I survived. However, I was determined that my daughter would have a Barbie doll. And clothes for it. So she ended up with several of them and lots of clothes, including items that I knit or crocheted or sewed for them. I guess that was my way of getting play out of them.

Of course, though Anjee played with them, she also liked to remove their heads. And draw on them.

I’m sure that somewhere I have a photo tucked away of the most memorable Barbie head, but who knows where it is. It had blond hair. Frizzy blond hair. Frizzy beyond ever being able to be combed or brushed. And she had eye shadow. Ball point pen eye shadow/eye liner.

I’m sure that sounds bad enough, the description of the inky-eyed frizzy-haired head with no body to accompany it.

But it gets worse.

It was one of the favorite toys of the cats we had. I don’t remember which cat started it, whether it was Spock or Buckwheat or Savik or Max. But one of them decided that the Barbie head was a toy and started carrying it around the house, cat teeth gripping that frizzy blond hair and toting it from one room to another, placing it on the floor, and then batting it around like a hockey puck.

I wish I could find that picture.

But photo brings me to a bonus word: bonnet.

The other item that I brought home with me yesterday was a box of photographs. I could have brought a half dozen more, but enough’s enough. I’ve taken on the task of scanning photos so that everyone has copies of them, and believe me, Dad has lots of them.

The box I brought yesterday wasn’t with the other boxes. No, this one was tucked away in a corner of one of the bedrooms. It’s not even a big box. A Harry & David’s box with my grandparents’ address on it.

In it are treasures. My great-grandmother Swartz’s death notice. A Mother’s Day card from my dad to my grandmother. Photos of my great-grandmother Hartman and her Stark brothers and sisters. And newer photos as well. One of my favorites — and one of the first that I scanned — was in a little folio holding two photographs, one of my with my Uncle Ron and one of just me. I should have posted them last week since they’re from Easter 1955.

And I’m wearing a bonnet. Because that’s what we did. Women wore hats, and little girls wore bonnets. Of course, that doesn’t mean that we were happy about it.

A is for April & Alphabet/Alphabits & Audubon Society

I mentioned in the beginning that I’m not very good at this. I may have said that I absolutely suck at this, at maintaining a consistent presence through blogging.

I would not have been inaccurate in that assessment.

September 23rd? I haven’t written anything since September 23rd?

Okay, so I’ve written since then, but not in my blog.

I tried.

In fact, I started another blog on another site, figuring that I’d trace my Mom’s journey with cancer on that one. That failed miserably. Two entries. Two.

I suck at blogging.

During that time I did complete a novel and few short stories and did some editing.

But blogging? Not so much. In fact, not at all.

However, here it is, April, and I’ve signed on for Camp NaNoWriMo. 30 days of writing, setting my own goal, meeting it.

Right.

My goal for the month is 30,000 words, which should be easy: 1000 words per day.

And what I’m writing? Well, since I have so many novels hanging out in my apartment and on my hard drive waiting to be edited, I don’t want to go in that direction. Instead I’ve decided to write short stories. I’ve jotted down some random words and phrases and some notes to go with them and those are supposed to assemble themselves into stories.

Right.

It’s now April 4th and I’ve managed to write one story (just under 1400 words) and part of another and am struggling.

In other words, if I want to succeed at this, I’ve got to find something to get me writing, another source of wordage.

So. . . What I’ve stumbled across is the A to Z Blog Challenge. This can be found here: http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/what-is-blogging-from-to-z.html Or maybe I’ll figure out how to insert that link properly. Who knows?

Anyhow, I’ve stumbled across that challenge and though it’s already April 4th, I think I can do this. I’ll just try to blog every day (yes, I know, we all have seen how that goes) using the formula of <insert letter here> is for <insert something beginning with that letter here> as I work my way through the alphabet.

I could stop here. A is for April, when I’m doing this. A is for Alphabet, which is the basis of this challenge.

But I think I’ll throw in a couple more, just to keep in the spirit of why this blog was created: to record memories of my past that might eventually be lost.

I could just tie in to what I’ve already chosen. “April showers bring May flowers.” Okay, that’s the extent of my April memories. Move on.

