What It Was Like Read Free

carry books and other things, figuring that maybe I’d have some time to read and hang out. I made sure that I had the packet of information for incoming freshmen that Columbia had sent me. And I took my address book – not that I had anyone in particular to write to – just in case.
    â€œYou have everything?” asked my Mom, who was washing dishes when I came downstairs to the kitchen for my last dinner at home. “Did you take extra Q-Tips?”
    â€œThank you, but I have Q-Tips,” I said, controlling my annoyance. “I know how to pack.”
    â€œThose mountain lakes can be very chilly, and you don’t want to get a cold in your ear.”
    â€œA cold in my ear ?”
    â€œDon’t laugh,” she said. “You have to be careful in the mountains.”
    â€œYou have to be careful everywhere ,” I teased, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her playfully away from the sink.
    â€œHey, I’m all wet!” she cried, grabbing a dishtowel and trying to dry her hands as I roughhoused with her.
    â€œStop!” she giggled, twisting away from me. “What are you doing – !”
    I let her go, making sure that she wasn’t hurt or anything.
    â€œYou can’t wait until tomorrow to get rid of your mother?” she gasped as she composed herself, drying her hands and smoothing the front of her housedress.
    â€œOh,” I said, changing subjects. “Did you remember to do that last blue pinstripe shirt I asked you – ?”
    â€œIt’s hanging in the hall,” she said, having turned back to the sink.
    â€œYou’re the best,” I said, giving her a little kiss on the back of her head. She was smaller than me now – I was eighteen and an “adult” – but it still felt kind of odd to be kissing down at my mother.
    The next morning, I was up at 5:30 a.m., woken by the sound of my Sony clock radio set to WNEW-FM. Too early for Hendrix. I clicked it off.
    â€œYou up?” my father asked as he cracked open the door in the dark.
    â€œYeah,” I grunted.
    I had told my Dad that I would take a cab or get a friend to drive me since it was so early in the morning, but he wouldn’t hear of it. (“It’s my job to take you,” he’d said simply, without any resentment. “No big deal.”) It wasn’t just saving me the cab money; he wanted to do me one last favor before I left. He even had fresh coffee made when I got downstairs.
    It was still pretty dark when we got into my Dad’s old gray Chrysler and drove to meet the Mooncliff bus.
    â€œIf you need anything,” my Dad said as we drove along in the very light traffic, “call.”
    â€œI will,” I said. “It’s not like I’m going a million miles away.”
    â€œYou wish,” he joked back. My Dad likes to joke and tease, but in a gentle way. Sometimes we fight, like all fathers and sons, especially since I’m an only child and fairly strong-willed anyway, but I don’t think there’s a mean bone in his body. Of course, he could be tight with a buck. We weren’t the richest people in the world, but still, in winter, he would refuse to turn on the furnace until you could almost see your breath. Mom and I would tease him, calling him “ Heat- ler.” He did not like that one bit, but we still called him that because it was funny. All through everything that’s happened to me, through every horrible downturn, he has been my rock.
    The meeting place for the counselors was the parking lot of the Holiday Inn on Hempstead Turnpike. Fair enough. It was centrally located and convenient if anyone had to stay over the night before. When we turned into the parking lot, I could see a big silver bus in the corner past the hotel by the curb with a whole lot of people and luggage next to it.
    As we drove closer, I said to my Dad, “You can drop me here.”
    â€œI can get you