Pinecone Races

Something I did with my mum as a three-year-old: we collected cones from the pines bordering our Catskill, New York property, put them in a brown paper Shop Rite bag and took the Oldsmobile to the old railroad bridge leading into town. Standing on one side of the bridge, we’d drop the cones into the water; on the other side, we’d see whose slipped first from the shadows, spinning a little in the current.

It was a trick we learned from Winnie the Pooh. Who knew what happened under the bridge? Something emerged on the other side.

Coming from a college senior, I think the metaphor is obvious.

In my case, the metaphor is applicable. Somewhat. For the semester, let’s say. The resume needs some sexing-up, and it needs to, well, go somewhere. Grad School feels like a distant tingle, and my bones are saying: next year. Or maybe the year after. But with my Honors project, the rest of my year has already fallen into place.

Not true for most. The hand-wringing and hear-tearing among the Senior class is considerable, comparable only to the entranced navel-gazing an panicked draining of pint glasses. For all the highfalutin blahblah it seems to engender, the Scare comes down to a single word: Now?

Yeah, now. No “next year.” No second chance.

Little pinecone in a graduation gown, spinning down the steps with a diploma, smiling up and down the creek.