I had made this trip enough times in the last couple years that it had become familiar by now. I left Plumdale on a Saturday morning heading north on Highway 11, my 1989 Ford Bronco full of boxes and bags. I passed through many different landscapes on the two and a half hour drive. Plumdale’s hills dotted with live oaks, covered by golden-brown grass that sprung up during the spring rains and had long since died in the dry sun of late summer. A long stretch of flat farmland surrounding El Ajo and Morgantown. The sprawling suburbs of San Tomas, where I turned onto northbound Highway 6. Another stretch of brown hills. Thirty miles of hilly suburbs that all run into each other: Sullivan, Danielsburg, Los Nogales, Pleasant Creek, Marquez, and others. The Marquez Bridge. Ten miles of marshy grassland. Fairview, where Highway 6 ends, merging into eastbound Highway 100. Another long stretch of flat farmland broken up by the city of Nueces. And, finally, the exit for northbound Highway 117, with the University of Jeromeville water tower visible in the distance.
I instinctively merged to the right lane, getting ready to take the first exit, Davis Drive. I caught myself just in time and drifted one lane back to the left. Davis Drive was not my exit anymore, because I did not live in Building C anymore. I passed Davis Drive, I passed Fifth Street, and I took the next exit, Coventry Boulevard. I turned right on Coventry, left on Andrews Road, and into the back parking lot of Las Casas Apartments on the corner of Andrews and Alvarez Avenue.
Mom and Dad were on their way with the rest of my stuff in Dad’s pickup truck. I left Plumdale a few minutes before they did, and we made no attempt to stay together. Trying to stay in a caravan is not worth it, especially when everyone involved knows where to go. Mom is good with directions, and she had been to the apartment before; she should be able to find it.
I realized that I did not have a key to the apartment. Nowadays, if this happened, I would just be able to send Mom a text and say that I was going to the apartment office, but texting did not exist in 1995 and none of us had cell phones. I just had to hope that Mom would be smart and wait for me. By the time I got back from the office with the key, Mom and Dad were just arriving.
“I just got the key,” I said as Mom got out of the truck.
“Good,” Mom said.
“Well? Let’s see inside,” Dad added.
I opened the door and walked into Apartment 124. It was a studio apartment, with one large combined living room and bedroom. On the right was a closet with three sliding doors. The closet stuck out into the living space, leaving a small nook in the front of the room to my right. “That would be a perfect place to put the chair,” Mom said, pointing to the nook.
“Yeah,” I replied. “And the TV can go over here.” I pointed to my left, across from the nook, in the direction my eyes would point when I would sit in the chair.
The door to the bathroom was in the back on the right, and a small kitchen opened into the room in the back to the left. Mom walked into the kitchen and looked around. “No dishwasher,” she said after about a minute.
“I didn’t even think about that,” I replied. “But I lived for 19 years without a dishwasher, so it’s no big deal. And you’ve lived for even longer than that.”
There was a dishwasher in our house in Plumdale, but it did not work for my entire life. I never knew why. We stored things in it. It was not until sometime in the middle of elementary school when it occurred to me that the cabinet with the weird racks and pull down door was called “the dishwasher” because its actual intended purpose was to wash dishes.
“Are we ready to get started?” Dad asked.
“Sure,” I replied.
I began carrying boxes toward the general vicinity of where each box belonged. Toiletries went to the bathroom. Clothes went to the closet. I left books against the wall between the kitchen and bathroom; that would be a good place for a bookcase. As Mom carried a box of plates and bowls toward the kitchen, I noticed that Dad had finished removing the straps holding the furniture to the truck bed. As he maneuvered the mattress out of the truck, he asked me, “Can you grab the other end?”
“Yeah,” I said. This was a brand new mattress, and it was heavy. Dad and I carefully maneuvered it between Dad’s pickup truck and the Bronco and almost tripped when I failed to notice the curb at the edge of the parking lot.
“You got it?” Dad asked.
“Yeah,” I replied.
Dad and I carried the mattress through the front door, where it bumped against the top of the entryway and I bumped into it. “Ow!” I shouted.
“Lower,” Dad said.
