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It seemed to me that I'd marked this anniversary with a post more than once, but I can only find this one, from three years ago, where I riffed on it before.
For the past two thirds of my life, I've looked back at August 15th as my personal version of Independence Day. In 1978, it was the first day of, literally, my new lease on life; I'd finished my first (and last) totally unsatisfactory summer moving back in with my parents- jobless, carless, and with plenty of grief and struggle to go around a very small house. Today marked the first day I could move into our off-campus Ithaca apartment, and I was there with bells on. It was two weeks before classes or job would start, but I was just thrilled to be the hell outta where I was and into this Whole New World of responsibility. Those first few days, my sister and her then-BF drove me to the Grand Onion (as we denominated the pre-Wegmanesque local supermarket) and the Fays Drugs and the other places I needed to go for necessities; after that, I walked or took the city bus that came by our complex every daytime hour of the workweek. By the time my roommates showed up, I was already and permanently a part of the Upstate landscape (despite some lingering habits that would get me convicted of Longislandism even more than three years later).
That place gave way to a series of new ones- twelve in ten years, all in all, before settling down to three Rochester homes in our nine years there and only the one we've had here since 17 Augusts ago- but while none of those commitments began on that exact day, I still remember it for the beginning it marked. It's even more poignant this year, as we are much more a part of Emily's move- at that same, second-year-of-college stage of her life. She, too, came home after the first year; jobless, yes, but carless, no, and with, we think, far more positive memories than I came away with. In one way, she has more to do than I did that August; my first apartment was furnished, and I kept at least a partial meal plan until senior year, so I didn't have to deal with the furniture issues or cooking arrangements that she's been.
And yet, she seems determined to hold onto her life here until the last possible moment, moving All The Things starting when she can begin to do so two weeks from today, but not moving herself in until the night before classes start a week after that. And even with things being much more technologically easy to learn about and implement, we've had to do far more to help her than I ever asked for (much less would have ever received). She's finally opened her own bank account, and needed me to come along to do it. We've given her several deposits for specific purchases for furnishings, books and the like, but she still comes back to us before every purchase to make sure "it's okay." In time, I suspect, the cords will just dissolve rather than being forcibly pulled, but it's a weird feeling, going through it all over again from this very different angle.
For the past two thirds of my life, I've looked back at August 15th as my personal version of Independence Day. In 1978, it was the first day of, literally, my new lease on life; I'd finished my first (and last) totally unsatisfactory summer moving back in with my parents- jobless, carless, and with plenty of grief and struggle to go around a very small house. Today marked the first day I could move into our off-campus Ithaca apartment, and I was there with bells on. It was two weeks before classes or job would start, but I was just thrilled to be the hell outta where I was and into this Whole New World of responsibility. Those first few days, my sister and her then-BF drove me to the Grand Onion (as we denominated the pre-Wegmanesque local supermarket) and the Fays Drugs and the other places I needed to go for necessities; after that, I walked or took the city bus that came by our complex every daytime hour of the workweek. By the time my roommates showed up, I was already and permanently a part of the Upstate landscape (despite some lingering habits that would get me convicted of Longislandism even more than three years later).
That place gave way to a series of new ones- twelve in ten years, all in all, before settling down to three Rochester homes in our nine years there and only the one we've had here since 17 Augusts ago- but while none of those commitments began on that exact day, I still remember it for the beginning it marked. It's even more poignant this year, as we are much more a part of Emily's move- at that same, second-year-of-college stage of her life. She, too, came home after the first year; jobless, yes, but carless, no, and with, we think, far more positive memories than I came away with. In one way, she has more to do than I did that August; my first apartment was furnished, and I kept at least a partial meal plan until senior year, so I didn't have to deal with the furniture issues or cooking arrangements that she's been.
And yet, she seems determined to hold onto her life here until the last possible moment, moving All The Things starting when she can begin to do so two weeks from today, but not moving herself in until the night before classes start a week after that. And even with things being much more technologically easy to learn about and implement, we've had to do far more to help her than I ever asked for (much less would have ever received). She's finally opened her own bank account, and needed me to come along to do it. We've given her several deposits for specific purchases for furnishings, books and the like, but she still comes back to us before every purchase to make sure "it's okay." In time, I suspect, the cords will just dissolve rather than being forcibly pulled, but it's a weird feeling, going through it all over again from this very different angle.