Eulogy for a JanSport

My friends will no doubt be surprised to learn that I just replaced my school backpack. They will also be angry, as they have suggested that I do so for at least two years. Until recently, however, I withstood their assaults of logic and kept insisting that there was nothing wrong with the one I had.

Actually, there was a lot wrong with it. The zipper would come undone in the middle unpredictably, dumping the contents of the bag into the closest puddle or cluster of menacing quad squirrels and sending me chasing after CDs as they roll away like wagon wheels. Worse, a tear in the leather bottom slowly grew over the last few years into a gaping hole.

First, I lost only pens through it, but it has since enlarged to imperil my larger possessions: small books, oranges from my lunch, my Nalgene bottle. By the time I replaced the bag, the hole regularly spilled my portable CD player onto the asphalt, which might explain the recent ineffectiveness of its skip protection.

In spite of its obvious flaws, I loved my backpack. It was JanSport's simplest model: two blue canvas pockets, two zippers, two straps and some leather. The backpacks I see on campus today, with their crisscrossing buckles and thousands of compartments, are significantly more complicated. I always wonder if their owners climb mountains or wade across jungle swamps on the weekends with the same equipment, or if they are merely the same as yuppies who buy ultra-tough SUVs, but never take them off the pavement. Or perhaps, their school possessions are just more organized.

Regardless, I didn't want one of the new styles of backpacks. I didn't need more than two compartments. I didn't need to scale any mountains or brave any swamps. I just needed to throw my books in and feel the familiarity of the bag's weight slung low across my back as I walked to school.

However, as the hole in the bottom continued to swallow my bagged lunches, friends increasingly gestured towards JanSport's lifetime warranty. Unfortunately for me, JanSport discontinued my model some years ago. They make something very similar, but it has three compartments instead of two -- an unacceptable modification. I was left with a vicious dilemma: ditch my old-school style and join the ranks of technologically advanced backpack owners or concede the loss of hundreds of dollars worth of textbooks through the hole.

Help came from an unexpected donor. While I was back home for a dentist's appointment last week, my father noticed a course packet sliding through the bottom of my bag. He, too, was aware of my obstinacy on the subject so, in turn, left a surprise for me in my borrowed bedroom: an identical backpack, which he had found molding in the back of one of his closets. All my excuses gone, I gave up and made the swap.

Before long, I noticed something amiss. The new bag looked, functioned and felt just like the old one, minus the battle scars -- but something was missing.

I realized that I didn't want a backpack of the right color and with the right number of pockets and zippers. I wanted the backpack that had traveled thousands of miles on my back, the one that had carried my belongings to a dozen countries, the one I had touched almost every day for more than eight years. I wanted my backpack.

Maybe sentimental attachment to one's possessions isn't healthy, but it's a fact of life. I have already begun plans to scrap the new pack to make a patching kit for the old. I have to hurry, though -- if I wait too long, I won't be able to bear cutting a hole in the new one.