I squatted down and carefully attempted to keep my balance while pushing the mattress through the doorway. As I was stepping over the threshold of the door, Dad turned, and the mattress turned with him, pinning me against the side of the doorway.
“Ow!” I said again.
“Where do you keep the dishes?” Mom asked from the kitchen.
“I don’t know!” I shouted. “I’ve only lived here for ten minutes! And I can’t move right now!”
“Huh? You can’t move?”
I made some unintelligible noises as Dad moved the mattress away from me. I dropped it; at this point it was in the apartment and could be pushed. Mom stood there looking at me. “Where do you keep the dishes?” she repeated.
“I told you, I don’t know yet!” I shouted.
“You don’t have to yell at me,” Mom said indignantly.
“I was getting slapped in the face and pinned to the wall by a heavy mattress. I’m sorry, but where to put the dishes is not exactly my priority at the moment.”
“Well… I couldn’t see that.”
“That’s what happens when you’re moving furniture. But I’m sorry I yelled.”
“Are you hurt?”
I hated carrying furniture. It felt like sensory overload to me. I was trying to make sure I did not drop or break whatever I was carrying, and that I did not hurt myself, and I had to work hard to tune out distractions like Mom. Carrying large pieces of furniture was exhausting both physically and mentally.
In hindsight, this day of unpacking took less time than any of my future moves, because I had not yet accumulated as much stuff as I would in the future. But it still felt exhausting. By early afternoon, the cars were empty, although the inside of the apartment was full of unpacked boxes and the furniture was not all in its proper place.
“Is it time to take a break for lunch?” Mom asked.
“Sounds good to me,” Dad said.
“Where do you want to go for lunch? Are we going to go to our usual McDonald’s?”
“Sure,” I said.
We got back from McDonalds about an hour later. McDonald’s was on the other side of Jeromeville, about a ten minute drive each way. I did not yet have much experience with local restaurants. I knew Murder Burger from that one time last year, but that was almost as far away, and I liked McDonald’s.
As we headed west on Coventry Boulevard back toward the apartment, Mom said, “We’re also going to take you grocery shopping before we leave. Our treat.”
Mom paused for a second. “Sure, if you want.”
“Where are we going?”
I could see the intersection for Andrews Road approaching. “U-turn here,” I said. “Then make an immediate right. Lucky, right over there.” I pointed in the general direction of the Lucky grocery store, across the street from where we were at the moment.
We spent well over a hundred dollars at the store that day. We went up and down every aisle, and I placed in the cart everything I saw that I would probably eat. Bananas. Mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup. Bread. Sandwich meat. Saltine crackers. Cereal. Milk. I had an empty refrigerator; I needed everything.
“Do you like these?” Mom said in the middle of the frozen food aisle, gesturing toward a frozen chicken pot pie. “That’s something easy you can make for dinner, at least for now until you try cooking more things.”
“Sure,” I said grabbing a few chicken pot pies. I eyed the shelf of Hungry-Man frozen dinners next to them and said, “What about these?”
“Yeah, those too.” I got one of turkey and mashed potatoes and one of fried chicken and put them in the cart. I ate way too many Hungry-Man dinners that year, and after I moved out of that apartment into another apartment with roommates, I don’t think I ever ate a Hungry-Man dinner again.
After we got home, I set up the computer while Dad built the new bookcase, which we brought to Jeromeville still in a box. When he finished, I put the bookcase against the wall between the doorways to the kitchen and bathroom, as I had planned to earlier. Mom and Dad and I visited for a while as Dad was putting the bookcase together. Mom asked a lot of questions about school and my friends from last year; I did not know the answers to all of them.
A while later, in the late afternoon, Mom said, “Well, if you have everything under control here, it’s probably time for us to go. I think you can probably finish unpacking.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thank you again for everything.”
“Here,” Mom continued, writing a check and giving it to me. “In case you need anything more.”
“Enjoy the new apartment,” Dad said quietly. “Dad loves you.”
“You too,” I said. “Drive safely.”
After Mom and Dad left, the first thing I did was connect to IRC chat and go to the room where I always used to chat last year. I scanned the list of people in the room and recognized someone, a girl from Georgia named Mindy Jo (that name sounded very Southern to me) whom I had kept in touch with off and on by email but had not actually chatted with since moving out of Building C in June. I messaged her.
