Pencil Shavings
October 20, 2006
The enthusiastic sharpness of wood shavings and the industrial classroom smell of lead brought into existence by the metal grinding gears of my dad’s pencil sharpener. When he worked late at night, I could hear its dull growling rhythm through the shared wall of my bedroom and his den.
Sharpening a pencil yesterday, I was struck by the same frisson of excitement which used to come with the privilege (or sneakiness) of getting to empty a nearly filled container of grey dusted wood crumbs into my grade-school classroom’s rubbish can, which was lined with a brown plastic bag. A small handful of us really dug the activity, and there was always a faint letdown whenever we heard someone else open the canister at the back of the room.
