Post by taylor stewart richardson on Aug 31, 2009 15:05:45 GMT -5
Transitions...
It was then, when I came to myself and took the time to examine my life with the perspective of the observer, rather than the first person to which we are most often confined, that I came to realize that I was, at the age of 29, stagnant. Certainly, I had come to stagnation at the epicenter of what most might call the prime of my life; having secured a tenured position as a professor of history at one of the premiere colleges in the western hemisphere, living a life of ease and comfort in a house well-suited to my taste, and means – which were considerable, given my heritage and position. And yet… there was no denying that I had, in fact, peaked. Where was my life to go now, from this point forward? I had no desire for wife, and family, while I was not adverse to the concept itself, I had found no one with whom spending the remainder of my life seemed a pleasant adventure, rather than a task.
There had been some half a dozen women, in the last fourteen years since I had reached the age of courage to ask Julia Brightmire to the freshmen prom, that had been kind enough to enter into some form of relationship or another with me, but for one reason or another, each relationship had been set gently aside to gather dust in the box of my fonder recollections.
Dartmouth College had given me a place to call home for many years now; the first of which had been arriving as a student, after receiving a scholarship to attend the college as a student. My childhood had been a simple affair, my mother and father genteel spirits with little in the way of wants that outweighed their means. My father spent the majority of his days as the manager of a chain of factories, my mother a housewife and mother, each of them content in their station and life. My older sister, outgoing and vibrant, often took center stage, which I was more than happy to relinquish. I was content with my dusty books, and my quiet afternoons spent lurking about museums, or parks, taking walks with my mother through monuments and gardens.
I did not lack for friends, through my childhood or adolescent years, despite my bookworm-esque tendencies, as I shed my youthful chubbiness it was discovered that I had indeed inherited my father’s rugged good looks, my mother’s fair hair, and the girth that came, it seemed, from our Norwegian ancestors on my mother’s side. I was quickly recruited into sporting affairs, and while they were not my ideal environment, I came to enjoy the camaraderie that came with belonging to a team, as well as taking to the fame that was afforded to the team as a whole. Football was to be my destiny, for my junior high and high school years, working the afternoons away with practices, the evenings with games, and late, late nights and early mornings at my studies.
Still, all the effort had paid off in the end, as my grades proved well enough to meet even the high standards of Dartmouth College, one of a trio of Ivy League schools that my mother, in her infinite faith and wisdom, insisted that I apply to. When the news came of my acceptance, there was of course a great celebration to be had, especially as the letter of acceptance came with a notification of scholarship; a scout had been present at the last games of my senior year, and so, at seventeen, my life moved forward.
I had resided at Dartmouth year round for the term of my education; while school related expenses were covered under the terms of my scholarship, the trip that would have been necessary to go home to visit my parents during the school vacations would have put a strain on their budget, so it was that I returned home only on holiday, over Christmas and summer breaks. Thanks to the unique term scheduling offered by Dartmouth, it was within just over three years that I had completed my fourth year degree, and with an associate and bachelor of history and education under my belt, I tried to determine where best would suit my needs from this point forward.
It was, then, a great surprise to me when I was called to the President’s office in the week before our graduation ceremony. He offered me a unique opportunity; the College as both school, home, and workplace. In exchange for my services as first, a professor’s assistant, and coaching staff, the College would offer me a continued scholarship through which to obtain my doctorate in history, and in return, when my degree was complete, I would take on a professorship at the college. It was, needless to say, an ideal opportunity which I was quick to accept before they should change their mind and realize they’d made some horrible mistake on whose name they had placed upon the paperwork…
Of course, that was not the case, at Dartmouth they don’t make mistakes – and even if they did, we never admit them to the public eye. By the age of twenty-four I had completed my Master’s degree, and spent the next several years enjoying the fruits of my labor as I entered into a full time teaching position at the college that had, for so long, been my home.
At twenty-eight, I started the process all over again, as I began to fill out all of the paperwork necessary to return for my doctorate… and there was one question that had caught me off guard, and brought my work to a standstill. ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’
What did I want to be when I grew up? Was I already grown up? Was this what my life was to be, from this point forward? Structured lessons. Regulated textbooks. Scheduled meetings, classes. Regulated attire. Asleep by ten, up at six, except for mid terms and final weeks, and the occasional week back with the family; with the retired father, and slowly (albeit gracefully) aging mother, with the blossoming actress sister and her most recent fling.
I came to realize, slowly, that it was not that I had an unhappy life. But was it, then, a happy one? Is happy the default state of being, if one is not unhappy?
It was then, here only recently, that Fate stepped in to deal a new hand. Or, if not Fate herself, then Chance, perhaps. Regardless, when I received the notification of inheritance, I took it as a sign. My mother’s uncle, a man that I remembered vaguely as having met once or twice in my early youth before his became a recluse, tucking himself away from the world within the walls of his estate… which it seems, upon his passing, he had left to me. A house, from the pictures and appraisals seemed to be both of mild historical significance, and in need of a good bit of work, in a small town in the north side of Dublin, of all places.
Quaint, I could call it that, most certainly. The house, the land, and all of the personal belongings in and on the estate had been left to me, to deal with as I saw fit. So, here it is, that six months later, I have taken a sabbatical from the Dartmouth College, and find my way en route by train, a few bags above me, and a portion of my savings allocated to a checking account with which to refinish and refurbish the house to sell, once it is complete, to the town which had provided me with my first unexpected twist in the road of my life.
