• Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

    Join 78 other subscribers
  • “Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers” — Isaac Asimov

  • Recent Posts

  • Pages

  • Categories

  • Archives

  • Blog Stats

    • 195,059 hits

Who Remembers This?

Yesterday, the Mr. and I went to the mall at the beach.  Although I’d forgotten to take my Ulta coupons with me (dang it), we decided to go ahead and eat lunch at my favorite, vegan-friendly, pizza place, Red Brick.

It was a cold day…even colder at the outside mall with the breezes from the ocean.

On our way to the pizzeria, we stopped at a store to look around.

That’s when I saw this…

Oh word, but I was taken back, in an instant, to my childhood.

I spent hours playing with my Spirograph.  I wasn’t artistic, by any stretch of the imagination, so this toy made me happy.

It meant I didn’t have to freehand to come up with pretty designs.

I think I kept this toy through my teenage years.  I never tired of it because the designs were always original.  I could never remember which hole I’d used for which design.

I nearly bought the box yesterday to place in my classroom.  My students are very artistic and are always doodling.

I’ll probably go back and pick it up or try to find it online for a cheaper price.

Either way, the memories it evoked made me smile.

My childhood was filled with a lot of angst and turmoil.  It’s good when a precious memory rises to the surface and temporarily blots out some of the scars that will never completely heal.

I don’t think they make toys like this any more.

A Flash From the Past

When I walked into my subbing job on Thursday, I spied something I had not seem in many years.  I eagerly ran over and stretched out my arms to embrace it.  My students got a good chuckle at my strange antics.

It would be a bit of a stretch to say that this “something” and I were on friendly terms many moons ago, although we did spend quite a bit of time together.  We certainly did battle a few times, as I attempted to diagram sentences or work out equations without numbers.  My skin crawled as it made horrible squeaky noises unexpectedly.

And yet, much of my childhood was spent around this “something.”  Enough time, in fact, that my heart warmed at the sight of it.

I couldn’t help myself.  I had to claim it as mine, if only for a few hours.

Yes, my friends, the “something” was actually a chalkboard.

What fun it used to be to get to wash down the chalkboard and clap the erasers together to free them from the chalk dust that amassed on them each week.  I even remember the four or five wired chalk holder the teachers used to draw straight lines across the board.  These lines were used to torture us as we wrote in cursive on the board.

I used to have my own big chalkboard at home.  It was the kind you could write on both sides.  It was mounted on a stand with enough room to flip over.  My sister and I spent hours, each of us on opposite sides, drawing surprises for the other or playing hangman.

I love how seemingly simple objects can evoke warm memories.