September 9, 2007
The leather satchel my grandma gave me when I graduated from KU–a classy, functional gift; typically grandma–has been pushed to its threads ends. Stuffed with run-on sentences; Urban vernacular that defies the laws of standard American English; a new Apple laptop; and a copy of Time magazine containing an article about how our country’s schools are failing our brightest students; the black leather satchel my grandma gave me is bursting at the seams and worn at the corners.
The leather’s still soft and the faint smell of store bought leather lingers faintly. There are wrinkles now, though, the way soft leather does. It’s a classy, timeless satchel that will adapt to its purpose, value, use, and abuse. My grandma wouldn’t buy one that wouldn’t withstand. She wouldn’t have it.
I woke up at 9 a.m. on Sunday and arrived at the coffee shop by 10. My purpose was to drink a cup of coffee and relieve some of the stress that I’ve been placing on the leather satchel my grandma gave me. I corrected some papers with a red pen. (Some say, “don’t use red ink to correct papers, because the color has a disquieting effect on kids.” I say, if they don’t get that a color of one’s ink is arbitrary, then they aren’t qualified to do the assignment anyway.) I punched their grades into the computer’s grading system. Then, I stacked the papers that I saw no purpose in grading because the kids don’t remember doing that assignment and I don’t remember teaching it. Those I’ll throw away. Now, the leather satchel is organized, still brimming, but orderly. The contents are clear.
Nearly everything–and think about the mathematical value of “nearly everything”–has its limits. The leather satchel that my grandma gave me can withstand extreme conditions, yet still has its limits. Like a balloon, I fill the leather satchel out of its zone of comfort. I’ve found the time and good will to relieve some of that pressure. The satchel now has the memory of those limits and the elasticity to withstand again.
