While Stephen Bird was busy last week preparing his signature soup and clam chowder for the Cape Cod Marathon, he had no idea how much those efforts would be appreciated, not just by the running community, but the town of Falmouth in general.
After a one-year hiatus in 2020 due to Covid-19, this year’s staging of the Mayflower Wind Cape Cod Marathon, Relay, and Half was highly anticipated, by runners and organizers. Slated for Halloween weekend, the event notoriously coincides with the region’s stormy autumn weather, so while a late October Nor’easter was not necessarily unexpected, it was definitely unwelcome. Cape Cod awoke to widespread power outages and extensive storm damage in the early morning hours of Wednesday, October 27, and the following day, the race committee was forced to make the difficult decision to cancel.
The next item on the agenda: deciding what to do with 200 gallons of soup and chowder.
As production chef for The Quarterdeck and the Pilot House in Falmouth and Sandwich respectively, Steve Bird is well-known for his clam chowder and hearty soups, which he has prepared for the past few years for the post-race celebration. The event is often held under a tent in a torrential downpour, so the menu is by design.
“Providing a hot, nutritious meal to runners after they cross the finish line is one of the things the Cape Cod Marathon is known for, and it’s a tradition not all races do anymore,” Steve said. “It’s something people appreciate, especially when it’s freezing cold and raining during race weekend.”
Therefore, as the forecast started to turn bleak for October 30 and 31, Steve forged ahead undeterred, prepping the base for the coveted chowder, in addition to turkey and wild rice soup, and gluten-free minestrone, for those with dietary restrictions.
Although power would eventually be restored for much of Falmouth by race day, the storm’s impact proved to be too much, particularly in terms of flooding and downed trees and power lines along the course. The Falmouth Running Club, which produces the event, met with Falmouth Police Department on Thursday morning and, shortly after, race director Jack Afarian made the call to cancel.
“My first priority is the safety of the runners, volunteers, and spectators, and if I don’t feel like I can conduct a safe race, we’re not going to do it. And the police agreed,” he said. “We put our heads together and decided to give the soup away, and then we talked about the best way to do that.”
After race organizers weighed Gus Canty Community Center as an option, they contacted Falmouth Recreation Director Joe Olenick, who gave them permission to set up on the sidewalk in front of the building, centrally located on Main Street, next to Falmouth Police Department and Falmouth Senior Center.
At the suggestion of Falmouth resident Art Gaylord, Steve Bird contacted his neighbor and family friend, Samantha Bauer, founder and director of Falmouth nonprofit Inspiration is Everywhere, who was already doing her part. Once she determined Kenyon’s Market in East Falmouth was already distributing free coffee for line workers, she began requesting donations through PayPal and Venmo for Gatorade and electrolyte waters, which she delivered to the EverSource staging area in front of Wal-Mart. Shaw’s Supermarket also donated to her effort. After reading a Facebook post by the wife of a line worker who couldn’t obtain bottled water while out on his route, she purchased reusable travel mugs at Dollar Tree, which she filled with water supplied by Cape Cod Marathon, and also delivered.
Social media blasts were shared on Thursday to announce the makeshift soup kitchen at Gus Canty, informing people to come equipped with their own containers with lids, and Steve Bird, with help from his wife, Jennifer Gilbert, and other volunteers, began transporting his equipment, along with countless buckets of soup and chowder base.
Cars began filling the parking lot shortly after their start time of 3 pm, with volunteers from Falmouth Running Club, Falmouth Road Race, Inspiration is Everywhere, and title sponsor Mayflower Wind serving up Steve’s creations, along with apples, bananas, and snacks, donated for runners by Shaw’s, in addition to gallons of drinking water. Hot breakfast sandwiches were sent over by the Falmouth Inn, located next to Gus Canty.
The Marathon soup kitchen set up in the same spot again on Friday, when many people were gratefully returning home to restored power, after about 56 hours without.
Food sponsor donations included ingredients for the chowder and soups from Reinhart Foodservice; Ring Brothers Produce; dairy from Paul W. Marks; turkeys from William and Company; and clams from St. Ours.
For Jack Afarian, it was a positive outcome to an unfortunate situation.
“It feels pretty lousy to disappoint 4,000 runners, but that’s the second worst thing that can happen to a race director. The worst is to have an unsafe event where someone is injured, or worse,” he said. “We’re putting everything toward a good cause, so there’s a silver lining here. Maybe there was a reason the race was canceled.”
