Monday, August 31, 2015
It's the back to school "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" where I remember distinctly not the "with fruit the vines that 'round the thatch-eaves run," (adieu, adieu, Mr. Keats) but the chalkboard sweet milk-carton smell of my 4th grade teacher Mrs. Jenkins who did not have a first name to my knowledge and wore her hair in a giant spray-shellacked beehive and presciently, Jungian-ly, archetypically, cast me as the Cowardly Lion in the Ellis School 4th grade's rendition of The Wizard of Oz. I channeled my best Burt Lahr blaring in my chubby, thick lion-colored dance pantyhose. If I were king of the forrrreeeest.
As I've said many times, I haven't emotionally matured much past ten. Perhaps to eleven. My mom jokes that 4th grade was my academic peak. My Denali. Previously my Mt. McKinley.
My son begins 4th grade tomorrow; it's like I'm going to 4th grade. Is that how tied up in him I am? Mother as sticky web of her own unfinished business. Mother as vampire? Yes. Possibly.
The small lion-costumed ghostly me of the past with a tartan plaid metal lunchbox containing the extremely uncool lunch of homemade meatloaf (or worse, my grandmother's relish-flecked egg salad on homemade wheat), nothing good to trade in the lunchroom, will be following him off up the hill, I can't help it.