Alphabet. I don’t remember when I learned the alphabet, but I know that I didn’t start reading until first grade. That’s the way it was in those days.

However, I can add a little more about alphabet: alphabet soup. 

When I had alphabet soup, it originated in that familiar red and white Campbell’s can. It was a good idea, but somehow it never worked the way it should. Yes, it was fun to have letters to play with while eating, though it kind of went against the “don’t play with your food” adage. But alphabet soup had its problems. For one thing, it was usually too hot to play with, and once it cooled, it was close to inedible. Add to that, trying to find the letters to spell anything. And the noodles became so soggy that they didn’t seem to work out.

We had an alternative: Alphabits cereal. It was sugar-coated, which really wasn’t an issue then. After all, sugar-coating was the way of the world at that time. We had Sugar Pops and Sugar Frosted Flakes and Kool-Aid. Lots of sugar. And fluoride toothpaste was just making its way to the market. But that’s not the point. The point is that Alphabits were a little more conducive to making words. After all, I could dump out a bunch of them on the table, and put the letters I wanted in my bowl and the ones I didn’t in my brother’s. Unfair? He was three years younger than I was and couldn’t spell so what difference did it make? Again, sogginess was an issue, so it was usually better to eat them plain and drink milk from a glass.

Many years later I came across something even better: alphabet pretzels. I bought them at a farm market, in bulk. My own kids were older and not really impressed but I used some of my petty cash to purchase bags of them for the kids in the class I taught. I wanted this to be a challenge but a doable one, so I also bought a box of zip-lock sandwich bags and sat at my desk sorting them by letter. Then I made separate baggies for each of the kids in the class, including the letters of the child’s name and a few extra pretzels and a name card with the child’s name lettered in capitals. It was a fun activity for them because after they had matched the letters, they could eat the pretzels. I usually had to buy several large bags of pretzels to get enough of each letter, but it was worth the cost and the time to sort them. And my assistant and I had snacks for when the kids left for the day.

Of course, nowadays we have “Let’s Move” and snacks as rewards are a no-no. Besides that, some of the cultures I’ve encountered feel that it’s disrespectful to play with food. Darn.

One more A word: Audubon. There’s a name that isn’t used as much lately. The Audubon Society is over a hundred years old and is dedicated to protecting birds and wildlife and their habitats. When I was in fourth grade, my teacher, whose name I’ll add if I think of it, was an avid bird-watcher. She belonged to the Audubon Society and thanks to her, all of us became members of the Junior Audubon Society. Basically this meant that every Friday our morning Bible reading (yes, we read the Bible in school in those days) was Psalm 8 (because it described the majesty of nature) and our afternoons included Jr. Audubon meetings. I don’t remember what we did in those meetings, but it had to be better than some of the “teaching to the test” that goes on nowadays. And I got to wear a cool button and carry over my interest with my grandparents who also were bird watchers. 

I suppose that I should also mention another A word, one that is part of my impetus to write in this blog: Alzheimer’s. Two grandparents suffered from this. So far my dad is okay, but who knows what the future holds for any of us. It’s probably best to get all of this down in readable form before I forget it.

Coming and going

Parenting has its ups and downs. If you’re a parent, you know that.

Thirty-five years ago today my first child was born. He was actually due on about September 28th, but I had been anticipating his birth for three weeks. Braxton Hicks contractions, some dilation — not to mention that it was September, meaning that I had been ungainly during the entire summer. I had pre-washed baby clothes, folded them, and put them away. I had walked around the nursery umpteen times, staring out the window and envying the robin who had a nest in the Rose of Sharon beneath as she sat next to the nest and let the sun bake the eggs, then hatched them, fed the fledglings, and shoved them from the nest. I had acclimated the cat to the presence of the baby furniture, giving him extra attention and telling him that soon he’d have a baby brother or sister.

The previous day, the 22nd, I decided to treat myself. I made a chocolate cream pie. Pie — I’ve already mentioned how much I love it. And chocolate! So anyhow, I made the chocolate cream pie and placed it in the refrigerator to chill. Chances were very good that I’d eat the entire thing the next day.

