| Subject: On leaving Kenyon |
Author:
Stew
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Date Posted: 13:36:31 09/04/01 Tue
A little while ago I found, hidden away on my 2nd brain, something I had written during the 5-hour car ride through the night with my dad; heading away from Kenyon and towards Ely, Minnesota and what would be a mediocre-at-best canoeing trip. It's very jumbled, being comprised entirely of random thoughts caught on paper as they whizzed through my head. Also, one part is incomplete (and I have no idea what belongs there), and the qualty of the writing isn't up to par with my usual standards, but I have an uncontrollable urge to share this with someone, so here goes.
Oh, also, at one point near the beginning I say "and I am already writing my first letter to you." I have absolutely no idea who this "you" is supposed to be, but I see two options:
1. "You" is the collective Kenyoners
2. (The ego-boosting option) "You" is you.
Anyway, without further ado...
It's 12:45, the night I left Kenyon much too hastily, and I miss Kenyon and everyone there so much that I'm already writing my first letter to you. And if you were familiar with my previously horrible proficiency at keeping in touch, you'd know that I must be going through some serious withdrawal. There is a surprising amount of traffic on the road at 12:50ish, and after a period of weary conversation about my two weeks in Gambier and several awkward silences, I finally turn on the radio in a last ditch attempt to stay awake. After my dad pulls over and gets a large coffee, he tells me to put my seat down and get some rest. I ask him if he's sure that he can stay awake for the 5-hour drive home. He tells me he can and then puts on a Simon and Garfunkel CD, which he knows makes him stay awake but makes me fall asleep. I awake two hours later, and we discuss Kenyon until I ask what's been going on at home. Dad tells me that my Mom is becoming increasingly nervous about our financial situation, as we've bought a car and a house within the first half of this year, and how Dad's biggest client (my dad's a lawyer-not a court lawyer, but a bank lawyer, a far less glamorous position in which he pores over financial policies and the like and makes sure everything's legal) the bank Old Kent, is being bought out by another bank (5/3 National), and as a result he'll lose 90% of his business. Dad doesn't think there's anything to worry about. It seems that I've narrowly avoided domestic chaos. After that, neither of us said very much for the remainder of the journey home.
We pull in the driveway of my house.
I got out for a quick rendevous with my family. Instead of 15 minutes or even an hour, I have two hours. I can hear the dogs barking before I even make it inside. I lie down on the floor and my dogs crawl all over me. The two hours pass like ten minutes, and soon the doggone dogs are exactly that, long gone. Meanwhile, my parents exchange my Kenyon luggage for my Boundary Waters bag. Before I know it, I'm loading bags onto the bus and climbing on board. "I really don't want to be here." I think. One of the adult leaders asks me how Kenyon was. "The best two weeks of my life." I reply. "Happy to be here?" They ask. I don't say anything, I just yawn and throw another bag onto the bus. Soon, more people file onto the bus, the noise swells, and I decide to listen to some music. I put on my headphones and push play. Nothing. "Crap," I think, "I forgot to pick up the batteries from Miriam."
Another dirty rest stop. Even the liquid soap is dirty as it comes out of a grimy dispenser over the sink. I figure that by this time half of everyone at Kenyon will be on their way home by now.
I'm on the packed bus to Minnesota. Near everyone reminds me of someone else who was at Kenyon. Even objects are recalling things from my goldfish memory. Ice cream cones bring back memories of lunch at Gund. A book someone's reading reminds me of the Kenyon readers. Two leaders pondering over a road map talking about divided highways really messes me up. "Get me out of here!" I think.
After a long, dull bus trip from five in the morning until nine o'clock at night, we've finally arrive in Ely. I estimate that in the
"We are going to be eating breakfast at 6 o'clock." The person in charge says.
"In the morning?" someone asks.
"Good God," I think, "where have all the intellectuals gone?" Someone behind me sounds a hell of a lot like Jon Stout, and I keep looking over my shoulder, trying to find him.
Fortunately, good news finally beqins to arrive. Apparently, those I was not looking forward to traveling with ditched, and the last minute replacements should be lots more fun.
Hope you enjoyed that,
Stew
"O Lord, make me chaste...but not yet."
-St. Augustine's Libertine's Prayer
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