Granola {Part III}

I arrived back in CT just before midnight frazzled and panicked. My mom met me at the door, ushered me in, and promised we’d figure it all out in the morning. She already made up the couch and suggested I just go to sleep for the night. The sight of the couch covered with a sheet and blankets startled me. Of course… my bed was no longer in my bedroom. I told her I would change upstairs. The bedroom I grew up in was nearly empty. The curtains hung above an empty floor, billowing outward ever so slightly in the night wind. My furniture waited for me in Vermont, while I slept on the couch in the family room.

She and I made a plan the next morning over hot cups of tea. I dunked my tea bag over and over while she listed my problems on a scrap piece of paper. I wished fifteen-year-old-me could have had even a glimpse of that Saturday morning. Our plan hinged on her returning to Vermont with me and staying the weekend. She hated the idea of having me there alone without any form of communication more than I did. I would reschedule the cable company to arrive on Monday and she would be there to meet them while I went to my first day of work and then traveled north to attend my four-day pre-service training. We would stop on our way to Vermont to see if I could find a solution to my lack of cell service. An attachable antenna maybe?

Feeling a little less panicked, I called the cable company. I explained the situation for the fifth time. But I could not get the cable company to agree to come out to my place on Monday. I begged. I pleaded. I got angry. I tried to be sweet. I hung up the phone and cried. “It’s too far out of the way,” I spit out finally. “They only service that area once every few weeks and I missed the service window.” My mom took the phone from me, along with the tiny book that held the cable company number and my address. She dialed calmly, explained the situation thoroughly, and demanded a solution sternly. The cable company booked a service call for 8 am Monday morning, and I wondered if I would ever be able to solve my own problems. But, we were in business.

I took a hot shower. Long and soothing. I stepped out refreshed. Confidant. We climbed into our cars and caravanned north. The windows down, sunglasses on, and the radio turned way up.

I waited at the first cell phone store for an hour before anyone would talk to me. When my turn arrived, the salesman laughed at me. I hardly uttered the phrase “attachable antenna” before he burst out. “Uh, no Miss, there is no such thing as an attachable antenna.” I turned around and walked out. The salesman at the second cell phone store was surprised I didn’t get any service at my place in Vermont. “If you have a couple of bars, you should be able to place and receive calls,” he reasoned the same as I had. He said it might just be that my phone needed a service update. In fact, he was certain it just needed a service update. It would take five hours. Five hours meant we would arrive in Vermont after dark, but I didn’t have any other choice. Five hours later, we were on the road again.

It was about 11:30 pm by the time we crossed the border into Vermont. We appeared to be the only ones traveling the highway that night. I welcomed the solitude. The temperature had dropped quite a bit, so I had my windows rolled up and the volume turned down. I had popped in the CD he made for me. It was melodic and calming after the past 48 hours. I led the way and set the pace; I could see her car behind me in the rearview mirror. With only about an hour left, I felt as though I had at least handled, if not conquered, my problems of the past thirty-six hours. It was hard to believe it had been less than two days, but at least I could finally take a deep breath again.

My car struggled going up the foothills of the Green Mountains. This was nothing new; it always struggled through the Catskills also. But that night I noticed a tug I hadn’t felt before. Or perhaps I had felt it before, I just couldn’t place when. I turned the volume way down on the third steep incline. I could tell something wasn’t right. Three fourths of the way up the side of the tiny mountain, the gas peddle lost all resistance and I heard a thud.

I knew immediately. I threw on my hazards and pulled over to the side of the highway. She pulled up behind me with her hazards on also. I reached for my cell phone to tell her what happened. I didn’t have any service. The road was empty but I didn’t want to take any chances, so I climbed over to the passenger side and squeezed out the door without hitting it on the guardrail. I ran to her car and jumped in. “What happened?!” she asked unusually more panicked than I felt. “My transmission went,” I said matter of factly.

[To Be Continued...]