Filling in gaps of need in the community is the core mission of Inspiration is Everywhere, from providing essentials like clothing and toiletries to aiding individuals by connecting them to resources, to providing general assistance, such as free internet access. The office on Spring Bars Road boasts a meeting space available for hosting alcohol and drug-free events, in an effort to combat substance use disorder among young people as a result of boredom and experimentation.
Samantha Bauer eagerly answered Steve’s call seeking help with the townwide effort at Gus Canty.
“I’m happy for any chance to show my community that other people care about them, whether they’re in a state of crisis or not,” she said.
Giving back to those less fortunate was instilled in Samantha by her mother and grandmother, and it’s a lesson she models to her children, Anthony and Isabella, 4 and 5, who were passing out fruit.
“It’s important for my kids to be involved and see they can physically impact people in a positive way, by simply handing someone a banana or a cup of soup,” Samantha said.
She and Steve Bird hope to move forward with a more organized effort for future storms, in which restaurants can participate by donating their food during power outages for Steve to prepare for the public. Samantha has drafted a proposal for the consideration of town officials.
Steve and I had spoken by phone earlier in the week about a very different topic; he took a break from prepping and chopping as the rain pelted down on Cape Cod. I had recently written for my blog his courageous account of surviving childhood sexual abuse, which he confided to me in 2018 but only recently decided to share with the public. One of his goals for telling his story is to underscore the connection between addiction and unresolved trauma, with the hope of showing survivors they’re not alone. After 15 years of attempting to get sober, Steve celebrated his first year free of alcohol, nicotine and drugs back in August, and he believes that finally acknowledging his trauma has been essential to his recovery.
We’ve since shared Steve’s story with local media and beyond, and will continue to do so, in an effort to spread his message far and wide. Since coming forward, Steve has been approached by countless people, acquaintances and strangers, who can relate to his pain, and realize they don’t have to suffer in shameful silence.
Watching his hometown line up for a bowl of hot, homemade soup after two days without power, which he prepared, proved to be a similar reminder.
“No matter how connected we think we are, or how many Facebook friends we have, so many people are lonely and isolated,” he said. “This was a way to keep the Marathon tradition alive while bringing our whole town together.”
For as long he can remember, Stephen Bird has lived a lie. Now, at age 53, he’s finally ready to speak the truth.
Steve and I first connected in October 2018, when he was referred to me by our mutual friend, and my fellow Falmouth writer, Joanne Gartner, about the prospect of sharing a very personal story in the form of a book. Steve had originally approached Joanne, but due to the subject matter, she suggested he contact me.
After more than a decade working as a freelance reporter, covering everything from Town Hall to the Cape Cod art scene, I had recently embarked on a self-initiated investigation into clergy sex abuse in the Catholic Church, specifically my childhood parish of St. Patrick’s in Falmouth. Although I was never a target, I know many women and men who were, and the whispers were loud enough for even a small child to hear. It’s one of the main reasons I left the Catholic Church right after I was confirmed as a teenager in the late 1980s.
In small town fashion, I didn’t really know Steve per se, but I knew “of” him, affectionately nicknamed “Birdman,” for although he graduated a few years ahead of me from Falmouth High School, we hung out in similar circles. While he was a “Deadhead,” who drove a cool VW bus, and I was part of the “Alternative” crowd, whose only transportation was skateboards, we both became regulars at our friends’ party house in Falmouth Heights, where I met my future husband, also a friend of Steve.
Therefore I didn’t know much about him, despite being connected on social media. But all of that changed quickly when we met one October afternoon in 2018, in the cozy, rustic garage of his parents’ home overlooking Sippewissett Marsh. I had a vague idea of where the house was, for I had attended the Birds’ legendary Road Race party the summer I was 18, right before leaving for college. Although I have thought about that party over the years when taking that winding road down to Wood Neck or the Knob, I could never remember the exact location, until three decades later, when I arrived with a notebook and voice recorder instead of the Kappy’s Amaretto we were inexplicably drinking on that Road Race so many years ago.
Steve’s story does not involve the Catholic Church, but his is like that of so many clergy sex abuse survivors who have bravely shared theirs. It involves grooming by an authority figure, abuse of power, and the erosion of innocence, all of which forever change the trajectory of a person’s life. Steve was candid from the start, explaining he was also meeting with another writer, for not only did he need someone with a particular writing ability, he was looking for a certain connection, someone who could get into his head and tap into his shame to convey an unfathomable experience. We were both interviewing each other.
Ending the stigma of abuse is one of the reasons I’m committed to helping tell these courageous and important stories, so I offered to write a sample chapter. I turned on my recorder, and that’s when our friendship truly began.
