The Purple Blanket, The Sunshine, And Me

     I still have a perfect memory of my father walking me hand-in-hand up to Riley Elementary School for my first day of kindergarten.  Oh, this was truly back in the day:  Vietnam was just getting started; Bobby and Martin were still alive; the surface of the moon was still uncluttered and pristine; Reagan, Iran, Iraq, and 9-11 were all still ghosts yet to be uncovered.  During those days, the vast majority of my life was a clean slate upon which to write of my future existence.  And that, besides my father's hand in mine, was probably the best part of the whole deal.
     Kindergarten existed of building blocks shaped of squares, circles, rectangles and two or three ultra-desirable ones made to look like little ships; stories of the Muffin Man; Show and Tell; coloring "outside the lines" (an absolute NO-NO); Mrs. Jones and her red hair; and sawdust-covered vomit "accidents" on shiny hallway linoleum squares.  It was an idyllic life, full of simplicity and youth; of big windows looking out upon Orchard Street; and of new and strange little people who were now invading - at half-day intervals - my personal space, and who, over the years, would portion themselves into three categories of my life:  Forever friends; Mortal enemies; And those of the paradoxically long remembered and easily forgotten.

     We were all required to bring a "blanket" to school with us, which was really nothing more than a big bath towel.  Mom still has mine; it was purple.  I saw it recently and my first thought was:  "I laid on THAT?"  To a full-grown man of fifty years, it seemed impossibly small for anything alive to have ever rested upon.
     At designated times during the day - one per as I remember - we took out our blankets from three-sided storage boxes along the wall, placed them on the aforementioned linoleum floor, and lay down upon them for a few moments of "rest."  I clearly remember alternately meeting the glances of my classmates - albeit from a strange angle - during this quiet time and also seeing and seemingly having my face being mere inches away from the new tennis shoes of the kid next to me.

     The sunshine streamed down upon us from the north-facing windows, warming us in our silence and in our dreams.  Mrs. Jones probably caught up on some paperwork or prepared the next activity during the moments of respite, and all was well.  There were no worries of locked and secured doors to the school.  I'm clearly positive that the side door to the classroom just a few feet away from us next to the Borax dispenser was unlocked, as were all the other school entrances.  This was 1965.  Other than the convoluted maze that led to Principal Dodd's office, no one thought in terms of "school security."
     Now it is 2012.
     The school shooting in Connecticut is just the most recent in a long string of tragedies in what should be places of memories and learning.  Students in our nation's schools now learn about things like "lock downs" and "evacuation drills" alongside math and reading and history.  It is a completely different world from 1965, and not just in our nation's schools.  Something has been unleashed somewhere, and it has nothing to do with politics.  A darkened hand and a flipped switch and willing minds are all it takes, and the abyss opens and beckons.  And some walk towards it and enter.
     So I remember the purple blanket and the warming sunshine and the peace in the room.  There were no thoughts of what evil may lay outside waiting to come inside.  All was peace and newness and the promise of a tomorrow and a tomorrow and a tomorrow...
     In his song "No Man's Land" on the fine album "River Of Dreams", Billy Joel wrote these words:  "I see these children with their boredom and their vacant stares/God help us all if we're to blame for their unanswered prayers."
     Amen to that, Billy.  Amen to that.