While the college campus was not the idyllic ivy and green expanse I had always fantasized about, it was far away from everything I knew, and it glowed with the golden light of freedom. Sight unseen, we packed up our suitcases with the basic necessities: hair dryer, a tapestry, a hot pot, and a hefty supply of Ramen noodles, and made the 380 mile trip north on the New York State Thruway. I answered without hesitation, “Sounds about right to me!” When my high school pal Sue called, cheerfully suggesting, "So, I heard about a great party school about 7 hours upstate, called SUNY (State University of New York) College at Brockport,” that was all I needed to hear. Shockingly, my uninspired grades had not attracted scholarships, nor the faith of my parents to help finance a private school education, so my grand escape would need to be limited to the parameters of a New York state school for at least the first two years. While others may have had lofty goals about attending a prestigious university, I was laser focused only on getting out of Dodge. “So, where are you headed next fall?” has always been the refrain between high school seniors each spring in sweet anticipation of the start of their “real” lives, and it was no different in the late seventies in White Plains, New York. Cover art by Chris O’Leary, with permission from the artist. Thanks for reading, and please leave comments below, by the little heart icon. This is the 3rd installment of my Grateful Dead story, so you may wish to start with the first, for continuity.
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