 

{part i, part ii}

[Disclaimer: I always have difficulty determining how much of "the story" is mine to tell. This series on my year in Vermont is my version of the year. I am erring on the side of caution to not tell the stories of my friends who journeyed through the year with me. Names, places, details, etc have been changed or omitted for the privacy of the people I care about - and yes, I care about all of them. It's a bit of an old story, really. Most of their journeys have taken them down paths (in Vermont, out of Vermont, some having never set foot near Vermont) that make that year only a distant memory. It is for me, too. But it's such a good memory - a full, rich, important memory - that I want to share my part of the story here.]

Granola {Part II}

My dirt driveway dipped and I had to jiggle the key in the lock more than I remembered. The sun met me when I finally walked through the front door. Warm and golden. I opened the slider door and stood on the back deck listening to the river. The river was calm that morning. I was calm.

I went back inside to call my mom and let her know that I had arrived safely. A tiny spider ran across the kitchen counter top. I grabbed a piece of newspaper from the nearby box of dishes and whisked it into the sink, turned on the water, and watched it go down the drain. My phone call still had not gone through. Cell phone service would definitely be a problem here. I already knew that, but I thought with two bars of service in my kitchen I would still be able to place a call. I moved out to the back deck. Dialed again. Again the call failed to go through. My first wave of panic moved through me.

Thankfully, it moved through me and out of me. More annoyed than anything, I grabbed my phone and my keys and headed back to my car. I knew I had cell service at the small grocery store three miles down the road. I would call my mom and let her know I arrived safely and I would call the cable company to let them know not to call my cell phone upon arrival. My service was spotty at best, but my calls went through. I carefully explained the situation to the cable company and told them I would be back to my apartment in less than ten minutes. “Just don’t call my phone to make sure I am there because my cell doesn’t get service. Please tell the service people that I am definitely home.” I put my sunglasses on and drove home. Home, I drove home.

I decided to unpack a few of my boxes already in the apartment while I waited for the cable company to arrive. I unpacked two boxes, located my landline-phone, moved my furniture around, and plugged in my cell phone. It was the only clock I had and searching for service was quickly draining the battery. The cable company was ten minutes past the two-hour window they had given me. A second wave of panic swept through me. I forced it out, grabbed my keys, and headed for the grocery store parking lot.

I called the cable company. The call went through on the third try. “Ma’am, we called you to make sure you were at your residence and there was no answer. We were within our two hour window.” I took a deep breath and calmly explained that I had asked for a note to be placed in my file not to call my cell phone number. The customer service representative said the men were still in the area and asked if I could provide a landline they could call prior to arriving at my apartment. I explained that the phone and cable installation I scheduled was due to the fact that I did not have a phone. I wondered how rude it would be to add “duh” to the end of that sentence. I refrained and gave myself a point towards adulthood. She told me not to worry about it, she would tell the men to just go to my apartment and note in my file not to call first.

I drove back to my apartment in silence. “The men” would arrive within the hour. I stopped unpacking. I sat on my back deck in the afternoon sun. I wanted to call my mom. I wanted to send out a can-you-believe-this email to a few of my friends. I just sat. And listened to the river.

“The men” never arrived. I drove to the grocery store parking lot again. I called the cable company again. I got a different customer service representative again. The representative told me they tried to call me before they arrived at my apartment and received no answer. Again. I asked with a flat tone if we could try it all again. This time without the phone call. He said no. “The men” were no longer in the area. I needed to schedule another appointment. For a week and a half later. I hung up the phone without saying another word.

I got back to my apartment as the sun began to set. It cast unfamiliar shadows on my wall. It would be my first night alone in my apartment and I felt very, very alone. A third wave of panic swept through me. I couldn’t fight it. I couldn’t push it out. I worried it would drown me. Before the sun sank any lower, I grabbed my keys and sprinted back into my still-fully-packed car. I sped out of my driveway and bottomed out on the steep incline. The sound of the packed dirt against the bottom of my car echoed in my ears the entire way back to CT.

[To Be Continued...]

