Flashback, part 54 of n

In my mind, the movie begins with the opening strains of Enigma’s “Return to Innocence”. Silhouette of a figure in the back yard with an empty mason jar, bending over to scoop out the earth from the spot where his sandpile used to be as a kid. Then, a couple hours later, the Pet Sop Boys with “I Wouldn’t Normally Do This Kind Of Thing” as the two-car procession tears up 65 to 440 before turning onto 21st Street to arrive in Hillsboro Village for move-in day. A couple of days to stockpile groceries, buy the things that weren’t packed, plenty of souvenirs for everyone from the bookstore, and then the family left…and there I was, alone at Vanderbilt.

I wasn’t really worried about anything. It was political science, which I’d already proven I was good at. It was a department of people I had met in March, felt like I’d fit in well with. It was the school of a million Southern dreams, achievement and validation all in one. And they were paying me to be there. If only I hadn’t had my girlfriend…but that’s another story.

I bought “Mystery Road,” the Drivin’ n’ Cryin’ album of my undergrad freshman days, and played it on my year-old boom box with my apartment windows open in the cool bright spring afternoon of early September. I flipped between six different stations on my car stereo – KDF, Lightning 100, Thunder 94, a couple of top-40 offerings and WRVU. There was plenty of music to go around; after Birmingham, it was unbelievable to have a station for every slot. My memory is full of Green Day, Smashing Pumpkins, the late-grunge era before “alternative” became a meaningless label.

I could walk to Calhoun Hall in ten minutes – the beginning of nine years of non-car commuting over the next decade. I could walk to the Munchie Mart in three, and swipe my Commodore Card for snacks and drinks until midnight. I could walk over to Rand for meals, or hang out in Sarratt for movies or just coffee at the Overcup Oak. I had all the trappings of a real honest-to-God college experience, right up to a smashing win over Wake Forest in my first ever football game for an academic institution I attended.

I had an email address – my second one, after my brief eWorld experience when I first bought my Mac – and would walk down to the main computer lab at Peabody with its array of Macs that allowed me to download software to take back to my own machine and experiment with. Or just telnet onto CTRVAX and exchange email with the tiny handful of people I knew who had it. I started puzzling out things like Gopher and FTP. I was even tempted by Mosaic, although there was precious little at which to point it.

Even the wardrobe had changed. Slightly. I had a rack of new sportcoats that were meant to be my new go-to outerwear, although I would have traded the lot for just one solid reliable Harris tweed with elbow patches and sturdy enough to roll up as a pillow and wear an hour later. I would still get through a ton of Nikes, and before 1994 was out I would buy a pullover Vandy Starter jacket and a big new leather coat that became known as The Elk. I had new Vibram soles put on my Eastern Europe boots and bought my first Wayfarers from the bookstore.

I felt different. I felt like I knew who I was and who I was going to be. It felt like the world had changed – Cold War over, Soviet Union no more, Democratic control of both halves of Congress and the White House to boot. There was an information superhighway opening up and before long, we were all going to be living in the future. And here I was in a new town – new freeways to learn, new malls to peruse, new stations on TV, new restaurants to take care of dinner. Hell, there was Target and there was Boston Market, and we sure as hell hadn’t had that in the old country.

I was 22, and the future was perfect.

And the kids who are moving into the dorms at Vandy for the first time this weekend were born that autumn.

It’s not the years, it’s the mileage. Dr. Jones nailed that one with accuracy and precision.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.