Similar to clergy abuse, Steve’s trauma occurred in a place where trust is taken for granted, by a well-respected, “relatable” authority figure. In his case, the backdrop was a private preparatory school where Steve’s father taught history, in a quintessential New England setting.
He wasted no time in opening up, sparing no detail of his childhood, which essentially came to a crashing halt at five years old, when he was introduced to sex by the man tasked with teaching swimming to Steve and the other young children of faculty members, all of whom lived on campus in a seemingly tight-knit community.
“It started out with him ‘helping’ us take showers after swimming lessons,” Steve recalled.
Child predators are skilled in their grooming tactics. They seek out career paths or vocations allowing them to be close to their desired targets, particularly those providing opportunities in which they can remove children from their environment, away from outside influences and authority figures.
Once he had gained the children’s trust by testing their boundaries, the abusive behavior escalated, enabled by camping trips to an isolated cabin in the woods. The setting seemed idyllic and inviting, offering the promise of adventure. But instead it became the place where Steve’s innocence would die, and the lines between right and wrong would be blurred.
It happened at night, after s’mores and story time. It was presented as a game, something new to learn, all part of the experience. And it wasn’t just Steve, but also his peers, both boys and girls.
“He made us have sex with each other while he watched us and filmed it. He was never on camera himself,” Steve said. “He told us he was teaching us to be movie stars, preparing us for careers in Hollywood, and to innocent little kids, that seemed exciting.”
Sexual abuse and pedophilia were not part of the dialogue of the 1970s, therefore Steve’s parents, and those of the other victims, had no reason to question the motive of the nice man whose wife wasn’t able to have children of their own. How sad and unfair, they thought, but how kind of him to serve as a mentor and positive role model. Innocent like their children, for he had groomed the families as well, cultivating the persona of a sympathetic figure, and they gratefully assumed he would keep their children safe and happy.
Shortly after the abuse began, so did Steve’s propensity for elaborate storytelling and deception.
“At five years old, I was stealing money from my parents to buy candy. I’d hide in the closet and eat it and then I’d stand there with chocolate all over my face and deny it,” he said. “I was already addicted to keeping secrets.”
In Steve’s case, the abuse began so early, at such an impressionable age, that for many years, he had no concept that what happened to him was criminal. And because it was never presented in a shameful, threatening, or dangerous way, which is common for clergy sex abuse survivors, he and his friends assumed it was a “normal” aspect of growing up, for it was presented as “fun” rather than “sin.”
It was all part of the grooming.
“I never viewed sex as taboo. I had no reason to, because I was so young, and I had no frame of reference for it,” he said. “If you don’t tell a child he shouldn’t take candy from a stranger, he has no way of knowing it’s wrong.”
The abuse would continue for the next eight years, and in Steve’s case, it only stopped because he was unknowingly taken out of the environment by his unsuspecting parents, when his family moved to Cape Cod. Although he would never suffer from sexual abuse again, he would suffer from the emotional scars and repercussions for the next four decades.
Shortly after settling in Falmouth, Steve’s parents, Courtney and Caroline Bird, quickly became an integral part of the community, particularly through their involvement with the Falmouth Road Race, the Falmouth Track Club, and the Cape Cod Marathon. Steve and his younger sister, Aletha forged friendships in their new town that would prove to be lifelong bonds.
“I found my people when I moved to Falmouth,” Steve said. “I made so many great friends, and I dated some girls who were very special to me. For a while, I thought what happened as a little kid hadn’t affected me.”
He began working as a cook at The Quarterdeck restaurant on Main Street, which would lead to a future career. The adrenaline-filled atmosphere and proverbial kitchen heat weren’t daunting to Steve. Rather, it was a welcoming and comfortable atmosphere, a place where he could focus and control at least one aspect of his life by following instructions and doing his job. By all accounts, he was leading the life of a typical teenage boy.
Due to his early and unhealthy introduction, Steve had never experienced sex as a result of emotional intimacy, instead it was merely for physical gratification. Therefore, it became something he needed more than wanted, and by freshman year of high school, he found himself missing that thrill of keeping secrets. A wrong turn down an alley on a weekend trip to Boston would find him in the Combat Zone, where he was approached by a man inquiring if he’d “like to have a little fun.” Curious, and in no way frightened or intimidated, the teenager followed him to an abandoned building where they smoked a joint to break the ice. It would be Steve’s first consensual sexual encounter with a stranger, and it reignited in him, and temporarily satiated, that desire for deception.
