By Esther C. Baird
First published in the Chronicle & Transcript, Oct. 22, 2021
Hey Regular Reader, it’s me. I’ve been writing this column for over 14 years (in one version of this paper or another) and never have I ever had a run where I couldn’t write for so long. But, I’ve had a stretch of funkiness. And now, like a friend trying to cram in all the news over a quick coffee, I feel rushed and a little unorganized.
Do I tell you about the concussion our youngest had that resulted in us pulling her early from camp, or do I tell you about our kitchen remodel project that’s been going on since July causing us to live and eat in our basement? Do I mention that the week before Labor Day, I tripped and fell into a gravel pit and got concussed myself? Super concussed? Like still here over a month later dealing with physical therapy and drama as a result?
Nah.
What I feel is most pressing to discuss with you over our coffee (I was told not to drink caffeine as I recovered from my concussion, but there is advice, and then there is sheer madness), is the real and crazy world of post-COVID college tours. That’s right, since last we left off, we’ve found ourselves with a senior in high school who thinks the next best thing to do is to go to college.
When the girls were toddlers every day was an epic life time. I’ve written entire columns about just trying to get my oil changed with babies. But you know the drill. It’s all stupidly sped up just like everyone said it would be. Fine, everyone was right. And, since the world was shut down last year we only managed to squeak in one college visit. Which means we’re visiting colleges, and applying to them, all in the same space time continuum which is not advisable, at least if sanity is your preferred outcome.
This last speed o’ light tour was a southern loop of four colleges in two states and quite a bit of driving through the land of BoJangles. Y’all, it was lovely. We walked across quads, we gasped at gigantic Division I stadiums, and we didn’t feel offended when clerks called us “honey.” We also rolled our eyes when they described (but couldn’t show) their dorm rooms as charming with “plenty of space.” We’re no dummies, but the COVID-19 restrictions allowed them to spin their magical webs of endless closet space.
“Good luck!” I muttered to my daughter as she contemplated how many sweatshirts she’d be able to actually take to college.
“I’ll pile them in my bed like extra bed covers.” She finally declared.
“Sounds reasonable!” I smiled. It also sounded like not my problem.
There was a high emphasis on wellness at the colleges we saw, which is a new and great addition since my college days. My daughter was dazzled by a soothing wall of water at one college as the tour guide explained how they had an onsite pharmacy, free counseling, relaxation pods and full massage and physical therapy capabilities.
“Was it like this when you went to college?” My daughter whispered as we walked past a pod.
“Sure,” I whispered back. “Only my relaxation pod conveniently doubled as my bed and I heard the soothing sounds of running water when we fought over our single shower.”
You know — basically the same.
But I’d be remiss if I didn’t share the best part of our college visits that confirmed these were not your mama’s college campuses. I give you: delivery robots.
What could possibly be cooler than that? Well, maybe that they are called Starships!? It’s a bit misplaced as far as nomenclature goes — they have nothing to do with stars and everything to do with rolling across terra firma on mini dune-buggy wheels like autonomous roaming flocks of suitcases. Flocks? Herds? I decided to call a group of Starships a constellation. And I watched little constellations zip across quads, stop at red lights, navigate cross walks, hills and sidewalks all while delivering food, coffee and perhaps extra sweatshirts to hang in all that closet space.
One might wonder why Starships are mostly employed on college campuses where I assume the youth of today are basically in good health. I might suggest a pivot to the middle aged core of America. Perhaps a Starship could sort laundry, walk the dog, or solve that tiny problem of dinner. But regardless, this is the world our senior will be moving into.
Apparently at light speed.
So I’m back and I’m writing, because it’s a blur now and I don’t want to miss a thing.