MindyJoA: greg! you’re back!
gjd76: yes! i moved in to my new apartment this afternoon
MindyJoA: yay how is it?
gjd76: i like it so far. mom and dad took me shopping
MindyJoA: that was nice of them. you said you live by yourself?
MindyJoA: have your friends moved back yet?
gjd76: i don’t know. i don’t think so. i still have another three weeks until school starts.
MindyJoA: why’d you move back so early? last year when i moved home for the summer i didn’t go back to school until the night before my first class
gjd76: because it’s boring back home.
MindyJoA: yeah, that makes sense
I stayed up until past midnight talking to Mindy Jo and a few other people in the room, and catching up on the Pink Floyd Usenet group, which had died down in general since it had been three months since new music was released and there were no more Publius Enigma posts. The bed was right next to the computer table in the large main room, and while it took me a while to fall asleep, as it often does in a new place, I slept fairly well after that.
“Greg!” Sister Mary Rose said when she saw me walking into the Newman Center the next morning for Mass. “Welcome back!”
“Thanks. It’s good to be back.”
“School doesn’t start for another few weeks, right? Are you in summer session?”
“No, I was just bored at my parents’ house, so I moved here as soon as my lease started.”
“Was your summer good, even if it was boring?”
“Yeah.” I told her about the bookstore, watching roller hockey games, and Catherine and Renee’s Voices of Austria show, until she had to go get Mass started.
I looked around during Mass and noticed that, while I recognized some faces in the congregation, most of the people here whom I actually knew well were not here. I was hoping they might be. I knew Danielle was not moving back to Jeromeville this early, and I suspected many other students had not moved back yet as well.
After church was over, I stood watching people leave. Normally now was the time I would go talk to people I knew, but with most of the people I knew not in attendance today, I decided after a minute to just go home. When I got home, I made a sandwich with the groceries Mom and Dad had bought last night while I answered a few emails.
Later that afternoon, I went for a bike ride. I had been waiting a long time for this. My bike had been pretty much sitting in the garage the whole time I had been home. Plumdale is hilly, with many curvy roads where people drive fast, the polar opposite of Jeromeville as far as ease of cycling is concerned.
I rode south down Andrews Road across Coventry Boulevard. The weather was sunny and hot, around ninety degrees. By the time I crossed Fifth Street onto campus, about a mile south of my apartment, I was sweating, but it felt good. I continued south past the Rec Pavilion, and I stopped at a red light at Davis Drive next to the recreation pool, which Dad had nicknamed Thong Bikini Hill. I turned, trying to look at the sprinkling of sunbathers on the hill, but staring felt inappropriate, and I did not have a good view from where I was. When the light turned green, I continued south, past the dairy, all the way to the oak grove at the west end of the Arboretum. The campus looked quieter and more deserted than usual; I figured this was probably normal for summer. The campus had also looked more deserted than normal when I was here in July with my cousins, and most campus activity would be in the older part of campus to the east anyway.
My route that day was very familiar. I rode east through the Arboretum and emerged downtown on B Street. I headed north on B Street to Community Park, to the pedestrian and bicycle overpass over Coventry Boulevard, and into the Greenbelts. I had been here a few times before last spring, but after being away for almost three months, it felt new all over again.
About a mile north of the pedestrian overpass, I passed the pond and crossed Andrews Road, which curved to run east-west through this neighborhood. I continued down a residential street; I discovered last spring that this street connected to another greenbelt and bike trail running along the northernmost edge of Jeromeville. I stopped to drink from a water fountain next to a small playground that intersected another bike heading south. I looked north, through the chain link fence that ran along the edge of the trail. A drainage ditch ran parallel to the bike trail, with fields spreading as far as the eye could see on the other side. The neighboring city of Woodville was about eight miles to the north, and Bidwell, where my dad was born and some of his relatives still lived, was about ninety miles in the same direction. I wondered what else was out there in the North Valley. I had seen roads and towns on maps, but I was not very familiar with any of them up close.
