Collegiate Closure in Wisconsin

 

My daughter last saw her college campus in Wisconsin in March of 2020 in the rear-view mirror of a van I was driving to California. Her brother, Truman, my BFF Mary, and I had flown across the country to rescue her. The pandemic had just begun, and she was told that she needed to move out immediately. None of us could have predicted that she wouldn’t return to campus for two and a half years, that is, not until today.  

Many of you remember our National Disaster Massive Road Trip (NDMRT), as Truman named it. We rented a huge van, which we immediately named The Beast, and which still barely fit all of Geneva’s belongings, and we drove four days back to California. On the NDMRT, we encountered many fellow unhinged cross-country travelers, everyone trying to get somewhere fast, all of us eyeing each other with trepidation as we sought to keep our distance from one another, both on the road and at every rest stop. 

 

The trip felt both surreal and perilous, as if we were living out a real-life disaster film. On the third day, we white-knuckled The Beast through a blizzard atop a Wyoming mountain pass, a heart-pumping, frightening experience of unplowed roads and icy white-outs. At the hotel that evening, I was filled both with relief that we had survived the day’s drive, and with the sense of trauma we were all just beginning to experience; we were never going to forget this NDMRT or the earliest days of our new pandemic mindset.

 

Our stage of life determined how the pandemic would affect us. Like all kids, my children had to negotiate years of disrupted academic and social development. My parents had to isolate themselves in their senior living apartments. As they were among the most vulnerable to Covid, we worried for them daily.

 

I think especially of one group that was hit particularly hard: graduating seniors. Their lives came to an abrupt halt just as they were supposed to “commence.” Their best year of school ended suddenly with no final projects, no dances, nor even with goodbyes. Instead of moving on to exciting adulting adventures, the new graduates moved back home with their parents and watched goodbye speeches from their college presidents on YouTube. Although we were happy to have unexpected bonus time with our daughter, we knew she was devastated to miss the end of college. How does one move on to the next stage of life when the previous stage hangs unfinished and in limbo?

 

This weekend, the limbo will end. Two and a half years after that fateful March adventure, we’ve returned to Beloit College for the make-up graduation ceremony that the class of 2020 never got. As we walked around campus today, our Boonie shed more than a few tears. She pointed out favorite haunts, noted what has changed and what was the same. I imagine she’s feeling so many complicated emotions. And tomorrow she’ll get to experience the graduation ceremony she and all the graduates of 2020 deserved. We’ll cheer loudly for her, and so will my brother and my parents (Beloit grads themselves, who met here 65 years earlier 🥹). I’m so grateful to be here. For Geneva’s sake, and for the sake of everyone in the family who is still reflecting on how our lives have changed, I’m so glad we made this trip.

30 Years

 

When people ask me the secret to a long, happy married life, I want to say: marry a poet. 

 

Robert Frost said that “poetry is when an emotion has found its thought, and the thought has found words.” During uncertain and chaotic times, poetry consoles us as we listen closely to words that make us feel less alone and more alive. Amanda Gorman reminds us that “there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it, if only we’re brave enough to be it.” 

 

We can’t all be or marry poets. But we can learn from them. The truth is, I have more questions than answers about the secrets to a happy life together. But I have learned well from my husband, Andy. 

 

His example tells me that we should retain our humor and sprinkle it generously into our daily interactions, especially when life feels overwhelming. He reminds me of the importance of remaining curious about one another and maybe even occasionally planning surprises that knock a spouse’s socks off.  

 

On the occasion of our 30th wedding anniversary, Andy presented me with a beautiful 167 page book with 100 previously-unseen poems he had written over the last year. Instantly, this book became my most prized possession, a physical manifestation of his love. Like Linus with his blanket, I’ve been carrying it from room to room around the house, reading a few poems at a time. I like feeling the weight of the declarations of his devotion in my hands. 

 

The other well-kept surprise Andy planned was a backyard gathering of friends, there to celebrate our 30 years together. I knew my sweet husband must have something up his sleeve because he’s romantic like that. Like the evening we said “I do” all those years ago, this was a night I will always remember. Thank you, Andy for 30 years of love, laughter, play, and adventure. Let’s have 30+ more❣️