Please note: whenever I’m talking to a pregnant woman, one who is nearing delivery and anxious to get it over with, I give that advice. Chocolate cream pie. Yes, I also suggest that she engage in a last minute cleaning spree and arrange the baby’s room.

Ok, so chocolate cream pie in the refrigerator, some serious television viewing time, and off to bed.

1:30 a.m. I woke up to the thought, “Either I wet the bed or my water broke.” It didn’t really matter which, since both meant that I had to get out of bed. Turns out it was the latter. I called my doctor, showered, dressed, . . . And waited. Yep, the expectant daddy was a bundle of nerves and couldn’t seem to drag himself from the bathroom. We finally made it to the car and then to the hospital and found that the ob wing was very busy. Several deliveries that night and the following morning. Mine was the longest labor. Of course, not that long. However, there was plenty of activity, cries of “it’s coming now!!”

Meanwhile, I lay in my bed. So much for plans of “get up and walk a bit,” “make sure you change position.” The doctor examined me and didn’t like the position of the fetus. Yes, head down, but facing the wrong way. The doc positioned me on one side and said, “stay there.” So we timed contractions and talked and waited. In the middle of one contraction I cried out, “Call the nurse — it’s time!” When the contraction ended, I felt pretty foolish for that. But the nurse came in and checked me and decided that yep, it was time. Off to the delivery room and a few minutes later — with only a little frustration and a good dose of laughing gas — I was the mother of a son (at this time we didn’t go through all of those ultrasounds and other tests: he was born and that’s when I found out that I had a boy). 7:05 a.m. As I said, not that long of a labor. Good vitals: 18.5 inches long, 7 pounds.

And almost immediately there were complications. The pediatrician I’d selected arrived promptly, checked on the baby as I was in the recovery room, and came to tell me that he was jaundiced. Funny, you hear about rH negative-positive incompatibility but that’s it. Turns out that my type O+ blood wasn’t compatible with his type A+ blood. He and I spent four days in the hospital rather than the three that were typical at that time. And he couldn’t stay in the room with me, spending all but the times he was brought to my room to nurse under a special light. I saw other babies during my stay that looked jaundiced, their skin yellowish, but not him — he was a healthy reddish color with a shock of dark hair and healthy lungs, protesting that he couldn’t be swaddled like the others but had to have his skin exposed to that light.

There’s more that I could tell, but those are the basics. It really was amazing to me, that this little guy was mine, a part of me.

I remember this story each year on the anniversary of my son’s birthday, whether he’s here or not. And yes, I also remember the story of my daughter’s birth on May 6th. It’s what mom’s do.

This year my son is living in Florida — has been for 13 years. I send him a gift, talk to him on the phone (that’ll happen later today), and think about that day long ago.

This year I also went through a strange ritual, a type of letting go. Yes, from the moment a child is born, he or she and the mother begin that process of separation, of letting go. There are several milestones along the way: the first time someone else holds the baby, the first time the child stays with someone else, eating food rather than nursing, going to childcare or preschool or kindergarten, sleeping over at a friend’s house, going to camp, driving for the first time, graduating from high school, heading off to college, etc. I’ve been through all of them, though my son has not married (yet) and I’ve not had to give him to someone else.

However, this year my son bought a house. This is very exciting though it dashed any hopes that someday he’d move back to somewhere nearby. And though I haven’t seen the house yet, he told me that he’s picked out a place for his Christmas tree. In all the years that he’s been in Florida, he’s not had a tree, but now he will.

Today I sorted through the Christmas decorations — the large box, too many to use all of them every year but still there. I made piles and then repacked most of them. However, now within the large box there’s a smaller one that is designated for Anjee.

And there’s a priority mail box that’s designated for Albert.

So many memories in those boxes: decorations that they made or that were made for them or bought for them. When I packed the box for Albert it seemed pathetically small.

But I suppose it’s a start. And over the years he’ll add more decorations and eventually have a large box with too many decorations to use each year and memories to accompany them.

Where were you?

         “Where were you?”

That seems to be the question of the day.

And yet, no one misinterprets it — not today. No one takes it as “where were you before you came here?” or asks “where was I when?”

