From August '87 until May '89, I found myself, at times inexplicably, in the Blue Ridge mountains, teaching 11th grade English at a boys boarding school in Dyke, VA. And trust me, Dyke somehow was the better of two options, given the area truly was called Bacon Hollow. These are back in the pre-internet dark ages, where one had to speak to customer service over an actual land line phone and there would always be that one person offering childish snickers when I said the name of the town to mail whatever it was. Somehow Dyke brought the giggles the same way "fart" would in a room full of children (or even some adults I know).
I didn’t chase the lawyer track that I think many people thought I would chase. As an English major, someone thought I would be uniquely qualified to teach kids only four to five years my junior….for $13,000 a year...room and board....while wearing a blazer, shirt and tie. Previously, for me, this attire was reserved for weddings, funerals, and the more than I wanted to brag about trips to my college Dean’s office to discuss various shenanigans.
I was surrounded by drugs, "huffing" deodorant, the Grateful Dead, and a bunch of dark clouds that form over kids preparing to face the big, bad world of college - some who scored less than 800 on the SAT’s, due mostly to apathy, parents giving up on them, and past teachers moving them up the curriculum ladder when they shouldn't have, just because they could catch a football or go yard in baseball. And, I was charged to steer them!? Let's be very clear - I wasn’t some poster child for Sweet and Innocent magazine. I was less "just say no" and more "maybe just this once?" By the time I walked on to that campus, I had been exposed to most things, though huffing was a first for me to see. I loved the Dead, but wasn’t going to have shared experiences listening to their music with these kids - well mostly. Once I realized these kids were not going to latch on to Steinbeck, Dickens, or any of the classics, I printed lyrics to Dead songs and turned it in to a poetry class of sorts. "Ripple" was a personal favorite to discuss. And? They responded.
For two years, I shaped minds with what little I had to share, veering from traditional curriculum. Those times still feel like the most brutal two years of my life - emotionally speaking. It was during those two years that I learned about tossing a room. It was those two years where one of my advisees admitted, almost proudly, that his father was the Grand Dragon of a not too faraway chapter of the KKK. But, as his Jewish advisor, I need not worry - he had no beef with “us.” Easy to say "why didn't you just report him?" This was not the environment for social justice warrior'ing. Everyone knew what was going on and I look back on it now wishing I hadn't been part of the Blind Eye Club.
I was so ill-prepared to have a 14 year old show up at my apt door (yes, I lived on campus) to let me know his girlfriend was pregnant and what should he do? Cute that ANYONE on the planet would think I would have advice or the courage to offer it. At times, you had to bring in the calvary, while others I just gut instinct'ed my way through. For non life threatening things, I just winged it - and I apparently was winging pretty good, b/c all of a sudden I started getting letters from parents noticing something was different when their kids would come back home.
There are times in my life where I wish I wasn't reminded of when a large, chauffeur driven Bentley dropped a freshman off at school two weeks before classes even started. No parent got out to hug this child. The chauffeur placed the bags on the curb and drove away. The child stared for a moment, then turned and proceeded to vomit in front of my building. The only thing going on at school was football camp and this child was NOT there to play football. This particular child is who football players devour before games - as an appetizer.
Over time, my study hall (detention of sorts) became the place to be - kids who never once got in to trouble were now doing stupid shit so they could get sent there. Mostly benign things like missing assignments or bad behavior in class. Think Island of Misfit Toys - students AND teacher. We would all just talk. About something. About nothing.
Small victories were always cut short by brutal realities - the "we were so close breaking through to that one" disappointments and older faculty giving me the side eye for my "ways". The Headmaster truly wanted to inject a younger crop of teachers - outside the box thinkers - but, it was just hard. I needed an escape strategy from what seemed like VA's second Civil War, us young ones and the old guard, holding on to past beliefs that were not going to prepare these kids for a rapidly changing, more progressive world. So, in my final faculty meeting, when there was no "new business" to discuss, I might have raised my hand to suggest I finally cracked the code on the town 's name. I surmised it was founded by the Daughters of the American Revolution, who ended up being intimate with one another while their husbands were off shooting muskets while standing 10 feet away from their enemy. To be fair, if you ever really paid attention to how the troops fought back then, these women were better off without those dunderheads.
For my part, it was a foolish ploy - my only goal to be uninvited back. Mission accomplished. I remember the Headmaster offering me a look - equal parts disappointment and understanding. He knew.
So, I left my island behind - only to realize years later, I loved those misfits - and in the end, they weren't misfits at all - they were just kids who had no guidance from parents who were dreadfully invisible and I was the first person that seemed to not only hear them but listen to them. Two very different things.
