My kingdom for some No. 2s

Dear Santa,

Considering Alexander would give his kingdom for a horse, I don’t want much this year. All I want are some pencils.

San’ the Man, where do all my pencils go? They must have the inside track with my lost socks. While I rummage through my desk looking for a pencil, I imagine renegade Ticonderogas getting cozy with my Thorlo running crew.

Teachers who think a syllabus requiring pencils is all it takes to get the yellow sticks to class must have erasers for brains. I know I do.

You have to believe me, Santa, this year I wasn’t going to need pencil counseling. “Pencils come and pencils go,” I breathed deeply. “People are dying every day in Albania. Pencils must not be my cause.” I was at peace with pencils. I loaded up with pencils and lent them out as needed. Namaste.

I am sure you can relate, Kris, but the pencils disappeared faster than my paycheck at the Fred Meyer checkout. I resorted to old-fashioned economics: a pencil for a shoe. Before you could say Rudolph, I had a pile of shoes by my desk. I swear on my Christmas tree, those shoes walked away with my pencils in their tongues.

Not one to admit defeat, back to the supply room I tripped and grabbed another pile of graphite. This time, I carefully wrapped masking tape, laboriously marked with my name, around each pencil. Still, shoes came and pencils went.

Nick old boy, I had to default. I told the kids they were supposed to learn that they can’t borrow without collateral and should pay back their loans. However, I remonstrated, you must have read the news because you didn’t pay back your loans and you still kept your shoes. Unfortunately, Mr. Obama is not bailing out pencils. “Bring your own,” I said.

This, Papa Christmas, is my point. Nobody seems to know where they are. Everyone is pretty sure that the kid over there stole it.

“He stole your pencil?” I ask. “He got up, rifled through that thing you call a notebook, and ripped off your pencil, which was — if you don’t mind me saying — probably mine anyway?”

“Yes, exactly. You can ask my neighbor. He saw my pencil earlier. ”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he wanted to borrow it.”

If this wasn’t enough, Kringle, what they call pencils don’t count as toothpicks. Their stubs of lead match the size of Comet’s pinky. Likewise, they would wander for 40 days in the desert looking for a pencil with an eraser.

I have been good, Santa, really I have. I brush my teeth; I wash my hands; I even make my bed. I thought about asking for peace on Earth again, but this year that seems a bit much to ask. Plus, I know how busy you are, though we are not just whistling Dixie down below the Circle ourselves. All I ask is for No. 2s. (Yellow ones, please, with good erasers).

Have a good ride, Big Guy.

EF

P.S. Do you have an in with the Easter Bunny? I could use a working stapler.

Emily Forstner is a teacher at Wasilla Middle School.