The clandestine interlude provided a thrill he likened to a drug. Before long, he was accepting money in addition to mind-altering substances, which provided a feeling of empowerment, leading the intensity of both the drugs and the encounters to escalate.
“I figured I might as well get something out of it. But I put myself in a lot of very dangerous situations without even thinking about it, or wondering what could happen to me,” he said. “I smoked crack before I ever did a line of coke.”
His trips to the city quickly became a coveted ritual.
“My grandmother lived in Newton, so I’d lie and say I was helping her out for the weekend. But in reality, I was spending all my time in Boston, having sex with strangers, and doing whatever drugs they offered me,” Steve said.
On Sunday night, he’d catch the last bus back to the Falmouth bus station on Depot Ave, returning to his “other” life as a seemingly average teen, fabricating a tale to tell his girlfriends the same way he denied stealing money from his parents.
“I truly cared for the girls I dated, and in my mind, it wasn’t cheating because I wasn’t doing it to hurt them. It was something I couldn’t control,” Steve said. “No one had any idea, because I never let anyone get too close to me. If anyone ever tried, I’d just push them away.”
As he got older, he slowly started to question the events of his youth, while also burying them deeply in his subconscious as a means of self-preservation, behavior that is common for survivors of abuse. Following the Grateful Dead after high school became not just a way of life, but a socially acceptable means of self-medicating. Still thinking he was able to compartmentalize what had happened to him as a five-year-old, he eventually settled in the Pacific Northwest and built a family and career, running his own farm-to-table restaurant with produce grown in his organic garden.
But the enormity of Steve’s past finally caught up with him one August afternoon in 2005, when he and his now former wife were touring a prospective school for their young daughter. The remote, bucolic setting sparked a memory, and suddenly he was reeling with anxiety. Uncharacteristically, he put his foot down, insisting the school wasn’t the right fit for their daughter. Rather than tell his wife the truth, he resorted to his default response – crafting elaborate fabrications – going as far as stealing money from his family to justify his argument that they couldn’t afford the tuition. Finally feeling backed into a corner, he shared with his wife his deeply buried secret.
“Until then, I had only told one other person, and I had sworn him to secrecy,” Steve said.
The marriage wasn’t able to endure what was perceived as a betrayal, and he suffered an emotional breakdown, prompting a downward spiral of drug use, in an effort to repress the flood of memories. Soon after, Steve sought substance abuse treatment for the first time, but it wouldn’t be the last.
At the same time, Steve discovered his abuser was still working with children. His outrage also sparked unnecessary guilt, and he blamed himself for not speaking out, motivating him to contact one of his male friends from those nights in the cabin.
“I felt ashamed I hadn’t come forward sooner, thinking I might have been able to prevent other kids from experiencing what happened to us,” Steve said.
The two men received a modest financial settlement in exchange for their stolen youth, and Steve continued to bury his past, self-medicating to ride the waves of conflicting emotion.
However, Steve’s story is also one of hope and inspiration, for life has finally come full circle, and today, he’s found peace. Remarried to his longtime friend from his Grateful Dead touring days, Jennifer Gilbert, they live next door to Steve’s parents in Sippewissett, along with their blended family of children and pets. He and his former wife share a respectful co-parenting relationship.
The Quarterdeck has changed hands a few times since he was in high school, and he’s now the production chef, juggling the same role at the Pilot House in Sandwich. If you’ve enjoyed a meal at one of these iconic Cape Cod spots, it’s largely due to Steve’s talent and dedication. And if you’ve warmed up after the Cape Cod Marathon with a cup of decadent clam chowder, chances are Steve was the one who made it for you, stirring the ladle while wearing his signature smile.
With the support of his wife, his family, and his boss, Bob Jarvis, Steve has been on a journey of healing over the past year, which began when he voluntarily checked himself into Gosnold for substance abuse treatment in the summer of 2020.
“I can’t remember if it was my eighth or ninth time trying to get sober,” he said. “I’ve lost count.”
But treatment was just the first step. He credits Gosnold with listening to his needs by connecting him to Vertava Health Massachusetts (formerly Swift River) for long-term treatment, where he was able to focus on his dual diagnosis of alcoholism and Complex PTSD. Steve believes trauma is the key to unlocking the revolving door of his addiction. Therefore, he continues to advocate for himself and his healing, working with a private therapist, in addition to therapy through Recovering Champions, and attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Last November, Steve participated in an intensive EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) therapy treatment at Trauma Institute & Child Trauma Institute in Northampton, Mass, which enabled him to face the dark reality of his stolen childhood.
