Visiting the Past

It has been more than a decade since I last stepped foot in the valley I called home for a couple of years in college. Since the years there were my only true "stereotypical" college years (ie heavy on the socializing, living with roommates and seeing 3 a.m. numerous times), there are a lot of memories jam-packed into a valley that likely sports as many cows as people, and where the university and town's populations are about equal.

Himself and I had been planning to visit for weeks, and, only several breaths later, cancelling the visits, for a myriad of reasons. In the plan's third incarnation, we decided to take a quick day trip, picnic in the canyon and wander around campus (or drag Himself around campus, which is probably more accurate).

Sidenote: Only people who have lived in the insanity of a large metro area understand why a 200-mile round-trip drive could be considered a "quick day trip" (as in less than half a day). In reality, it's no big deal because we used to drive that distance, twice, every other weekend when bringing Grover to visit - during Friday rush hour through two cities. A Sunday drive to the Great Frozen North doesn't even come close.

From the moment we descended into the valley I felt an intense wave of nostalgia. I pointed out random landmarks (old and new) to Himself as we drove - including the fact that the left-turn arrow at 4th and Main was met with,

"This is a great concept!"

(Yes, stoplights were a novelty - at the time I left, my hometown's one stoplight was only three years old). It made me sound like an incredible hayseed, and I'm sure I had seen left-turn arrows before - after all I had been to most of the major cities in the west and a handful in the east before leaving for college. I just remember the exact feeling I had when I first hit that intersection, and for whatever reason, it was one of amazement.

A picnic in the canyon was met with adventure: when Himself and Woodstock launched leaf boats down the river, when Woodstock spent lunch time stuffing her lunch in the cracks of the picnic table (note to self: remember a tablecloth next time), when Woodstock kept yelling at the squirrels in excitement - puzzled as to why they kept scampering away, and when we threw the trash bag in the trunk only to discover one very angry wasp trapped inside.

But it was the campus itself that made me get all warm and mushy inside. Even more than 10 years after leaving, I still felt at home. Like the campus was mine. It was full of memories - croquet in the snow, buying a bag of bread ends at the on-campus bakery (too poor to buy the actual loaves), the heated sidewalks (a necessity in sub-zero temps), sledding down Old Main Hill, Big Blue, going to homecoming on a blind date, climbing three flights of stairs in the ag science building (past the best ice cream on the planet) for 5-day-a-week comms classes (I noticed that there is a new building housing some of comms - praise the alumni donors!), painting posters (always with "free food!" on them) in the student council suite, the opera-loving Dean who was my boss, Italian sodas at the monthly poetry and a beverage nights...

In truth, the stoplight at 4th and main was a symbol of my transition from itty bitty town to larger world. I loved the diversity, the vibrance, the sense of community (so formed because once the snows set in, no one can actually leave the valley without a lot of work and a harrowing drive out the canyons). I made friends quickly and easily, imersing myself in everything that sounded remotely interesting. I quickly found my niche and, while there were dark days, days of stress and frustration and male-induced-angst, I loved it. I had amazing roommates and mentors and professors and quirky landlords who wrote "no sleeping on the couches" into the lease.

And yet, I always knew it was fleeting. The very first day I moved into my apartment (the dungeon beneath a dentist office across from campus), I took a walk to where you could see the over whole valley from the west end of campus. As I stood there breathing in unseasonally cool air (the first snow storm would come only days later), I had the distinct impression,

"You aren't going to graduate from here."

I don't know why I felt that way, but it was the clearest impression I've ever had. There were words in my head and I felt ... puzzled. I had fallen in love with the Ivy League feel of the campus - old brick and stone buildings,lush green landscaping - and accepted the money the school threw my way. I fought against it, figuring if I filled up my days and nights and became a vital part of the university's community that nothing could make me leave.

I was wrong.

Two years later, I left it all - student council, a fabulous job, wonderful roommates, a fledgling major (the near collapse of which was the one thing, as it turns out, that could make me listen to the voice in my head) - an academic junior with more credits than a typical transfer student, unsure where to go. I accepted a job on the East Coast, then a position in a highly regarded major at a university farther south. I graduated with good grades, found a good job and a life of adventure and chaos in my beloved adopted state of Virginia.

But I never forgot the person I became in the valley of the cows, bitter canyon winds and eternal winters where the university was the center of the universe.

It felt good to wander around campus, void of all but a handful of students, looking very nearly like it did when I was first starting out on the adventure of life. It felt good to share the last piece of my history with Himself, to remember the days of $60 food budgets and $400 monthly paychecks ... to remember, and cherish the years I spent there, growing up, growing wiser and moving forward.

All Hail the Aggies.
(And my advanced apologies for rooting against you in next weekend's football game).