The trail continued next to the drainage ditch for a while, until it turned southward through a park tucked between two neighborhoods. This park had a playground and basketball court at the north end, closest to the ditch, then a long grassy area and a sculpture that looked like dominoes at the other end. Public works of art were strange sometimes, and Jeromeville had no shortage of them, being a university town. These dominoes appeared to be permanently frozen while falling, although not in the usual configuration of falling dominoes. The thought of falling dominoes got me thinking about how one small decision could affect so much, just like how pushing one domino could lead to many others toppling. What if I had decided to go to Central Tech or Bidwell State instead of Jeromeville? What if I had not accepted the invitation to the Interdisciplinary Honors Program last year, and had not made that group of friends in the dorm? What if I had decided to run away and quit school that night that I got so upset? What if I had paid more attention and found a roommate for this year, or decided to answer an advertisement and room with a stranger, instead of getting a little studio apartment? My whole life could be different.
A little way past the dominoes, I turned off the trail onto a path which I knew led directly to the Las Casas Apartments. I locked my bike and headed straight for the shower. I had been outside in hot weather for 45 minutes, and I was sweaty. I showered in mostly cold water, then I got dressed. I turned on the stereo, now on top of the new bookcase next to the kitchen, and played the Hootie & the Blowfish CD as I put a Hungry-Man fried chicken dinner in the microwave.
All was starting to feel more right with the world. I may not have understood exactly why my dominoes fell in the direction they did, but they did, and now I was back in Jeromeville where I could start moving my life forward again. I grew quite a bit freshman year, and I was ready to build on that growth, and maybe push over a few more metaphorical dominoes in the process.
(Author’s note: this post was edited eight months after I wrote it because, I realized through shoddy recordkeeping, that I had used the same song twice, so I had to change the song in one of the two posts in question.)
19 thoughts on “September 2-3, 1995. Moving back to Jeromeville for sophomore year. (#49)”
What ifs are so easy to ask.
I like your parents :)
Love, light and glitter
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Haha :) What makes you say that about my parents? I’m just wondering, of course, not disagreeing.
They were so helpful and supportive
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That is definitely true :)
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Wow how do you remember so much, including all the details and the tit-bits?
It’s also impressive with the way you look back on everything without throwing in opinions.
And on the contrary, I think I like moving furniture?🙈🤷♀️😂
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I tend to remember a lot. Sometimes something someone said or did just sticks with me, even a quarter-century later. And sometimes I remember enough to figure out details. Like, for example, Jeromeville is a university town, and most places that rent to students do so on a 12-month lease from the beginning of September to the end of August. And I remember hating that old lady bookstore job and wanting to move back to Jeromeville as soon as possible, and I know I moved on a weekend, so I know it must have been September 2, the first Saturday after my lease at the apartment started.
I still have every handwritten letter I’ve ever gotten in the mail (do you call it “the post” instead of “the mail” over there, I think?), and rereading some of those letters has reminded me of little details I forgot (like I forgot that I called Danielle on the phone until I found a letter where she said she was glad I called). And a very small group of people from that time period read these stories, so I’ve asked Taylor, Catherine, and my mom about a few details I needed to jog my memory.
I wish I had more pictures from that time period. Someone got me a camera when I first moved away to UJ, but I remember it sitting in a drawer unused until a party I went to at the end of sophomore year (that would be June 1996). Taking pictures was much more of an ordeal back then; you had to buy film and pay to have it developed. Also, I don’t particularly want to show my face or others’ faces, in order to stay anonymous, so when I do get to parts of the story that I have pictures of, faces will be blurred out.
But a lot of times, I don’t remember the little details. Like I don’t remember for sure if my mom was bugging me about the dishes while I was having trouble with the mattress… but I’ve had many experiences like that during other times I’ve moved, and that’s totally the kind of thing Mom would do. DLTDGB is better described as biographical fiction than a full-on biographical narrative. It is all based on true stories in broad strokes, but I’ve made up a lot of little details along the way, I’ve simplified a few things, and I don’t always remember the exact date that some things happen.
What do you mean when you say “without throwing in opinions?” Opinions about what? I’m just curious.
Great piece Greg, I love the positive light you shed on your experiences!