Steve celebrated a significant personal milestone on August 25 – his first consecutive year without alcohol, drugs, and nicotine – all of which he has relied on for as long as he can remember. It’s even more impressive considering he was working two full-time jobs during Cape Cod tourist season, all throughout a pandemic.
“This is a lifelong journey, and it takes constant work, but in the past, I’d be making plans to hit the liquor store the second I got out of rehab. This time has been so different. I haven’t had those cravings, and I’m not white-knuckling it all the time,” he said. “And I’m not miserable. I’m actually happy.”
Part of Steve’s motivation for publicly sharing his story is to help those who are caught in the vicious cycle of rehabilitation and relapse.
“The majority of people I know who have serious addiction problems, and people I’ve met in rehab and at meetings, almost always have one thing in common – there’s some trauma in their past they’ve never dealt with, either intentionally, or they’ve buried it so deeply, they don’t even remember it happened,” he said.
“Trauma comes in many forms; it’s not just sexual abuse. Maybe it’s your parents’ divorce, or you were in a car accident, or you were subjected to mental or physical abuse. Everyone’s trauma has equal weight. Whatever it is, if you don’t deal with it, you’re just going to keep going in circles chasing sobriety. I see it all the time, people putting everything into AA meetings, or religion, or both, which I respect, don’t get me wrong, but they’re still white-knuckling each day because they haven’t dealt with the root cause of their addiction.”
Steve continues to address issues from his own trauma, such as beginning to establish healthy boundaries and advocating for himself, in his recovery and his personal life.
“I’m working on being able to say exactly what I mean and what I need without feeling guilty. I’ve always been more afraid of letting someone else down than myself, so it’s easier to lie than be honest,” he said. “I’m finally becoming comfortable with the truth.”
After our first meeting in 2018, I sent Steve my sample chapter. He candidly apologized that he didn’t have the funds to hire me to write his entire story, but that was never my motivation. Empowering people to own the pain of their past and free themselves from shame has become my mission in recent years. Steve told me my writing had brought him to tears, in a good way, and that’s what mattered to me more.
I felt we had connected immediately, but I couldn’t tell him exactly why at the time.
Steve continued to support my clergy investigation over the next few months, texting me periodically to offer his encouragement. Then in February of 2019, he contacted me while I was eating dinner in Rome with my friend, Dan. I had just written an article detailing the unfathomable sexual and emotional abuse he had suffered as a boy at St. Anthony’s Church in East Falmouth. As he watched from afar while Dan spoke his truth, first on the front page of the Falmouth newspaper, then in a peaceful protest in Rome, a fire was reignited in Steve. But before he could help anyone else, he needed to heal the child within.
Steve and I met once again in his parents’ garage, this time on a late spring day in 2021. Unable to stay silent, he was finally ready. We shared another profound conversation that day, for since I had last seen him, I had come forward with my own long-buried secret, no longer able to hide the pain of an abortion I was forced to seek at age 23. Hearing Steve’s story, and that of so many survivors of sexual abuse, I could easily empathize with the debilitating weight of shame, secrecy, and guilt. “What would they think of me if they knew?” is a question I had pondered about almost everyone since 1995.
When I decided during the 2020 presidential election to share my story of trauma, Steve was one of the first people to reach out and tell me he was proud of me, and that I should be too, privately through text, and publicly on Facebook. It sounds like such a simple statement but it made me sob. Shame is overpowering, and when someone else recognizes the burden, the comfort from that validation is overwhelming. That day in the garage, we cried again, for each other. But they were also tears of joy.
After our meeting, we were greeted by Steve’s father, Courtney, and I thanked him for having the courage to support his son’s wish to come forward. Sharing such a deeply painful and personal truth, especially in one’s hometown, is an act of public service, which takes a tremendous amount of bravery.
“We wish it didn’t have to be said, but we’re very proud of him and his decision to help other people,” he said.
I ran into Courtney once again, fittingly, on Road Race Weekend, at the unveiling of a memorial walkway to honor the late, great Tommy Leonard. Staring at the sign in front of the Quarterdeck, I immediately thought of my friend Steve, whose story I was still in the midst of writing. I greeted Courtney and quietly reiterated how much I respect the Birds for validating Steve’s desire to go public, not only to educate about the connection between trauma and addiction, but also to help end the stigma of both.
It usually takes victims of childhood sexual abuse about four decades until they are able to speak out, if ever. Although he will always have regrets, Steve is now able to feel pride rather than debilitating shame, for he views his past as part of his purpose.
