Some decisions are tougher than others
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- September 9, 2023
- 546
Crazy as it sounds now, I didn’t think my moving into a house off campus for my senior year would be that much of a problem.
But to quote Rod Stewart, look how wrong you can be.
That line from “Every Picture Tells a Story” has served me well over the decades, reminding me nothing in this life ever goes the way you think it will, despite your best intentions. It’s part of the spin-the-wheel carnival, the willingness to take a shot, the belief that eventually, you have to trust your instincts and go for it.
In other words, get ready for some serious repercussions.
Mom had several less-than-complimentary nicknames for her first-born son, among them “A Child of Excess” and “Wretched Flea,” but I think her favorite might have been “Michael Don’t.” It was an all-purpose sobriquet, one that was just as useful in trying to get me to climb down from the roof of the house as it was attempting to stop me from knocking off my younger brother’s glasses.
“One of these days,” she would say, meaning every snarled word, “he’s going to hit you so hard you’ll wake up in the next county.”
Did I listen?
C’mon.
So I was used to blowing through the “Michael Don’t” stop signs I encountered on my road map through life, understanding that whatever I may have lacked in foresight, I made up for in guile.
It also didn’t hurt that after a disastrous first term at Notre Dame, I finally got my academic bearings and reeled off five straight semesters of excellence, making the dean’s list every single time, thus earning more than a little credibility in Mom’s estimation.
But you should know that amid all that success, she adored the campus itself, never for a moment suspecting that when it came time to begin my final year there, I would actually choose to leave.
“It’s like walking through a painting,” she would say as we strolled arm in arm through the South Quad over Junior Parents Weekend. “I picture you every day, going to your classes, having your lunch in the dining hall, heading for the library to study every evening.”
Not wanting to disabuse her of that idyllic notion — that would have been cruel — I was obliged to say, from time to time as the leaves fell and the Grotto beckoned, “Easy, Mom. It’s just school.”
But she knew better, which was why when I told her I was thinking about moving into an off-campus house in a month’s time, she was pretty much shattered. “Michael Don’t” was her reaction.
It got even worse after she’d seen the place. True, it wasn’t in one of South Bend’s better neighborhoods and, also true, adult supervision was only a rumor, but I had made certain commitments.
Besides, after three years of privileged on-campus housing, I was ready for something new, a chance to experience life in the real world, a place where I did my own laundry, helped cook the meals and trusted myself to get to class on time, each and every day.
The 3-mile bike ride to and from the house wasn’t all that taxing, though when the snowiest winter in 15 years hit, I had to make other arrangements, which required more adult decisions.
But as my parents drove off that afternoon in September, those harsh conditions — which also included a balky furnace and a less than reliable water heater — were months away from becoming a reality, one that resulted in ND’s first-ever campus shutdown.
By the time graduation weekend arrived and I’d survived nine months of living far from the comforts of dorm life’s splendid cocoon, Mom and Dad became consumed with the hurly-burly of commencement, that time-honored series of rituals that would eventually result in a ceremonial farewell, engendering tears.
President Carter addressed our class, which was an honor for sure, and I remember scanning the crowd that had gathered for the occasion. There was my sister, my brother, my parents and my favorite aunt, a South Bend native without whose caring and sustenance I never would have made it through those four years.
And now it’s early September once again, fully 50 autumns since I arrived scarcely three months from leaving high school, a kid with no real idea how I’d get along but somehow trusting I would.
I remember the whine of power tools and aromatic wood shavings as guys fashioned shelves and loft supports, making the most from limited dorm-room space, creating living space as parents departed.
There was no air-conditioning, no cell phone service, no internet, nothing resembling bathroom privacy, but no one felt in anyway deprived. On the contrary, we reveled in our perceived freedom.
And when that wore out its welcome three years down the road, it seemed to me to be the obvious choice, deciding to try living outside all those institutional parameters, growing up just a little.
I don’t think Mom ever quite got used to the idea I would actually leave a place she’d always think of as a living museum, a true and marvelous and perfect wonderland, but it makes me smile to this day to remember how happy it made her.
Even if what she was thinking all along was “Michael Don’t.”
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. He invites you to join the fun on his Facebook page, where a ghetto is just a state of mind.