Keep up the good work, looking forward to reading your future articles :)
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Thank you! This is a continuing story, you can start from the beginning if you want: https://dontletthedaysgoby.home.blog/2018/12/09/july-5-1993-prologue-my-first-visit-to-jeromeville/
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I never lived off-campus at Longwood. I knew it was cheaper to live in the dorms, and I liked it. I lived in the same dorm for three years, and then moved in a straight line down the right-hand edge of campus to move into the sorority dorm for my senior year. The only drawback was Stubbs didn’t have air conditioning, but it was a small price to pay. As an only child, I welcomed the opportunity to have roommates, and I’m still friends with almost all of them today. That bike ride sounds heavenly.
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Believe me, I loved the dorm and would have lived there as long as I could had I been given the option. But UJ did not have anywhere near enough dorms for the size of its student population. The school had a policy that incoming freshmen and new transfer students were guaranteed at least one year of living on campus, so they had priority, and there was usually very little room for returning students to live on campus after that. I honestly don’t remember if I tried to apply to live on campus for a second year, or if I just figured it was pointless, especially because all my friends were living off campus. I definitely did apply to be an RA (which I wrote about); it was a way to be sure of living on campus again, and, yeah, let’s be honest, I was just hoping I’d get to work with Megan… haha. But I was not selected, and I don’t blame them; I was way too immature to be an RA.
The problem with housing at UJ and in Jeromeville generally is that the university has grown so fast and gotten so huge, but housing construction has not kept up. Claire from church has a younger sister, she was a freshman when I was a junior (I’ll tell that story eventually), and I remember seeing her write that she lived in Building F, room 101… I’m like, wait, the letter buildings start at room 112, there is no room 101. She said that the demand for on campus housing was so high that year that they had to put four beds in each building’s study room just off the common room.
In the time since I’ve been there, the university finally has been catching up with its share of housing construction. But in order to do this, they had to stop issuing parking permits for students living on campus, so they could build new dorms on what were parking lots in my day. Students living in the more traditional dorms (as opposed to on-campus apartments) aren’t allowed to have cars; they get around town on bikes, public buses, or Uber/Lyft/etc. type things, and they go see their families by Amtrak or organizing carpools or being picked up. (That would have been hard for me.) And they had to pave over part of the agricultural research land on the west side of campus to put in a bunch of apartments, with more coming, I believe. My happy place isn’t as wide open as it used to be (although Hawkins Road still looks mostly the same, that’s farther west). The city itself isn’t building much housing, since residents tend to be anti-sprawl and anti-growth. The university and city also signed an agreement a few years ago that if the university is going to admit more students, they also have to build a corresponding amount of new housing, or else they have to pay the city for their part in creating this housing pressure. That’s smart.
That bike ride is heavenly. For the last few years, once a year I’ve gone on an all-day bike ride from my house to Central Park in Jeromeville (28 miles by the most direct route), then stopped for lunch, then spent the next two hours or so just riding around Jeromeville on all the bike paths I still know by heart, then by the time I’ve gone about 50 miles total and I’m exhausted, I take my bike home on two buses. (That picture of the dominoes was taken last year when I did that ride.) I might not get to do that this year. :( The county across the river from me (which includes Jeromeville) has stricter rules about wearing masks outside than this side of the river, and I’m not sure that riding a bike without a mask is allowed, and I won’t be able to breathe well enough wearing a mask on my bike. Also, most of those trails are too narrow to stay 6 feet away from people, and I don’t know how safe I feel on buses right now. But we’ll see, and things might change over the next couple months.
I hate moving. Moving furniture is more difficult for me as I got older. I’m to lazy to not have a dish washer but I have two kids and a husband so kudos to you! I have supportive parents as well…
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Yes… I haven’t moved in 12 years, but I’ve helped friends move (sometimes the same friends multiple times), and moving furniture never gets any better or easier.
I have a dishwasher now… in fact, my parents’ house and Las Casas #124 are the only places I ever lived where I didn’t have a dishwasher, or access to one I shared with roommates. And my parents redid the kitchen around 2000 and have one now, although stuff at my parents’ house always seems to break and never get fixed, so I don’t know if it works right now. It didn’t for a while.
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Omg there are so many similarities between your posts and my college town and that I was kinda convinced you went to the same school and just changed some of the named
*wish I could edit comments because that typo is bothering me lol
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I think you can edit comments from WordPress home… and it’s possible.