Today everyone understands the question.

“Where were you?”

“Where were you when you found out?”

“Where were you on September 11, 2001?”

Yep, today was all about remembering.

Not that that’s a bad thing. We need to remember and analyze and feel. Really feel. Because on that day, we felt something. Because on that day, we felt many things.

So where was I?

It was a Tuesday, just like this year. I was working for Head Start as a Home Visitor. I visited with a family in Kratzerville, Snyder County, PA — mother, daughter, two foster sons. It was a fun and maybe somewhat chaotic visit. Two adults, three preschool kids, how could it be anything but? The visit ended and I got in my car to drive to my office.

I’m not sure what was on my mind, but it took me a while to zero in on what was happening. I had the radio on, but I drove for a while before it registered that there was no music playing. I focused on what was being said and heard, “There it goes. It’s falling. The World Trade Center is no more.”

My thought? “I didn’t know there was a demolition planned.”

I drove for another mile or two before I sorted out the information that I was hearing. I drove the remaining miles to my office in a state of numbness.

Was I directly involved? No. Did I know anyone who was directly involved? No. Did that make a difference? No. It happened, I felt it. Or rather, I first felt the numbness.

Then I felt the sadness and the fear.

Then I looked at a map and realized that Flight 93’s crash site appeared to be far too close to Indiana, PA where my daughter was attending college. That’s when I got angry.

I’m not sure what point I’m trying to make or whether I’m making any point at all. It was far worse for those who were in New York City or Washington, DC or Shanksville, PA because that was where the actual action was taking place. But that didn’t keep the rest of us from feeling, from going through a range of emotions.

The following Sunday we sang patriotic songs in church. Of course. Suddenly the words to the fourth verse of America the Beautiful took on a new meaning:

             O beautiful for patriot dream
             That sees beyond the years
             Thine alabaster cities gleam
             Undimmed by human tears!
             America! America!
             God shed his grace on thee
             And crown thy good with brotherhood
             From sea to shining sea!

I guess it’s that “alabaster cities” portion of it that gets to me. And they definitely were dimmed by human tears. I suppose in a way everyone — or just about everyone — discovered some new bit of patriotism.

A few years later I went to New York City, the first time I’d ever been there. We went with some folks from my church, one of those “sign on to ride the bus, do your own thing for eight hours, then get back to the bus on time or we leave without you” things. My friend Donna and I weren’t there for the shopping: we just wanted to see some of the city. Of course, that meant we had to figure out the bus system and all of that, especially since we wanted to visit Ground Zero.

Wow. They had removed some of the debris at that time, but not all of it. And it was a few days short of September 11th of that particular year (2006?) and there were people speaking. We listened to them a bit, but moved on.

Instead, we checked out the artwork. It was kids’ drawings, pieced together into quilts, showing their memories of 9-11-2001. I’ve googled to find out more about that display, since I don’t remember everything about it, but came up empty. The photos in this entry are ones that I took that day, and they’re only a fraction of what was displayed.

It made me wonder: how will that memory, that memory of that day, shape those kids? I grew up with memories of air raids and President Kennedy being shot. I grew up with fears and sadness and anger shaped by those events. This generation of children, the ones who were young when this happened, will grow up with emotions shaped by an event that killed so many more, that was so much more tangible. How will that mold their thoughts and emotions in years to come?

Making a list and checking it twice

I had a conversation today about something that really bothers me: school supplies. I was chatting with a friend at work and she was complaining about how expensive it is to buy uniforms and school supplies for three kids. I’ll admit that I’m glad I’m not in that position.

First of all, the uniforms. I never had to wear a uniform to school. True, while I was attending Middletown Area High School, girls couldn’t wear slacks, let alone jeans. Skirts and dresses, every day. And those were regulated rather arbitrarily. In my senior year Mary Dinga and I were sent home to change clothes because we showed up in maxi skirts. Mrs. Graham saw us, sent us to the office to see Mr. Brunner, and he sent us home. I didn’t go home. We called Mary’s mom and went to her house. I had brought another skirt, so we sat around eating baloney and mayonnaise sandwiches and then returned to school in our shortest skirts — which were probably barely decent. That’s it: my big moment of rebellion.

