I’m one of those people who have very few memories of their childhood. For me, there are glimpses here and there, but most of my childhood is a blank. The fact that I couldn’t remember my youth used to irritate my mother, who told me about all the cool stuff she did for me when I was a child. Alas, I wish I could remember it.

I looked forward to each new school year, learning fresh material and getting new books. I even didn’t mind homework. My curious mind wanted to learn new things, and I also liked school supplies. I can still picture the playground behind our elementary school. In those days, we walked to school, including the upper grades, and carried our books. I only got a ride in rainy or snow conditions.

Having a new three ring binder with a spanky-clean pencil/pen holder clipped into it. Although I knew the marble covered notebooks would soon be filled with words and doodles, there was something special about them in their pristine state.

There was always something magical about fresh notebooks, sharpened pencils, and the promise of new beginnings. It felt a bit like the opening chapter of a good mystery where anything could happen.

I grew up in a small fishing hammock next door to many cousins and playmates. During summer our parents would turn us out with the warning to be home by dark. We made forts, climbed trees, swam (with an adult present), and more. So back to school memories weren’t a good thing. I completely lost personal freedom. I had to wear shoes. And girls had to wear dresses. Pants were not allowed. I would have given anything for a pair of magical red shoes like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. “There’s no place like home!”

Going shopping for new clothes with my mom.  And of course, the perfect notebook, totally something with horses on it.

Just getting back to school. Except for one 2-week stint at Girl Scout camp when I was eleven, I never went to camp, there was no community pool in our town, and my family never went on summer vacations. Summers were hot and boring.