FRIDAY MORNING, BASKET CASE
Put it down to separation anxiety.
I'm in the condo, ready to leave for the airport. Ken loads my suitcases into my car, in the underground parking garage. Should I go down, or wait until he comes up? I haven't worn a watch in years, relying on my cell phone to keep track of the time, but now I have had my cell phone disconnected, and I have no battery for my watch. Are we running late? Does it matter? I don't want to take my keys with me to New Hampshire. I hang up my car key, take my condo key with me, and go down to the garage. Ken has gone up, and the car is locked. I go back up to the condo. Ken suggests I go back down and wait for him in the car--he'll only be a minute. I hang up my condo key, take my car key with me, and go down to the garage. I go the way I always go: I exit the building, take the outside stairs, and . . . without the condo key, I can't get into the garage. I have succeeded in locking myself out.
I'm gonna lose it. I observe my own behavior, as if watching a bad movie (this, by the way, is not a helpful strategy). I swallow, and run around three sides of the building to the front gate. I dial our code, 2016. The recorded voice tells me that my local call is proceeding, and reminds me that in future I must dial the area code.
I'm losing it! I'm losing it! I swallow, hard. Ken does not answer. My pulse kicks it up a notch. I dial 780-2016. The display tells me this is not a valid code. Rapid, shallow breathing. I dial 2016 again, listen to the recorded message and the ringing again, and wonder whether Ken is sitting in the car, waiting for me in the garage.
I can't do this! I've lost it! I've lost it! Rapid-fire thoughts: Will he go back up to the condo to look for me? Will he think to look out of the window and see me in the driveway? Will he hear me if he's in the garage, and I hammer on the garage door? My eyes start to run. Screaming silently (I hope!) I run back around three sides of the building to the garage door. My dear, sensible husband has the car in the driveway. He sees me. I try to let myself feel flooded with relief. I try to listen as I tell myself it's all okay. I try to resume breathing.
I am rescued, but am I sane? SATURDAY
Ken was
extremely understanding about my meltdown in the car, the flights were fine, the airports were fine, U.S. customs was fine, my room in the dorm is A-okay, if a little plain and bare, and I even slept well. I should have brought more food with me from the airport--I'm so hungry my tummy hurts. I went to sleep making a short mental grocery list, knowing that all my meals are provided here, on weekdays only. Oh, yes, and I'll definitely need to pick up some sunscreen, as well. I understand it's a bit of a hike into Wilton (the town closest to the school where I'm taking the three-week summer program). A lovely fellow student here, named Mary, gives me the news that Wilton has no grocery store, and no pharmacy!!! She shares her oatmeal with me, enabling me to face the morning world. It is storybook-lovely here--forest, stone fences, wildflower meadows, distant blue hills, continuous birdsong, cows, and it's fairly humid and very warm. In true May Louise fashion, I walk for what feels like well over 40 minutes before checking my course with some guy in his driveway, only to find out that I should have turned
left instead of right when I left the school. I estimate (because I can't tell time without a watch) that it takes me over 1 1/2 hours to do the 40-minute walk down the hill into Wilton. I promise myself that I'll take a cab back to the school.
Hey! There's a bank open on a Saturday in Wilton, but they won't cash my traveler's cheque--I need a roll of quarters for my laundry--because my driver's license was not issued within the United States. (Do you have a passport? Sure, in my dorm room, 40 minutes up the hill.) Each time I ask a shopkeeper about a battery for my watch, I get directed to one or another of several nearby towns. There's a cafe, but it's closed. There's a pizza place open. I order three meals--one to eat there, and the others to pack 'home' with me, for Saturday supper and Sunday breakfast. I refuse to feel ridiculous. For a 'local' taxi, I would have to call one from another town (how much would
that add to the fare?), and it just feels like less effort to keep walking instead. I find the art supply store, buy what they have in stock on the list of required materials for my summer classes, and head back toward the school, this time uphill, and with my backpack full. I check the time before I leave town, and again when I arrive at my dorm--a full hour!
I'm tired, my pinky toes hurt on both feet where my sandal straps have pressed on my toenails (the left one is actually black & blue), my shoulder muscles hurt, my linen top is wringing wet, and I'm superwoman!! I'm my own hero!! I've created solutions to my little problems, I've found a way to feed myself, I've returned to that bank with a ten-dollar bill and received my quarters, and although I can feel my hips, they aren't overly painful. As a matter of fact, they have carried me all that way quite admirably, thank you very much. I have a refreshing shower, and spend the rest of the afternoon smugly reading my book, outside, with my proud feet lovingly propped up on their own chair.
SUNDAY
This morning it all began, with an opening reception for new students in my own program, as well as other programs beginning here these three summer weeks. As I found my folder, labeled in calligraphy with my name, I recognized that I was experiencing what my Heart & Hands students might feel when they find their name tags at their table places, on the first day of a new school year. Someone anticipated and prepared for
my arrival here. I unexpectedly teared up a little, as I picked up a bookmark and fridge magnet (no, it is not necessarily silly to get sentimental over a fridge magnet!) with the very familiar Antioch University slogan and artwork copied above--
it's really, finally happening for me! Two days ago I felt like crying because I didn't want to leave my loved ones and familiar life; today I felt like crying because I am so deeply grateful to be stepping into the first day of the fulfillment of my Dream of a Lifetime.
Yes! You can make your dreams come true! And, no! You're never too old!
When one has hearing loss, it is often difficult to discern the direction of the source of a sound, and whether it is coming from near or far. These are essential clues in helping to identify a particular sound. Due to these difficulties, I sometimes feel foolish when I hear something and make a remark about it that seems way off base, to my conversational partner. This is why I hesitated to say anything about a remarkable sound that I have been hearing every morning here at High Mowing, when walking past the gym on my way to breakfast. I wondered whether it was an owl, going, "Hoo! Hoo!" (On the other hand, perhaps it was Johnny One-Note practicing his flute, or a squeaky wheel on the air circulation fan of the gym.) Yesterday I screwed up my courage and asked my fellow student Jennifer whether this was, indeed, an owl. No, it is the call of the delightful mourning dove! Jennifer was able to point out one of these beautiful birds to me, as it stood calmly on the road, and she can even play its call on her pentatonic flute! I find the bird enchanting, and found this photo on Wikipedia. Jennifer kindly drove me to Keene yesterday, and I was quite excited to finally see the charming place that will be my home for the year.