And I think that it was the year after I graduated that they changed the regulations. Yep, girls no longer had to wear dresses. Thanks, Middletown Area School District. You couldn’t have done that a year or two earlier?

Anyhow, no uniforms. Except, of course, our gym uniforms. Talk about ugly. . .

But no uniforms for other classes.

My friend told me of how expensive the uniforms are. I guess that explains a few things. In my previous job we had a school aged program and often the kids showed up with torn or dirty uniforms. Yes, we saw them at the end of the day, but those same dirt spots were in the same places the next day. Apparently the uniforms were expensive enough that some of the parents only bought one pair of pants and two shirts and laundered them over the weekends. If the kids played hard during recess, they lived with the dirt for the rest of the week. It makes sense.

But on to the other portion of the problem: the school supplies.

When I moved to Maryland, the church I started attending had a backpack program going. It sounded good: church members donated supplies and the kids of the church filled backpacks with them and took those backpacks to the local elementary school to give to other kids who couldn’t afford to buy these things on their own. Good idea.

Until I realized that these weren’t just nice things that the kids could use in school: they were mandatory.

The families are given a list of supplies that each child needs to bring to school.

I was astounded. A list? The school supplies weren’t provided?

Maybe every school in the country has such a list, though I haven’t been able to pull up one online for Middletown’s schools. Let’s start with the list of required supplies for Montgomery County kindergarten children:

• 1 plastic school box
• 2 packs of Crayola crayons (24 count)
• 3 bottles of Elmer’s glue (4 oz)
• 2 dozen pencils
• 4 glue sticks
• Blunt primary scissors
• 4-count Expo dry erase markers
• Backpack large enough to hold a 9x12 folder (traditional backpacks only due to concerns about kindergarteners maneuvering backpacks with wheels)

Seriously?

The District of Columbia Public Schools ask a little less of some items: only one dozen pencils, one pack of crayons, one bottle of glue, two glue sticks, and two dry erase markers. They also allow generics. However, the following items have been added to their kindergarten through second grade list:

• 1 large pink eraser
• 1 box of tissues to share
• 1 box of markers or colored pencils
• 2 two-pocket folders
• 2 wide-ruled notebooks
• 1 ruler (inches and centimeters)

Wow. Buy that backpack and fill it up and then some. Do we buy an additional backpack to hold the children’s books?

Adding insult to injury, Montgomery County also publishes a list of “appreciated donations.”

• Any additional packages of the already mentioned supplies
• Tissues
• Hand soap
• Hand sanitizer
• Clorox wipes
• Baby wipes
• Gallon size Ziploc bags (with labels)
• Sandwich size Ziploc bags
• Quart size Ziploc bags
• Paper towels
• Fun band-aids
• 8-count Crayola markers

Alright. So what exactly is the school supplying?

When I was in elementary school (let’s forget kindergarten, since that was not in a public school at that time), on the first school day of each month we received two things:

A lined tablet.

A number 2 pencil.

If you lost your tablet or pencil or used them up before the end of the month, you needed to supply your own.

As to cleaning supplies (forget about Ziplocs — I don’t think they had been invented yet), they were there, ready for use. The same applied to crayons and colored pencils.

And of course, our composition books, into which we copied the poems we needed to

memorize and the Spanish words that we were learning.

(Though we didn't have fancy blue composition books -- they were all brown. And no hard covers on them, just something thicker than paper but thinner than card stock.)

The same was true when my kids were in school: they received their pencils and tablets. Sure, everyone liked to supplement with notebooks and trapper-keepers and other stuff, but the basics were there.

I find this new trend really disturbing. What are we doing to help kids to learn? What are we supplying? And no, it doesn’t all go to teachers’ pay — they buy more than the items on the lists to help their kids along, taking the money from their own pockets.

Shouldn’t those supplies be provided for all children? Shouldn’t they enter school knowing that education is so important that the grown-ups surrounding them — not just their family members but ALL adults around them — have provided what they need to help them succeed?

Somewhere along the line we went off-track. Way off-track.