{part i}

[Disclaimer: I always have difficulty determining how much of "the story" is mine to tell. This series on my year in Vermont is my version of the year. I am erring on the side of caution to not tell the stories of my friends who journeyed through the year with me. Names, places, details, etc have been changed or omitted for the privacy of the people I care about - and yes, I care about all of them. It's a bit of an old story, really. Most of their journeys have taken them down paths (in Vermont, out of Vermont, some having never set foot near Vermont) that make that year only a distant memory. It is for me, too. But it's such a good memory - a full, rich, important memory - that I want to share my part of the story here.]

Granola {Part I}

We saw the apartment on a sunny July afternoon. Tiny, one-bedroom, quaint, and quiet. The kitchen had one counter, the bedroom had a closet, and the bathroom had a tiny spider on the shower spout. I named her Charlotte and let her be. It was her place until I moved in at the end of August. We spent most of our time out on the back deck. It was new with dark brown stain and the rush of the river below. It reminded me of my childhood and I joked with the landlord about tubing to work each morning. He didn’t laugh.

We negotiated the rent in the corner of the main living area. It was my first real price negotiation. Other than the ceramic picture frame I purchased as a highschooler in Tijuana with a hug to an old man. He kissed me on the cheek and made my blood freeze. I paid too much that afternoon in Mexico and wanted wholesale redemption. I wanted to know I was a girl who could stand on her own feet and do right by herself, for herself. The landlord didn’t even answer when I tossed him my first offer. He let it drop to the floor and stared at it. I panicked and flushed.

I needed this apartment. There was only one other available apartment in the area. It was double the price and didn’t allow overnight guests. Ever. It took us three and a half hours from home, forty-five minutes of which were spent driving away from the highway over mountains and through valleys, to arrive in a town where I knew no one. My best friends no longer lived down the dorm hall or shared a townhouse bedroom wall. Everyone lived states away and I already knew late-night AIM messages weren’t going to suffice. I needed overnight guests. So I needed this apartment at a price I could afford.

I crumbled under his silence. I let my desperation show through. I took a leap of faith that he wouldn’t ask me to hug him. “But I. $350 is really the only thing in my price range because I just graduated and I’m starting this program here called AmeriCorps which is like the Peace Corps but not really but I’m really volunteering and not making any money because they want us to live- well I’m just not making any money but I can pay rent and.” It came out rapid-speed, jumbled with an abrupt stop. I realized I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t even know how to explain what my upcoming year would look like. Primarily because I had no idea what my upcoming year would look like. But it worked! “It seems like a really great fit for you and I’d love to have you as a tenant. How about $375?” I took it. And I didn’t even have to hug him. Although, I almost wanted to.

We drove back to CT that night after unsuccessfully navigating the small town’s roads. “I don’t get it; the road just ends. And why are most of them dirt? How do we get to the rest of the roads?” The summer air cooled after sunset and we drove around with the windows down and our sweatshirts on. We hardly saw another car until we were a few miles down I-91. The stars were plentiful, though.

I signed onto AIM when I got home. Debated writing an email about my new-found, first apartment and decided against it. It had been a silent summer between us. I knew better than to blame it on Fiji and class schedules and email access. He asked me to go and I said no. And I knew better than to blame it on that. A silent summer was better than the year before, filled with frustration, hurt, and Eminem on repeat. It had been the summer before that one when the Fievel Goes West theme song reminded me of him and he called me at 9pm, he called me at midnight.

Over the next few weeks, I bought black photo frames from Walmart to hang photos on my new walls. I claimed my brother’s couch as my new couch. I stopped at tag sales on Saturday mornings for lamps, cupcake tins, a baker’s rack. I gathered the makings for a home. A first home of my own. We made two trips before I moved in. One to clean and bring up the smaller items. I vacuumed up Charlotte and about twenty of her closest friends. I felt guilty about it, but I wasn’t planning on having any roommates, never mind of the six-legged variety. One trip to bring my bed, the couch, and the baker’s rack. We didn’t stay very long that time. I planned to return alone, for good, at the end of the week with the last of my belongings.

