Up, Up and Away

Have I told you guys about how I used to live in New Hampshire?  About how the sweet pre-pubescent Elizabeth became the crazy teenager Elizabeth in a fog of f-words and mentally extreme, though actually tame rebellion?  It was the prime of my human development. I loved my friends, hated my parents and was trying way too hard to be cool.  That’s how you turn into an adult, right?

We moved away from New Hampshire at the end of my seventh grade year in the height of my eff-off-edness.  I was 13 and terribly distraught at the thought of leaving everyone I knew for a suburb in the West a.k.a. The Evil Olympia [Washington].

Just before we moved, there was an end-of-year school dance.  I desperately wanted to go so I could tell all my friends how horrible my parents were for making me move, in case they hadn’t heard it from me for the last 4 months.  I wanted to yell “Abuse!  Abuse!” from the rooftops because they were so mean.  The thing was, I wasn’t allowed to go to dances until I was 14.  I thought surely my parents would have some compassion and make an exception due to extenuating circumstances, such as we were moving and my life was ending.  They predictably said no.

My friends took matters into their own hands and passed a petition around our school – it was on lined college-ruled paper, stapled onto pink construction paper, with multiple colored-pencil embellishments.  Mostly flowers, I think. “We believe that Elizabeth should be allowed to go to the end-of-the-year dance,” it said.  Ah, I thought.  That would turn them.  Even some of my teachers signed it!  When my parents saw that every other person in the entire world thought they were crazy, they would let me go.

I presented it to my mom with confidence and in-your-face enthusiasm of a teenager proving her parents wrong.  “That’s so cute!” she said.  “I’m going to put this in your scrapbook.”  That did not go over well for my bruised and delicate soul.

I moved away, danceless.  I was heartbroken.  The next year of my life is completely removed from my memory, except that I remember making a deal with my parents that if I behaved, I could go back to New Hampshire for eighth grade graduation.  And somehow I made it back, though I have trouble believing it was my behavior that got me there.  I went to graduation, hung out with my friends, went to an amusement park in Massachusetts and then went back to my own handmade hell for the next four years.  And lost touch with everyone from New Hampshire.  Until Facebook came into play.

And now, twenty-three years after my 14-year-old visit to New Hampshire, I’m back for a little class reunion.  My friend Heather picked me up in Boston this afternoon and we drove back to New Hampshire.  It’s surreal to match adult faces with the child faces in my memory.  They are surprisingly similar.

As we ate lunch in Hanover this afternoon, at Molly’s Balloon, I was excited that I remembered the restaurant we chose.  And even more delighted at  the salads we ordered.  I had the Spinach and Strawberry Salad with crispy red onions, gorgonzola cheese and spicy walnuts. Heather ordered a fabulous-looking Corsican Salad with goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, roasted red peppers, artichokes and asparagus.  We ate a crusty/chewy loaf of bread with honey butter while we were waiting and chatting chatting chatting. There’s a lot to say, after such a gap in contact.

Tomorrow we are going to The Cornish Fair, meeting up with some other friends and then burning shit.  That’s right.  You heard me.  We are burning shit.  I’ll have to tell you later what that entails.  But I’m kind of excited to find out.