Packing for college is a complicated procedure, especially when it involves sorting the contents of a room you've lived in since you were in Kindergarten.
It might not seem organized, but it is. And it has to fit into the car.
In the rain.
With a delirious puppy.
And then, a few hours later, you find yourself in a familiar motel in Rhinebeck, and you know that tomorrow you'll open the door into an unfamiliar world that's full of possibility. Your stomach might hurt a little, and you might be a little scared, but you're ready.
• • •
When I made the trip from home, in the suburbs of Washington DC, to college in Philadelphia on that September day in 1972, I had absolutely no clue what I was doing. Why had I done this? What made me think art school was a good idea? Could we just go home now? Wait. Maybe I'll stay. I'll have to stay; I went through a lot to get here. I'm supposed to stay. I guess I'm ready.
Judy, I think, was ready. She was determined to grab the doorknob and open the door. She's always been that way, and I saw it the minute I met her.