I retreated to the safety of Dallas, ready to take on the “rigors” of film school, when something odd and timely happened. In June of 1989, Dead Poets Society was released. I hadn’t left the Hollow 3 weeks before I was transported right back to school. I am not suggesting I made it to the level of Robin Williams’ character, but damn if I wasn’t being unorthodox in that coat and tie environment ; bearing witness to the same parental trauma inflicted on my students, now some 30 years after that movie took place. DPS spoke to me.
That was the day I was reminded of Thoreau’s epic work that started simply with: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life…” I had not lived enough life to understand living deliberately. Apologies to Professor Harris, who likely tried to get me to understand in one of the many college courses I took from him.
It's now 2023 and I am back in the woods - starting to feel, maybe for the first time, that I am growing more deliberate in the way I choose to live this life of mine. And, if Thoreau was right about one thing, the woods have a way of making that necessary.
Nestled in the Catskills, I am officially off grid adjacent (real estate recall to my years in LA where people would fudge their neighborhoods by suggesting they were Santa Monica or Beverly Hills “adjacent”). I can’t claim total isolation, as I have police and fire 3 mins away ; groceries, gas, and mail 6 mins away ; and a liquor store (aka package store) 8 mins away. There is no DoorDash, no Uber, no ArcLight cinema, no real food options open Monday and Tuesday (some even still Wednesday). Above all? No sushi other than what’s made on sight at one of several groceries, nearby(ish).
There were nights in the beginning where I was sorta questioning this - not in any real way, but, not knowing a soul, no infrastructure for plumbing, heating, or electrical, and a list of other “this is nothing like”s, I was truly naked. And I am sure those who know me well thought this was insane.
But, that’s when it happened - to thrive out here, you need to be deliberate - you have to live with intention - you have to learn to see the issues coming before they actually do. Need to head into town? Make lists so that you can do all the things on the same trip: Doctor appointments, Home Depot, Target, Adams (the best market in all the universe), and Uncle B’s Car Wash. If you need something on Amazon, make sure you can wait the 5-7 days it will likely take to get to you. Secure your plow person for the winter, get your chimneys inspected every year before winter, have someone help put your garden beds to sleep in the fall and wake them up in the spring, make friends with the two ladies that run the local post office, make sure your dog knows to stay away from any number of the critters and beasts that roam the forests, and, keep track of your propane levels - because there is nothing worse than running out of propane in a house that requires it for heat, hot water, and stove. Yes, I learned the hard way.
It’s re-learning all the things I took for granted. And? I love it.
It has forced me to slow down. To be more proactive and less reactive. To recognize that instant gratification is a luxury and not a necessity. That utter silence, especially at night, is not scary, but liberating. I hear the sounds of my very own brook. Who knew I ever wanted to own a brook? But, I do and it's soothing. You start to pay attention to all the sights and sounds - reminders of the lessons that nature can teach us if we only stop long enough to observe. For example, deer? The best weather forecasters on the planet. They come out in prolific numbers before a big rain or snow storm - somehow they know to graze like there is no tomorrow before they need to hunker down.
In just under 6 months, I have learned much about myself - what I am good at, what I need to work on, but most importantly, what I am capable of.
I have been an extrovert my entire life. While I found it an enriching way of life on many levels, it had become debilitating - caring so much about what others think of me before I even knew what I thought of myself - not having boundaries - not taking time to just breathe?
A few weeks ago, I noticed something a little - well - i guess - defining. I was doing some mindless scrolling around TikTok and Insta and such and came across some random America’s Got Talent video of a 13 year old girl that was shy and meek - but when she sang? Effin’ Janis Joplin. She got the “golden buzzer” and I started getting a little teary. I felt truly happy for her.
I watched a few other uplifting stories and just got sucked into the emotion - something tragic? I got weepy from sadness. Something inspiring? II got weepy from joy. What was happening here? I either developed some serious allergies or It would appear that being removed from the constant city din has made me more empathetic. Another way to look at it is to suggest that being alone, away from certain things, has made me more mortal. More understanding of the fleeting nature of things. The ebb and flow of plusses and minuses.
I am quite certain I didn’t need to go this remote to live deliberately. Hell, I didn’t even know I wanted or needed to live deliberately. But, it’s happened and I am better for it. It is as much about thought as it is about movement. So, here I stay - deep in thought while I allow these old roots to find strength deep in the new soil.
"Carpe Diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary." (DPS)