College dropoff 1997

The author reflects on the experience of dropping off their daughter at college. They describe the mixed emotions of the parents, who wanted to spend more time with their daughter but knew they had to let her go. The daughter seemed eager to start her new life and didn't show much emotion. The family had a close relationship and the parents were proud of their daughter's accomplishments. They eventually said their goodbyes and the daughter reassured them that she would be fine. The author concludes by thanking the readers and mentioning that there will be another column in the series. Happy Thursday, August 24th, 2023. Welcome to the Sunday column. I'm Dan Flannery. Hope you're doing well as summer eases into its final month. Today's piece, as I hinted at last week, has nothing to do with music or performing or guitars. It is a seasonal piece reflecting this time of year when parents drop their kids off at college to start a new life or maybe continue the new life they started a year or two ago. My bride and I have gone through that with our two daughters, and many of our friends and family have done the same with their kids. It's not at all an uncommon situation for families, but it absolutely is memorable for all concerned, even historic in that familial sense. Over the next few days, I'll be sharing two pieces about our experiences over the years. I bet you can relate at some level with one or maybe both of them. Today's piece was originally published in the Postcrescent in Appleton, Fox Cities, Wisconsin, on September 4th, 1997, a few days after we dropped our oldest daughter off at the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse. The headline is, Daughter Also Finds Parting Bittersweet. They hung around and hung around and hung around some more. They carried furniture to her room. They set up her computer. They offered suggestions. They unloaded boxes. They offered to run errands. They got frustrated when it was obvious she wanted them to go. They waited for her to tell them how much she loved them. They peaked for the first tear to drip down her cheeks. They stood by for her hug when she would tell them what a firm foundation she had been given, how she'd never strayed from the straight and narrow, and how she hopes to raise her kids as well as she was raised. But they never got those. They didn't have to. She was in college, and they had to go home, eventually. But not yet, and not now. Not if they could help it. Her father showed her something on the computer, but her attention was elsewhere. Her mother suggested a few ways of arranging the room she shares with two friends, but she didn't want to hear it. You've seen the look before. It's that pretend-to-listen-while-you're-staring-at-your-shoes look. And you've heard that uh-huh before. You've explained something to someone who really doesn't care to listen, but doesn't want to be impolite. Like, so you insert the spent nuclear fuel rods in the microwave, turn it on high for 50 minutes, and call the FBI before the western half of the state goes up in a mushroom cloud, okay? Uh-huh. It's that please-leave look. That God-you-bore-me way of saying uh-huh. She was right, of course. It was the day for them to drop her off and cut the cord. They just didn't want to. She had fulfilled her requirements at home for 18 years, six months, and four days. She got so she could clean the downstairs bathroom, scoop dog poop from the lawn, babysit for any number of kids, juggle three phone conversations, hold down four summer jobs, endure her younger sister, and get decent grades. She had made them proud. And now it was time for them to go. She had a life to live. She got impatient. She walked ahead of them on the way to the student convocation in the football stadium. Her father took her aside and, in so many words, asked her to give them a few more minutes. It's an emotional day, he told her. She calmed down. After the convocation, they returned to her room, but there was nothing left to do except leave. They crossed the parking lot to the minivan, all carrying an empty box or a suitcase to bring back home. I guess it's time, she said, grinning. She hugged her mother, and her mother squeezed back for minutes, it seemed. They had been very, very close through the years and had grown to respect each other. They'd talked about everything and developed the kind of relationship every mother wants with her daughter. Her mother sobbed, but the girl only smiled. I'll be fine, she said. Her father's eyes watered as he watched, and a lump almost clogged his throat. I don't want you to stay, he told her, as they hugged tightly. I'll be fine, she said. Little Sister took her turn. With five years' difference in age, they had not always been on the same page, her and her sister, but they had always been close when it counted, and it counted now. The younger girl sobbed so hard, she shook. God, you're going to make me cry, said the older girl as they clung to each other. I'll be fine. So will you. The family has spoken with her every day since, by phone, twice on Wednesday. Something bothered her father, though, something he had to find out when they spoke most recently. Tell me something, he said. Did you cry when we left the other day? A little, she said. Yep. She'll be fine. That's the Sunday column for August 24th, 2023. Hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for listening, and thank you for reading the Sunday column at danalflannery.com. If you like it, let me know. If you thought it wasn't up to par, let me know that as well. If you want to share it, feel free to share it. That's it. I'll have another version, another column in this series, two-day series, on, I think, Saturday morning, the 26th. All right. Have a good night. Hope you're well. Bye.