THE NEW SLATE

Why arent we starting school? I always think that when the leaves fall. Its like trying to keep from dancing when theres Frank Sinatra on the stereo. Or trying to resist buying popcorn when you hear the 20th Century Fox fanfare. Its officially Fall and it doesnt matter if youve been retired a dozen years--something inside you thinks you ought to be going back to class.

I still have school dreams (nightmares?) in September-- like homework is due. I was out of college for a couple of years before I quit waking up early recalling a beloved early Monday class. All about fresh beginnings, clean slates, another chance to get it right. Last year, you didnt catch on to Algebra, but this year Geometry will be different. Last year, your boyfriend was out of shape, this year hell be the first-string quarterback. Last year, you were too shy, too clumsy, too dumb, too scattered, too unfriendly: not this year. The new slate!

The year I began Horace Mann Junior High School stands out in my mind the most. What seems more of the essence of growing up than turning 13, leaving grammar school behind, and taking the city bus twenty blocks north to a big building housing a thousand teenagers? The notion that you know very few of them is daunting. But with a next-door neighbor a year ahead, theres a security blanket to start off with, and Barbara was always kind about that clinging.

The week before school started, my mother and I made our annual back-to-school pilgrimage downtown to May Co. She loved pretty clothes, and got a vicarious thrill out of seeing me look pretty as possible, so the shopping was fun. There were few limits on my choices, although my father had recently retired and hed have preferred a conservative approach with the stores charge-a-plate.

This time I came home with the latest thing--an angora sweater of pink, fuzzy wool with socks to match. An aqua corduroy jacket and skirt seemed especially appealing and that ended up in the bag, too, along with black ballerina shoes and matching purse. Seemed like adult clothing to me, and I could hardly wait to wear them. My mother even sprang for my first lipstick: Cotys Dahlia shade, a rather vivid coral which the salesgirl told us was just right for my coloring. Amazing, isnt it, how that exact lipstick name stuck in my head for over half a century? If only the algebra had remained as constant!

September 12 dawned hot and muggy. Did I care? Hardly--I had a new grown-up outfit to wear and nothing would have kept me from taking that corduroy suit out of my closet. The fluffy sweater did seem a bit too much, so I selected a long-sleeved white blouse to wear under the jacket, with an artificial bluish flower to pin at that collar. The ballerina shoes made just the right completion to the ensemble, along with that black purse. Looking in my vanity mirror, I saw a genuine teenager, not the little girl Id so recently been as a graduate of 87th St. School.

Barbara and I climbed on the bus up on the boulevard and rode the 20-some blocks toward downtown Los Angeles, then hiked the three blocks over the hill to the huge, old school building around since 1919. The eventful day doesnt offer remarkable moments after all these years, but when it was time to go home, I recall it well. Barbara was among the missing, and Id spent my bus money on candy at the last recess.

Strange faces were all around me, since my grade school split its students into two different middle-schools boundaries with most going south to Bret Harte. Not a familiar face appeared while I stood on that corner. Yet, the friendly boy sitting next to me in English came along and said Walk home, like Im doing. That seemed the most sensible idea. There was no real problem finding my way since Western Avenue was a direct line between school and home, and we could see its traffic from the intersection.

Still, I hadnt reckoned on those new shoes. By the time Id left Tommy at his corner after half a dozen blocks, I had a blister on my heel. By the time Id hiked another dozen blocks, that first one was as big as a quarter and the other heel gave change with a dime. The heat of the afternoon didnt dissipate that day until sunset. I peeled off my jacket in the first block but that heavy, long-sleeved blouse was an albatross around my neck. Somewhere in the middle of the trek, I rolled up the sleeves, but to no avail. That jacket over one arm and the leather notebook under the other weighted me down and heated me up until I wanted to strip to the skin, but couldnt, of course. Tears rolled down my cheeks by the time I limped up St. Andrews Place, hobbled down the driveway and pushed open my back door. Red in the face from sunstroke, as well as embarrassment, I wanted to be comforted but my mother could only chuckle as she reached for my arm-loads saying, Bad day, Sandie?

It isnt only the calendar triggering this rush of memory and dashed hope. Its in the air, the light, all a little softer; autumn smells so different somehow. And in the evening, its cooler--we all look forward to that. Is there another time of year when the mind is more charged and the natural sense of curiosity more active? We can resist it all and put our school years behind us, but the rhythm of the academic year is hard-wired into us in early childhood. Cant stop that starting over in September anymore than stop giving gifts in December or lighting sparklers in July. See ya in homeroom....I wish!