He returned from Fiji that week. The first time the phone rang, I spent too much time trying to decide whether to answer. He hadn’t given me a return date. I’d forgive him despite myself, and I wasn’t ready for my own betrayal. The call went into voicemail and he didn’t leave one. I answered the second time on the second ring. My voice distant, my choice of words protective. We caught up quickly without detail. It was the first time we had talked since I left the bar in tears, almost four months ago. His flight left two days after. We talked as if it didn’t happen. We talked as if it all hadn’t happened. “Are you taking your old Saab up to Vermont?” Yes, of course I was. He told me that he worried about me in an old car in a rural area. “What if it breaks down and you don’t have cell service?” I told him not to worry, I would be fine. But my stomach turned over. He knew more about rural areas than I did. I hadn’t worked out the dynamics of what no cell service meant on a day-to-day basis. I cut our conversation short. I wanted to keep the distance. It was easier. He said goodbye and then took a breath, “Hey Em, you know I love you.” It was somewhere between a question and a statement. “I love you too.” Somewhere between a question and a statement. It meant everything and it meant nothing. It would be a month before I heard from him again. Everything would be different.

I stayed up too late that night packing the rest of my things. I left early the next morning to meet the telephone and internet installation people before noon in Vermont. It was a gorgeous sunny day. I stopped for an iced coffee, cranked up the volume in my car, and sang nearly the entire three and a half hour ride to Vermont. I couldn’t wait for the next year to finally begin.

[To Be Continued...]

[Disclaimer: I always have difficulty determining how much of "the story" is mine to tell. This series on my year in Vermont is my version of the year. I am erring on the side of caution to not tell the stories of my friends who journeyed through the year with me. Names, places, details, etc have been changed or omitted for the privacy of the people I care about - and yes, I care about all of them. It's a bit of an old story, really. Most of their journeys have taken them down paths (in Vermont, out of Vermont, some having never set foot near Vermont) that make that year only a distant memory. It is for me, too. But it's such a good memory - a full, rich, important memory - that I want to share my part of the story here.]

The Girl Effect

I met her a few months after her 13th birthday and a few months after I graduated college. I met her in the room next to the one-room office we worked in, all five of us. She arrived for the Kids Against Tobacco meeting dressed just like most of the other 13 year-olds - short skirts with heavy-eyeliner. They wore their budding sexuality like a billboard. She had, they all had, a softness masked by skateboard shoes and mascara. She squealed when I told her she had been chosen to go to the Kids Against Tobacco conference and threw her arms around her friend. Even if they tried to forget, I could not - they were only 13. Still children. Strong children, but children.

Sometime in late September, I began spending an hour a week with her, just the two of us. She bounced around the room and talked over me and climbed over her friends in our afternoon meetings, full of energy and life. But when it was just the two of us, she gave her all to whatever project I had concocted for us. She gave her all to our conversations. She gave her all to her troubles and then to her hopes and dreams.

And she had so many. Troubles. Hopes. Dreams.

She could tell you stories of what it is to go without. She could tell you stories that would break your heart. Those are her stories to tell. I will tell you of everything she had and continues to have. 

Strength

Compassion

Ambition

Intelligence

Warmth

Talent

Gentleness

Humor

Insight

Courage

Love

I floundered a bit that year. Trying to find my place in a new town, a new environment, a new role, a new life. Without knowing it, she pulled me into the very best of the community and the very best of myself. On days I woke in the morning feeling uncertain, insecure, and scared, I swung my feet to the floor and began my day because I wanted to show up for her. I wanted to be my best for her. She deserved no less. And over time, she showed me that I, too, deserved no less.

The Girl Effect is a movement to invest in adolescent girls in the developing world. I encourage investment in adolescent girls in the "developed" world, also. Because they have both so little and so much. Because they deserve the opportunity to be the best they can be. And because we deserve the opportunity to be the best we can be. That opportunity works in both directions. That's one of the very many life lessons she taught me. 

More on the Girl Effect here. 

Link your Girl Effect post here.