This is the week when kids are turning the corner from summer freedom to school routines. Parents are trying to break the habits of late nights, uncombed hair and spontaneous shenanigans, as they attempt to set the tone for the business at hand. So many common rituals mark this time of year – first day of school outfits have been purchased, school supplies have been categorized. For us, a key back to school ritual was the annual writing on The Stick.
The Stick was simply a thin three-foot long one-by-four that propped our dear neighbour friend’s playhouse table in place. It was an ingenious table, actually, built to collapse into the wall to provide more space in the small and coveted playhouse. So much occurred inside that little wooden structure that sat right beside their washstand in the backyard. We would have little campouts in there, our brothers would undress Barbie Dolls in there, the whole gang would bring snacks and listen to Stampeder football games on the transistor radio in there.
But once every year, the night before the school year started, my sister and I would make the pilgrimage to meet our friend at the playhouse to mark the end of summer by writing on that stick. I’m not sure why or when that ritual began, but I do remember my first ‘stick entry’ was ‘Super Summer ’74!’. We would try to capture the essence of the summer that was quickly sliding away or our common hopes for the world in the year to come. It felt monumental, this gathering and the words we chose.
We would always write our individual thoughts, so three passages would be etched onto The Stick each year. Space was at a premium as the years passed, especially since Sister was always so wordy. One year we made little ink boundaries around the space she would be allotted for the following year. We felt our whole lives were laid out chronologically on that stick. We thought it was well and truly destined for a Smithsonian display for the world to behold.
Then one year we arrived at the playhouse to find The Stick was missing. We searched and panicked and finally discovered that Dear Friend’s dad had thrown it out. “But, Slim, that’s the kids’ stick,” Dear Friend’s mom had declared, once she caught wind of the travesty that had befallen us.
“It’s a piece of crap,” Dear Friend’s dad replied. And that was the end of that.