FALL 1965:
RETURN TO SCHOOL
I NEVER GOT AN answer to that first letter; nor did I receive a response to any of the hundreds of letters I sent her over the years. But it became a habit with me, writing to her. At first, I wrote every day; then, when school began in the fall, I wrote every week. And, I stuck to the wisdom given to me that August morning by the unnamed nurse in the hospital cafeteria. I wrote about the island: how it looked during a nor’easter, how the waves slammed into the rocks, throwing sparkling spray into the air, and how the seaweed and eel grass glistened in the moonlight as I walked the shore at Preacher’s Cove. I also wrote about school and what I was doing there. I went out for track that fall and told her about our meets; describing in second-by-second detail races I’d competed in. And, surprisingly, even though she never wrote back, I maintained a sense of joy in writing to her. When I put pen to paper, I could imagine she was at my side, peering over my shoulder, vicariously experiencing everything with me.
A byproduct of all this writing was a surprising upturn in my grades. Assignments I had previously thought of as onerous I now considered challenging and I found I enjoyed putting flesh to my thoughts and feelings as I expressed them on paper.
Then one day, just before Thanksgiving break, my English Literature teacher asked me to stay after class. When the bell rang, I sat nervously watching my classmates leave the room, wondering what I had done wrong this time.
“Jake,” she said, smiling at me. “I can’t believe the change in you. Last year you were barely making it through and, today, you’re closing in on an ‘A’ grade. Did you do some extra work over the summer? Get a tutor?”
“No, ma’am,” I answered. “I’ve just been doing a lot of writing . . . letters to a friend.”
“Well, it certainly has made you for the better. Now for the reason I asked you to stay after class. And don’t look so worried; you’re not in any trouble.”
I exhaled with relief as she sat down opposite me.
“You know I’m the faculty advisor for the school newspaper, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, how would you like to join us? I know it might be difficult for you since most of our meetings are after school and you commute from Cutter. But, if you could swing it, I’d love to have you on board.”
Flattered and surprised, I smiled. “I’d like that, but I’d have to ask my dad if I can borrow his truck on the days I’d have to stay late.”
“Our meetings are usually on Wednesday afternoons. Ask your father and tell him if he has any questions to give me a call.”
She handed me her card. “And tell him that if you join us, you’ll get extra credit for any articles you write. Okay?”
“Sure. And, thanks.”
I stood and turned to leave, but she stopped me. “One more thing: I’m going to talk to your guidance counselor. I think we need to get you into more college prep courses.”
“College?” I asked, surprised.
“Yes, college. If we can get you caught up, I think you might have a good chance for a scholarship to State. But you’ll have to work hard. And, being on the paper will count in your favor, too. Do you think you’re up to it?”
I hesitated for a minute, remembering how Andi and my mother had tried to persuade me to think about that path the previous summer.
I grinned. “Yes, I think I am up to it. I’ll try.”
“Great,” she said. “You talk to your father about the newspaper and I’ll talk to your counselor and see if we can switch some courses for you.”
I thanked her again and rushed outside to catch the bus that took the Cutter Island kids back to the ferry terminal. My head was exploding—full of possibilities and dreams I’d never dared imagine before. College . . . it was a word that held magic and, for the first time in my life, I embraced it.
My father granted me the use of his truck once a week so I could attend the school newspaper meetings. I was assigned to the editorial staff and, though it was a lot of work, I enjoyed it.
I shared all this excitement with Andi in letters which I still penned once a week. I told her all about my new classes, ones that my teacher cajoled the administration into allowing me to attend. I was now taking Honors English, English Lit, and Advanced Composition. But, since I transferred into these courses midyear, I had a lot of catch-up work to do. This, plus the newspaper, ate up most of my spare time and, as a result, my social life ground to a dead halt.
My parents watched all this with a combination of amazement and amusement. My father treated it like a phase I was going through, while my mother could not stop telling me how proud I was making her.
At the end of my junior year, I made the honor roll for the first time in my life. When I brought home my report card, I thought my mother was going to bust a gut and, my father—well, he began looking at me with a new measure of respect in his eyes.
The following summer, I enrolled in elective summer school, trying to garner all the credits I could that might impress the scholarship committee at State. By this time, my parents were totally on board and my father didn’t seem to mind that I had only limited time to help on the boat.
I still caddied on the golf course, saving the money I earned to cover college expenses I knew I would incur even if I were lucky enough to land scholarship funding.
And I continued to write Andi. It had been over a year since that night on the beach, and I had given up any hope that she would reply. But the letters were never returned, so I assumed that somehow they were getting to her.
I dated other girls that summer but there was no one I got serious with. And, more often than not, I went out alone at night, walking the beach and remembering.
By the time my senior year in high school began, I was in a groove. Most of my time was spent either studying or writing. My social life had all but ceased to exist. While the other kids were going to parties, dances, or just hanging out, I was at home, chained to my studies. Friends like Harry and Stan now either avoided or made fun of me, calling me a nerd or even worse, a spaz. I tried to ignore them, telling myself that my hard work would pay off and, as a result, my life would be much richer than theirs. But sometimes it all got to me and I longed for someone my own age to talk to.
When I felt like this, I wrote to Andi, pouring out my hopes and fears about a future which was now right around the corner.
This writing was cathartic and when I finally folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope, I felt renewed and invigorated. Thus, I was able to plunge back into my schoolwork again.
