On Second Writing Class:

I needed a ride to class because our car is in the shop. I called the other woman from the first class and she graciously gave me a lift even though it was out of her way.

When we got there, a few minutes late do to collecting me, two other people had arrived before us. The teacher introduced us all around. Then a few minutes later the last to arrive that night found the place.

The class is now a mixed group. One man, four women, all of varying ages and back grounds. It is a very good group as far as writing skills go. I had my lance at the ready to bludgeon any and all offensively bad writing skills. And it came home with me having a distinct lack of blood on it. I am intrigued by the stories and poems set fourth so far and want to hear more of what they have to say and/or write.

I’m having a good time so far in class. My works seem to be going over well so far. Here is the ‘Slice of Life’ piece that I shared last night.

Autumn Air by (?) Also known As Lady Euphoria

There was a smell in the crisp cool autumn air that sent him back to his childhood. Back to school books and pencil sharpeners and chalk boards. He hadn’t thought of those days in a long time. Childhood yes, but not school. Paper and crayons, paste and scissors, desks and chairs, all filled his mind. Golden morning light landing across desks and the small dust particles in the air floating almost still.

He could feel the lunchbox in his hand. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich wrapped in wax paper, a thermos of cold milk and an apple with a paper napkin. He could feel the jacket, red and black check, just like the one his father wore for hunting. His hat, the one that matched his jacket with the ear flaps tucked inside so his friends couldn’t see it was a sissy hat was folded and tucked under his arm. He could see the tips of his new brown shoes sticking out over the well warn steps going into the building.

Where did this memory come from? It was so strong and solid. Just from a scent in the air?

He felt so grown up in his little’n years. This feeling of pride and self assurance mixed with a little bit of fear of the unknown. Life was in control and had order. Nothing truly bad was going to happen. Parents and teachers would take care of him. And the police in town had a new car to catch the bad guys, if any of them just happened to come to town. There was a picture of the President on the wall just under the American Flag, and he kept the bad guys out of the country. And if all else failed his cowboy hero would save the day. Yes all was good and right in this world.

He sat at his desk his jacket safe in the cloak room on his peg with his lunch box on the shelf above it. He was writing, no not writing, printing on a sheet of paper. The kind with the solid line, dotted line, solid line. Holding a large log of a pencil in his small hands making a mistake and having to erase it. The smell of the paper, the woody pencil and the eraser. The feeling of the smooth shiny red painted pencil and the feel of the eraser shavings under his hand felt like it was happening all over again.

It was quiet in the room. Too quiet for a room full of children but that was the way it was. The quite lay like a quilt over the entire building. The only sound of children was and occasional cough or chair scraping the floor marring the quiet now that class had started. He could hear the rustle of the teachers clothing as she came down the isle, smell the soap and deodorant and what?… Hair spray. That was the smell that brought all these memories back.

Hair spray. Now that he had identified the smell all the memories were fading and try as he might he couldn’t capture them again. He realized it had been a long time since he felt that safe and self assured.

You can’t go back to childhood.