In the summer of 1992, I was packing up for my first semester of college. I was 17, about to move to another state, to live in a dorm where I knew no one.
That’s when my Dad gave me a gift, wrapped in the comics from the Sunday paper. The Sunday funnies were always the first choice for wrapping paper in my house, and Dad would take extra care to wrap it so that his favorite comic strip — featuring Charlie Brown and Snoopy — were prominently displayed on top. You would never fold the flap over Snoopy, or place tape over Charlie Brown. No, the Peanuts gang always got top billing as gift wrap.
My Dad is good at gifts. He’s not one for big, extravagant gifts, but his small, thoughtful gift game is strong.
When I opened the gift that summer, I admit I was puzzled at first. Inside was an electric pencil sharpener. Not a colorful, chunky school supply that was customary from elementary school on up. This was a real, grown-up, office-grade pencil sharpener. It was beige, with suction cups on the bottom, and a tiny drawer in front to catch pencil shavings. It was heavy. Built to last.
“For your dorm room,” he said.
I don’t remember how I reacted. I know I didn’t leap for joy or anything, but I hope I was at least polite. I probably thanked him and took it over to the corner of my room where I was stockpiling the trappings of impending adulthood: things like a laundry basket, an umbrella, and a small houseplant.
This was the 90s — I had yet to own a computer, and cell phones were not even in my vocabulary. The big tech item I was lugging with me to college was my typewriter: a state-of-the-art electric typewriter! Now I had another “tech” item: my pencil sharpener.
My first semester got underway, bringing with it the initial euphoria of newfound independence, followed by a lull when homesickness and nostalgia for the familiar set in.
“I don’t think I’m meeting friends,” I wrote to my Dad. “I’m meeting people, but not the ‘close friends’ type of people.”
“Give it time,” he wrote back. “Sometimes it takes a little longer for true friends to emerge. But they will.”
In the meantime, my electric pencil sharpener sat on my desk, plugged in and ready. And sure enough, word got around. A knock on my door at 10 p.m. would reveal a bleary-eyed student holding a broken pencil. So-and-so told them I had a pencil sharpener, they would say. Would it be okay if they used it? I established an open-door policy for my sharpener. Anyone could use it when needed; when it came to avoiding broken or dull pencil tips, we were all friends here.
Each whir of the sharpener represented a new introduction, a potential friend, a meet-cute over pencil tips. It was a little thing, but it was a perfect icebreaker. I’m pretty sure Dad knew what he was doing all along; I had the one thing people needed. I had the missing ingredient that could change the trajectory of a study session blown to bits by the shrapnel of graphite.
Now, my son is the one who has been accepted to an out-of-state college, and in the fall, I will be the parent sending my child to live in a dorm where he knows nobody.
I wish I could give him a pencil sharpener. In his world, laptops and mobile devices are ubiquitous. A pencil sharpener would not pack the same punch as it did in the 90s.
What type of gift can I give my son to take with him to his new life at college — something he can share with friendly strangers who live on his floor? I have only a few months to come up with the next generation of what my beloved pencil sharpener did for me. Perhaps it can be something like a coffee pot. Or, perhaps this generation’s pencil sharpener equivalent has become the charger.
Whatever it is, I will make a ritual of it. I will grab the Sunday funnies and wrap the item just so, making sure that Snoopy and his red doghouse show prominently on the top of the package. Maybe my son will wonder about the strange gift and thank me politely before packing it with his other belongings. Then, hopefully, months later, I will have somehow vicariously helped my son meet a few new names and faces. An introduction will lead to a conversation, which might lead to more conversations. In his new place, standing at the precipice of adulthood, my son will find his friends, his people. After all, someone once told me that it takes a little longer for true friends to emerge. But they will.
