Last Call

The end of August and I face the inevitable. I march over to the school to read the class rosters posted on the doors . I'm pleased to see I'll still be with most of my old classmates; we've been together a long time now. My teacher will be a Mrs. Schoener, and I know absolutely nothing about her. Schoener? Sounds German:shay-ner, and I imagine she's an ex-Nazi working undercover for the CIA, testing small children to see if they're loyal Americans. Just a few days and I'll know for sure.
Like everyone else we go shopping for school clothes, and Mom picks out corduroy pants and flannel shirts. Every year our parents send us off to school dressed for fall but it's really still summer, so we sweat like pigs as we walk along. We sweat even more in our old schoolrooms; there's no air-conditioning; opening those big old windows doesn't help much at all. We spend most of our first days of the new school year sweltering in the heat of summer, barely able to concentrate.
Like everyone else we go to Ernie's Shoe Post. I like plain black Oxfords with heavy soles. "Policemen's shoes" they call them. I need something sturdy for my march on the trail, shoes that will hold up against the daily grind on the sidewalk.
I'll have to use white paper all of the time now. No more yellow paper for writing, no more printing. I will be ten years old in December, and my cursive skills must be honed. Fourth Grade is serious stuff, you know. Mom takes us to Kresge's in Woodbury where we stock up on pencils and paper. We get erasers and pencil boxes, and I try to decide which lunch box I want. Cartoons or cowboys? I think I'll go with Gunsmoke this year, and a Flintstones for Carl.
I'm older now, so I begin to resent having to go to school, my freedom curtailed. So much good weather still left, but we'll spend it indoors, our lives controlled by teachers and the ring of a bell.
I'd prefer not to go back for air-raid drills. I don't want to think about nuclear war, knowing that the last thing I'll see on earth will be the tops of my shoes.
For us the summer is played out, except for the Labor Day holiday. It's a cruel joke on us kids, this holiday before school. Big cookouts and family fun. Swimming and badminton and Wiffle ball games. We stand around the barbecue grill after dark, toasting marshmallows on the heat of the dying coals. Such joy, such fun, what freedom! There's still hope; maybe summer really won't end.
Our reverie is broken.
Familiar voices cut through the evening air.
Our mothers call: "Come in now. Time to get ready for tomorrow. Time to get ready for school."