My family became my cheerleading squad, supporting me in any way possible. If I had a paper due or had to study for a test, my mother made sure I had a quiet space, respecting my need to concentrate. Even my brother, who also called me a spaz on occasion, was there for me. Once I overheard him talking to Stan on the lawn in front of the Parish House on a Sunday morning after church. He was right up in Stan’s face, his finger pointing at the younger boy’s chest.
“Just wait, candyass; in a few years Jake’s going to be a hotshot writer or attorney or something, and where will you be? Don’t bother answering ’cause I know. You’ll still be hanging with the same old crowd, smoking joints, and going nowhere. Man, you haven’t got a clue. Get outta here! You’re pollutin’ my space!”
I remember how shocked I was at the time that Jimmy would defend me so vigorously. At home, I was often the “candyass” who got in his way. I didn’t thank him for sticking up for me, knowing it would only serve to embarrass him. Instead, I gave him my gratitude in other more subtle, concrete ways: volunteering to do the dishes when it was his turn and stuff like that.
I took the SATs that fall and scored well, especially in English. My English Lit teacher helped me complete numerous scholarship applications, which we sent out before the Christmas break. As I placed the final one in the mailbox, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was all out of my hands now. My future would be decided by strangers, people who knew nothing about me and my dreams.
I wrote a long letter to Andi that afternoon, describing all the Christmas decorations that were scattered around the island, including one eight-foot tree that was made entirely from local fishermen’s buoys. I also went on about my plans for the future should the scholarship not pan out. I would work with my father and, hopefully, squirrel away enough money to attend community college at night the following year. It would be a longer journey, but now that the seed was planted, I knew that somehow I would continue to pursue a degree.
Christmas and New Year’s flew by and it was 1967. I continued to work hard at school, but took a little more time for myself now that the pressure of applying for scholarships was over. I began dating one of my colleagues on the school paper . . . a mainland girl. It was nothing serious, but we had fun.
It was a cold day in late February when my life changed. I arrived home late from school to find my mother waiting for me at the door.
“You got a letter, Jake,” she said, her voice shaking slightly as she handed me a thick envelope. “It’s from the University Scholarship Office.”
I put my schoolbooks down, staring at the envelope, and took a deep breath.
“You open it, Mom.”
She nodded and motioned me to follow her into the living room. We sat down on the sofa and, nodding to me one more time, she tore open the envelope and removed its contents.
Quickly, she scanned the cover letter.
“Oh, Jake,” she said, looking at me with tears in her eyes. “You got it! A full scholarship to State. It will cover your tuition for four years as long as you keep your grades up, There’s also a small yearly stipend for books and supplies. I’m so proud of you.”
She hugged me, then handed me the letter and accompanying materials. In a state of disbelief, I read them. At first, I was elated, but then one omission took the wind from my sails.
“There’s nothing for room and board, Mom,” I said. “I have some money saved from the golf course, but not enough. And I can’t commute. It’s too far.”
I shoved the letter back into the envelope. “I’ll just have to go with plan B. Work with Dad for a year, save up, then go to community college at night.”
My mother smiled. “Don’t make any hasty decisions, Jake. Give me the letter. We’ll talk about it tonight when your father’s home. And don’t look so dejected. Things have a way of working out. You’re going to college.”
Later that evening, after dinner, my dad called a family meeting in the living room. When we were all assembled, he took the floor.
“We got good—no, great—news today. Jake has been accepted to college in Orono and they’re going to pay for his tuition and books!”
My brother clapped me on the back. “Congratulations, nerd,” he said. “I knew you could do it.”
“All right,” my dad said. “Enough of that, James. Now, while Jake won’t have to worry about tuition, he still has to pony up for room and board. And that’s not a small piece of change.”
“I’ve got some money saved for a boat,” my brother chimed in. “I’ll lend it to him. That should pay for part of it.”
My father smiled at his elder son, pride evident in his expression. “That’s very generous of you, James, but unnecessary. Mother?”
My mom grinned mischievously, then stood and walked to the china cabinet. She pulled open one of the drawers and took out an envelope that she handed to my dad.
My father opened it. Inside were two bank passbooks and, after examining them, he handed one to me and one to my brother.
“Your mother and I have been putting a little something aside for you boys every month since you were born. Not much, but it adds up. I think there’s enough there, Jake, to handle the first year or two. And, James, that money, combined with what you’ve saved, should give you the down payment on a nice, used boat.”
Neither my brother nor I knew what to say. There had been times when we’d complained to each other about how stingy our parents were. Now we knew why. They had denied themselves many small luxuries in order to assure a future for us. It was almost too much to take in.
My brother was the first to break the silence. “Thanks, Dad,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “And, you, too, Mom.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks. And I’ll get a job. The school gives preference to scholarship kids on employment opportunities. I’ll wash dishes . . . do anything. I’ll make you proud, Dad.”
My father smiled. “I already am, son. You’ll be the first in this family to attend college and that gives me some real island bragging rights!”
The remainder of my senior year sailed by. I went to the prom with the girl from the newspaper. We were comfortable together . . . more like friends than lovers. I wrote all about it to Andi along with my plans for the summer months. I would be doing the usual . . . caddying at the golf course and working on the boat with my dad . . . but I also signed up for a summer course in creative writing offered by the local community college. The course was given at night, two days a week, and I hoped it would help me gain the tools I needed once I started college in the fall.
And, so the summer progressed . . . my days were full as were my nights. June rapidly melted into July, and July into August. And, before I knew it, I was packing for the trip to Orono with my parents. I would be staying in the freshman dorm, rooming with two other guys. I was excited and not just a little nervous. I had never been away from the island on my own before.