Snippets of Durham, So Far

         I spent my first weekend on campus holed up from Irene and watched bad TV with my mother, who was recovering from the trauma and elation of setting her youngest son free into the world. This past weekend I left town and returned to Dartmouth to tread the hallowed halls of ivy I know well. My exploration of the area has been severely limited. I’ve ridden my bike or walked the one mile stretch from my apartment to the library approximately 50 times. When I ride home after dark I am terrified of hitting a bump in the road and sprawling into the pitch dark night.

 I have entered no more than six of the dozens and dozens of buildings on campus. I restrict my traffic to the library and the English building, and the student center where I periodically check on my broken computer and receive the most bizarrely accusatory attempt at an apology I’ve ever heard: “Well, I have no good news. Your computer has certainly been a huge pain this past week. I got the screen in but that didn’t work. Had to send it back and file a complaint. The other order didn’t include a power button which is specifically what I asked for. Sent that back as well. Your laptop really is turning into a disaster for us. I don’t know what you want to do- you must be upset it’s taking us so long to fix. I guess if you want to just take it somewhere else we’d be saddened and relieved.”

I see walls plastered with posters: a capella groups need singers; the theater needs actors; rugby wants women who are looking for an outlet for their aggression; the psych department wants “MEN ONLY” for a brain study; Christian Impact is holding a free ice cream social inviting freshman to “come see what God is doing at UNH”; a recent graduate seeks someone to watch her cat, “a great lap sitter,” for two months; and professor Leah woods needs more students for her “Tables, Tools, and Toboggans” class.

               There must be a whole surging underworld of undergraduates here, but I’ve never been into a dining hall so I haven’t seen them in action. I flipped through the Freshmen issue of “The New Hampshire,” UNH’s campus newspaper. It seems every campus thinks they’re the only one in the country with the idea to hyphenate, abbreviate, or give nicknames to locales. “Freshman, you’ll learn that we love our nicknames here in Durham. Keeping them straight can be a challenge, but with this easy guide you’ll never be out of the loop,” a blurb reads. The truth must be that every college campus in the northeast loves its tevas and nalgenes, considers itself “outdoorsy” even if the majority of students don’t know which way is West, and embraces its unique jargon. That Dartmouth and UNH have abbreviated their dining halls to FoCo and HoCo, respectively, (from Food Court and Holloway Commons) and both consider the re-chriestening original and clever, justifies my theory.

I am the youngest student in my graduate classes. The girl next to me looks my age, but wears a blinding diamond on her left hand which puts us in very different places in our lives. An older woman in one class tells us that as adults, our main goal will be to iron out all of our quirks until we seem like normal people. She then tells a story about an out of body experience she had in Italy, when she looked down to see herself screaming at an airline attendant. The conclusion being, she is just as quirky as we are. 

My landlady is a very fit, naturally pretty, middle-aged woman with an equally fit husband and four sons, the youngest 18. He is a senior in high school and may have been warned not to interact with the three girls living in the apartment over the garage. When I returned from a run the other day, he gave me a small wave as he pulled into the driveway. It was a huge breakthrough in our communication. Before, he seemed devoted to ignoring me.

I run a four-mile loop into the residential neighborhood of southern Durham, avoiding the more peopled roads closer to town. A small sign on the side of Bagdad Road directs me to “Merrick Trails” but these are brief paths that lead to a private house, then back out to Canney Road. Perhaps the trails are meant to be private too and I have been excercising in someone else's backyard. But then why the sign? My whole body tenses when I see a wiry, shirtless jogging man, all abs and sinew, due to intersect my route. The activities we are each performing have zero in common, and I avert my eyes in a private apology for inwardly claiming that I too am “running.” It is a deficiency of the English language, I explain silently to him. I move aside to let him bound on by while I continue what could be named “The Durham Shuffle.”

I drive nine miles away to the quaint village of Newmarket twice a week. There I spend hours crawling on the floor and reading Eric Carl books with Liam, the 18-month-old I nanny. For 18 months old, I am told, he’s quite advanced, running around flailing, Captain Jack Sparrow style, and parroting every word out of his parents mouths. Damien and Susie are also very fit. So fit, in fact I find it hard to not feel guilty about even being in their house. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge!” Susie offers kindly. The thought! Not while your triathlon jerseys remain the size of my thigh, I think. Her triceps ripple when she lifts Liam and I resolve to start training for a half marathon.

She takes Liam and me to the farmers market in Exeter, NH. It is my first glimpse at Phillips Exeter Academy and I realize why so many of my classmates were unfazed by freshmen year at Dartmouth. We wander the stalls; Liam has learned the social custom of greeting and shouts “HI!” with a smile at everyone who passes. Old ladies smile back as if he is simply breaking their hearts and men (every man) bug out their eyes and open their mouths in a silent roar in response. In the small park we let Liam run and kick his two soccer balls. He is verbal, agile, and non-fragile. Another boy waddles up, stares at Liam and rocks on his feet, struggling to stay balanced. He descends to his knees and reaches clumsily for one of the balls. His mother catches up and introduces herself. “Karin,” she says.

“Susie,” says Susie.

“How old is yours?”

“Liam is almost 18 months. Yours?”

              Karin pauses before saying “Johnny just turned two,” and they both shuffle awkwardly, embarrassed by the obvious: Johnny is six months older but pales in comparison to Liam’s advanced coordination. It is my first introduction to the tomes of unspoken communication exchanged between mothers and nannies in peaceful parks.

On the way home, Liam begins to howl. Susie had asked me to sit up front, and now says its best to leave him alone, although his sobs make her uneasy. “My friend did the whole Ferber method with her second born, let him cry it out, self soothe. It’s one thing to let Liam cry on the way home for two minutes. But leaving your child wailing in the crib for a half hour? That goes against every maternal instinct I have.” I think it’s probably not a good time to mention my mother’s Wooden Spoon method.

I’m headed out this weekend to Star Island, part of the Isles of Shoals of the coast of NH, to research an article and attend the Isles of Shoals Historical and Research Association’s fall conference. I’m on the lookout for quirky characters that will enliven the piece. There promise to be many. When I return to Durham, if I escape the many ghosts of the island, I am determined to make real human, adult acquaintances. Updates to follow.