Pencil Shavings

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.

Dad’s Toolbox and Workbench – present day

Kind of oily and metallic, mixed with the hot and dusty smell of the garage. A slight bit of decaying formaldehyde from the surfboards hanging above, and the residue from an ancient oil tin that still has a few drops left. There’s a dull-looking jumble of wrenches and screwdrivers and nails and screws – it’s clear that the box was well used and had more projects left to complete, before it lay abandoned and untouched for so long. Very masculine, extremely nostalgic – I feel like I’m trespassing on forbidden territory. It’s been so many years since these objects saw use in the light of day that it might as well be a Grandpa’s toolbox, but the smell still has the power to make me feel small again.