A LARGE NUMBER OF YEARS I DON’T LIKE TO ACKNOWLEDGE have passed since I graduated from the University of New Hampshire. And still, every spring and fall, the changing of the seasons always snaps me right back to Durham, even if only for a fleeting moment. Like the scent and taste of madeleines propelling Proust back to his childhood, the feel of the air turns my clock back to college.
The first spring day, when the sun is finally warm and the chill is held at bay for a few precious afternoon hours, I’m suddenly sitting outside with my friends, splitting pitchers of beer, enjoying time together before we go our separate ways for the summer. In the fall, when walking through the crisp air underneath the changing leaves, I’m in front of T-Hall, shoulder aching under the weight of my old brown leather bag overstuffed with books, on my way to Ham Smith.
I wonder if someday spring will arrive and those sunny days on the patio will remain in shadow. Or in the fall, I won’t find myself massaging a phantom shoulder twinge.
Sixteen years on, and it hasn’t happened yet. It’s a testament to what those four years meant to me—meeting lifelong friends, reveling in the freedom to try new things, toss some things aside and make possibly the worst decisions I’ll ever make (I hope). It didn’t hurt that I was studying the things I love, sure that I was working toward the future I’d always wanted.
There were bad days, scary choices, intense pressures and classes that brought me to frustrated tears (thanks, math gen ed). But, as usually happens over time, the hard, frightening things have taken a back seat, tinging it all with a bittersweet hue that inspires nostalgia instead of pain. Those were all things I had to learn, and with greater perspective comes the realization they were just as important as the good—the professors who inspired me, the thrill of diving deep into book after book, living with friends, the promise of tomorrow and, yes, maybe a party or two.
When I say I sobbed the day of graduation, I’m not exaggerating. I was brokenhearted.
Want to know what set it off? Actor Mike O’Malley’s 2006 commencement speech, which he delivered at much the same point in his life that I’m at now. Here’s the part I’ll never forget:
“Eighteen years ago, I wanted to stay close with the friends who had filled my college years with depth and vitality, because 18 years ago, I was swamped with the sadness that comes from the realization that once I left Durham, I would no longer be a fiveminute walk from 20 of my closest friends.”
Killed me. I was dead. I was also suffering from what I’d come to learn was a vicious case of mono, but still. That struck me, and my friends, with a profound sadness. We were, of course, also proud and excited, but in that moment? Devastation. We could barely even look at each other.
I credit the season, as spring is just emerging as we go to press, and one of my favorite features in this issue—the new interior design of the UNH president’s residence (page 54)—with sending me down memory lane. But it’s not an unwelcome stroll.
To any new graduates who might be reading this, here’s something else Mike O’Malley said in his speech: “College was not the best four years of your life. They were the best four years of your life so far.” And to parents who may be welcoming home despondent children for whom that point hasn’t quite sunken in yet, be patient, and try not to roll your eyes. And to everyone, happy spring—I hope this summer is one to remember.
