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On an unseasonably hot day in early September 1974, my father Earl stowed my carefully chosen belongings into his tricked-up trailer and we began the 30-mile trek west on Route 17, from Apalachin, NY to Elmira College. We were a caravan – my best friend Beckie was also going to EC and was in the car behind us with her dad Richie at the wheel and her mom Gay riding shotgun. Having Beckie at my back, as always, went a long way toward allaying my fear of leaving home, my cat pal Jerome and of course my boyfriend Ron. I was coming off a summer of pretty much constant crying, due to a break-up with him. Much to my mother Betty’s chagrin, we had made up a scant 12 hours before launch time to Elmira. “That goddam kid,” she was heard to mutter periodically – in reference to him, of course. I was in the back seat, mostly silent, and my parent’s cigarette smoke drifting gently between the crack in the seats was somehow comforting; it smelled like our living room. I was, at best, torn.
Upon our arrival, Earl dropped Beckie, her parents and her gear (also packed in the trailer) off at Towers. Amid promises to meet up later on, we proceeded to the parking lot behind Columbia dorm, with Uncle Richie’s “Jesus Christ Beck, did you bring every G-D thing you own?!” ringing in our ears. Betty lit up another Marlboro. It was going to be a long, hot day.
Earl maneuvered our rig into a narrow spot in the Columbia lot. With much trepidation, I got out of the car, positioned myself behind the trailer and waited for orders to be issued. My father was a bit of a – shall we say perfectionist – and this unloading operation would go according to his plan. He’d packed the damn trailer with a level, and nothing could be disturbed without his say-so, lest disaster prevail. Hell, I wanted to light up a Marlboro, and I didn’t even smoke. There Betty and I stood, watching as Earl rummaged about, looking for the perfect box to hand down to the two of us. I threw my mother a side-eye; imperceptibly, she shook her head. Getting through this with a minimum of drama was the name of the game.
One by one, out came the boxes, the bags, the clothes on hangers, and the two 600-pound cantaloupe crates filled with my beloved record albums – prized possessions, every single one.
“OK Laurie, you take this one,” my dad said with authority. “Do you know your room number?”
“It’s 319. I’m sharing with a girl named Bette Ann Mammone, she’s from over by Utica somewhere. I wonder if she’s here yet?”
“We’ll see. Where’s the elevator?”
“Uh – the letter I got a couple of weeks ago said there isn’t one – just two stairwells, one on each end of the hall.”
My father’s face became one shade redder that it already was, given the heat and the nature of our mission. “Christ. And of course, you’re on the top floor. OK Betty, you take that box right there and let’s go.” Hoisting one of the cantaloupe crates up onto his shoulder, Earl strode off toward the dorm.
Now. By this time, as usual, my mother and I were slightly rattled by his directives. Attempting to comply, we both lunged for the same overloaded carton, which of course had been packed by yours truly. Struggling mightily and fighting for control, we slipped. In horror, we watched as the box bounced onto the blacktop, split down the sides, and ejected its varied contents all over the pavement.
“Shit,” said Betty. It was getting hotter, and beads of sweat had begun to trickle down from her forehead and into her eyes. It was not good.
“Yep,” I said, “And here comes Dad; he’s already gritting his teeth.”
As I watched him approach, I took a moment to wonder how Beckie was faring over in Towers. Probably not much better, I supposed, which made me feel good and then bad for hoping she was sharing my misery. At least they had an elevator.
By the time Earl arrived, I had already scooped up as many items as I could and was headed for Columbia 319 as fast as my feet could fly.
“Be right back, Dad,” I said as I passed him, feeling zero guilt at leaving my mother to deal with Earl. Hell, she married his ass, not me.
I made it to the back door. Barely. After managing to dredge up a smile for my new RA, who welcomed me, checked me in and pointed toward the stairwell, I began my ascent to the third floor. Down the corridor I went, feeling and sweating like a pack mule, and checking the room numbers for my future home. Up ahead, I saw a group of well-dressed people standing in the hallway. They were lavishing much attention upon a lovely young woman in a smart skirt and blouse, with a perfect haircut and a scarf tied jauntily around her neck. Surely this wasn’t my new roommate, Bette Ann?
Alas, it appeared that this was so. “Oh hell,” I thought, “I look like CRAP.” Before I could quickly pivot and pretend I was looking for a different room, they all turned as one to greet me. Hitching up my jeans and adjusting what I then remembered was the 50-count carton of Stay-Free Maxi Pads that I had stuck under my arm, I gave them all my biggest smile.
“Hi! I’m Laurie,” I said.
My new roomie took one look at me and my baggage, smiled her own bright and beautiful smile right back and said, “Lauretta! You’re here!”
And so I was. Bette Ann was my Roomie and she stayed that way, right up until she left us in 2017. Little did I know that on that blisteringly hot day in September 1974 I would gain a wonderful friend – and the best Alma Mater ever – for life.
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