As “Back to School” approaches, I can’t help but reminisce about a beloved annual rite of passage: school supply shopping.
The crayons. The loose leaf paper. The erasers. Oh god, the erasers. Magic little nubs, they were.
Even the lowly 49 cent pencil sharpener delivered a thrill.
But nothing, and I mean NOTHING, could even touch the Tzar of school supplies: the lunch box. That all-important vessel that shielded not only your ham sandwich but your fragile ego. Everybody knows it wasn’t intellect, talent or kindness that established your ranking in the schoolyard hierarchy. It was your lunch box.
In my day, if you possessed the Real Ghostbusters lunchbox with the accompanying thermos, you were safe. But if your box was a handmade wooden job because your dad was a carpenter, you’d have been wise to ask him to sculpt an anti-noogie helmet to go with. And pity the poor fool whose sesame snaps hitched a ride in a paper bag.
The lunch box was so integral to childhood happiness that I’m willing to wager some of you still have yours hanging around.
To honour all lunch boxes past and present, I propose that you send me a picture of yours. Or if you don’t have one, send me a shot of your kid’s lunch box. If I get enough, I’ll post a gallery here and we can all relive that awful yet delicious envy.
Email me HERE!
(Thundercats lunch box photo by bobjudge, Flickr creative commons)
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