Shall we see, then, where it leads?
Entry #1
It was then, when I came to myself and took the time to examine my life with the perspective of the observer, rather than the first person to which we are most often confined, that I came to realize that I was, at the age of 29, stagnant. Certainly, I had come to stagnation at the epicenter of what most might call the prime of my life; having secured a tenured position as a professor of history at one of the premiere colleges in the western hemisphere, living a life of ease and comfort in a house well-suited to my taste, and means – which were considerable, given my heritage and position. And yet… there was no denying that I had, in fact, peaked. Where was my life to go now, from this point forward? I had no desire for wife, and family, while I was not adverse to the concept itself, I had found no one with whom spending the remainder of my life seemed a pleasant adventure, rather than a task.
There had been some half a dozen women, in the last fourteen years since I had reached the age of courage to ask Julia Brightmire to the freshmen prom, that had been kind enough to enter into some form of relationship or another with me, but for one reason or another, each relationship had been set gently aside to gather dust in the box of my fonder recollections.
Dartmouth College had given me a place to call home for many years now; the first of which had been arriving as a student, after receiving a scholarship to attend the college as a student. My childhood had been a simple affair, my mother and father genteel spirits with little in the way of wants that outweighed their means. My father spent the majority of his days as the manager of a chain of factories, my mother a housewife and mother, each of them content in their station and life. My older sister, outgoing and vibrant, often took center stage, which I was more than happy to relinquish. I was content with my dusty books, and my quiet afternoons spent lurking about museums, or parks, taking walks with my mother through monuments and gardens.
I did not lack for friends, through my childhood or adolescent years, despite my bookworm-esque tendencies, as I shed my youthful chubbiness it was discovered that I had indeed inherited my father’s rugged good looks, my mother’s fair hair, and the girth that came, it seemed, from our Norwegian ancestors on my mother’s side. I was quickly recruited into sporting affairs, and while they were not my ideal environment, I came to enjoy the camaraderie that came with belonging to a team, as well as taking to the fame that was afforded to the team as a whole. Football was to be my destiny, for my junior high and high school years, working the afternoons away with practices, the evenings with games, and late, late nights and early mornings at my studies.
Still, all the effort had paid off in the end, as my grades proved well enough to meet even the high standards of Dartmouth College, one of a trio of Ivy League schools that my mother, in her infinite faith and wisdom, insisted that I apply to. When the news came of my acceptance, there was of course a great celebration to be had, especially as the letter of acceptance came with a notification of scholarship; a scout had been present at the last games of my senior year, and so, at seventeen, my life moved forward.
I had resided at Dartmouth year round for the term of my education; while school related expenses were covered under the terms of my scholarship, the trip that would have been necessary to go home to visit my parents during the school vacations would have put a strain on their budget, so it was that I returned home only on holiday, over Christmas and summer breaks. Thanks to the unique term scheduling offered by Dartmouth, it was within just over three years that I had completed my fourth year degree, and with an associate and bachelor of history and education under my belt, I tried to determine where best would suit my needs from this point forward.
It was, then, a great surprise to me when I was called to the President’s office in the week before our graduation ceremony. He offered me a unique opportunity; the College as both school, home, and workplace. In exchange for my services as first, a professor’s assistant, and coaching staff, the College would offer me a continued scholarship through which to obtain my doctorate in history, and in return, when my degree was complete, I would take on a professorship at the college. It was, needless to say, an ideal opportunity which I was quick to accept before they should change their mind and realize they’d made some horrible mistake on whose name they had placed upon the paperwork…
Of course, that was not the case, at Dartmouth they don’t make mistakes – and even if they did, we never admit them to the public eye. By the age of twenty-four I had completed my Master’s degree, and spent the next several years enjoying the fruits of my labor as I entered into a full time teaching position at the college that had, for so long, been my home.
At twenty-eight, I started the process all over again, as I began to fill out all of the paperwork necessary to return for my doctorate… and there was one question that had caught me off guard, and brought my work to a standstill. ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’
What did I want to be when I grew up? Was I already grown up? Was this what my life was to be, from this point forward? Structured lessons. Regulated textbooks. Scheduled meetings, classes. Regulated attire. Asleep by ten, up at six, except for mid terms and final weeks, and the occasional week back with the family; with the retired father, and slowly (albeit gracefully) aging mother, with the blossoming actress sister and her most recent fling.
I came to realize, slowly, that it was not that I had an unhappy life. But was it, then, a happy one? Is happy the default state of being, if one is not unhappy?
It was then, here only recently, that Fate stepped in to deal a new hand. Or, if not Fate herself, then Chance, perhaps. Regardless, when I received the notification of inheritance, I took it as a sign. My mother’s uncle, a man that I remembered vaguely as having met once or twice in my early youth before his became a recluse, tucking himself away from the world within the walls of his estate… which it seems, upon his passing, he had left to me. A house, from the pictures and appraisals seemed to be both of mild historical significance, and in need of a good bit of work, in a small town in the north side of Dublin, of all places.
Quaint, I could call it that, most certainly. The house, the land, and all of the personal belongings in and on the estate had been left to me, to deal with as I saw fit. So, here it is, that six months later, I have taken a sabbatical from the Dartmouth College, and find my way en route by train, a few bags above me, and a portion of my savings allocated to a checking account with which to refinish and refurbish the house to sell, once it is complete, to the town which had provided me with my first unexpected twist in the road of my life.
Shall we see, then, where it leads?