One of his goals moving forward is to address vulnerable populations, particularly children and adolescents, about the realities of sexual abuse. His hope is to work with schools and other organizations to educate and empower.
“I wish it hadn’t taken me until my fifties to confront my trauma. I wasted so many years running from it, but I can’t change any of that now. I can only move forward,” he said.
“If telling my story helps someone suffering from addiction to seek therapy and treatment, or prevents one more child from being abused, or empowers one person to finally speak out and share a buried secret, then it’s all worth it.”
If you are a victim of sexual abuse, you are not alone, and help is available.
I recently stumbled on the following essay I wrote a few weeks into my first semester at Bridgewater State College (now University), in the Fall of 1990, for one of Professor Maureen Connolly’s writing classes. I don’t remember the exact assignment, but it details the day my parents drove me to BSC. My dad was soon leaving to teach for the semester at Dublin City University on a Jasper Whiting Scholarship, and I was full of mixed emotions. Although I got an A-/B+, I see some grammar issues and other things I should have changed, but I left it untouched, in the voice of my 18-year-old self, for it brings me right back to that day. There are also unanswered questions – like how did I shower on my first day of class?And how did my poor dad find the time to come back the next day?
When I think of the thousands of selfless things my parents did for me over the years, this was just another day in the life. Long before cell phones, or even luggage on wheels. Crossing the Bourne Bridge onLaborDay.
September is bittersweet.
I woke up on Monday, September 3, after a restless night, knowing something about the day was different. My eyes focused on my barren walls, once covered with posters that were now neatly rolled, tied, and packed away. Then it dawned on me – it was my first day of college.
I showered thinking, “This is the last time I’ll be showering in a ‘normal’ bathroom.” While I was working up a good lather on the top of my head, I contemplated the many bags and suitcases waiting in my room. Packing had always been something I just couldn’t grasp. I remember a trip to Canada years ago when I had packed about 18 pairs of shorts and not a single pair of pants. Upon arrival, we were greeted by the coldest summer Prince Edward Island had seen in years. My family drove for miles in our Brady Bunch station wagon, searching for a children’s clothing store. Thankfully, we finally found a thrift shop.
Packing for college was no different. For some reason, I felt insecure about leaving my winter sweaters in my back closet unguarded, so I had packed bags upon bags of wool and cashmere. Dad’s face became more contorted with each bag I lugged out to him. Somehow he managed to pile it all in the trunk. Mom had been warning me about “overpacking,” referring to “Nina bringing winter boots to Chestnut Hill in September.”
However, I thought I had everything under control. So I said my goodbyes to my brothers and sisters, posed for a few forced smile snapshots, and with Oscar-worthy melodrama, embraced my beloved Great Dane, Sinead. Even though Bridgewater was under an hour away, I felt as if I were seeing them all for the last time.
After what seemed like ten minutes on the highway, we pulled into the parking lot of Shea-Durgin aka “The Hill,” which was to be my home for the next eight months. My parents and I unloaded the car and carried everything up to Room 213 Shea. My roommate, her parents, and brother, and boyfriend were just about finished getting her settled, and after introductions, they went off to get lunch.
The three of us proceeded to unpack my things and make up my bed. The first hurdle I had to overcome was when my mom held up one of the packages I had searched high and low for (extra-long twin is rather hard to find in Falmouth), informing me I had purchased two fitted sheets. She assured me it was a simple mistake, but I chided myself for making such a faux pas after two years as a chambermaid.
While I was busy arranging my jewelry on the dresser, I heard my mother exclaiming – half to herself, half to me – “Goodness, when do you find the time to listen to all of these tapes?!” Annoyed, I just shuffled earrings louder.
My dad then asked where my towels were so he could put them on the high shelf in my closet. Thus began the fruitless search. Ten minutes of, “I could have sworn,” and rifling through plastic bags. My parents found the whole situation quite humorous, saying I could use one of my wool sweaters as a towel. I, on the other hand, found nothing funny about it. I became more enraged as I noticed my roommate’s four fresh, clean towels stacked perfectly on her shelf. I fumed silently, trying to concentrate on happy things: Christmas vacation, spring break, summer!
After a lot of slamming of books and pouting, I decided to grow up, and realize things could be much worse. My parents once again reminded me I was 45-minutes away, and my dad could come back the next day with the forgotten items, like a wastebasket and more hangers. So after I closed the door behind my parents, and perhaps my childhood, I looked around my new room and decided where to hang my posters.