In the spring of 1999, I had a big decision to make. I had been accepted to all three colleges I applied to, the three best schools in the state for music education (debatable, of course, but approved by all my music teachers). Ithaca was out; though I loved the school, it was much too expensive, and my parents were determined that I enter adulthood without debt. My choice was between SUNY Fredonia, and the Crane School of Music at SUNY Potsdam. I was inclined to go with Fredonia. I’d spent a week at a camp there the previous summer, and really liked the school and the flute teacher. She’d even promised me a spot in her studio without having to do an official audition. Conversely, I’d only applied to Crane because all my music teachers told me I had to. I’d been there the previous winter, on a school orchestra field trip that included a performance at Crane and a weekend in Montreal, and I’d thought Potsdam was the ugliest place on earth. It was February, which meant it was freezing and covered in slushy, dirty snow. I hated the way the college buildings rose out of the earth like rectangular brick prisons (the Crane building itself had very few windows, and the ones it did have were narrow slits). I’d auditioned for the flute teacher off-site, and he’d been very kind, even taking the time to work with me a little extra after the day was over, but I didn’t know him as well as the Fredonia teacher. Fredonia seemed the obvious choice.
And yet the following year found me, not at Fredonia, but at Crane. I grew to love the town, the people, the rigorous education and musical training, and especially my flute professor. I even loved the prison-like Crane building. I’m more loyal to Crane than possibly any other institution on earth.
The change came about over a weekend in the spring of 1999, when my father insisted we give Potsdam “one more shot.” I’m not sure if he didn’t like the extra 2 hours it would take to get me to Fredonia, or if he really thought Crane was the right place for me, but he packed me in the car (reluctantly) and drove us up north. Potsdam was beautiful and sunny. Instead of slushy snow, I saw grass, pretty flower beds, well-kept walkways. Instead of a gloomy town, I saw friendly locals and laughing college students. It was still colder than home, but it was welcoming. I decided on the spot that Potsdam was the place for me.
If my dad hadn’t forced me in the car that weekend, I might have ended up somewhere else. I might not have been as happy in college. I would definitely not have met my husband in our freshman year, or started dating him in junior year. I wouldn’t be married to him now. My son as I know him would not exist. And I might not have gotten a great job in my home district, for which I was well-equipped, thanks to my excellent education. That one weekend changed everything for the better, though I couldn’t have known it at the time.
In 2009, just after our wedding, Nick and I wanted to buy a house. We decided to meet with a mortgage specialist at a local bank, one that some relatives had used during their recent home-buying process. The wife of a friend of Nick’s worked there, and got us a meeting with the mortgage specialist. We walked out of that meeting feeling completely dejected. Based on our credit scores (at the time, mine good, Nick’s average) and her bank’s offerings, she’d scaled our expected purchase price way back. We’d been looking at homes $75-100,000 higher.
We went back to our realtor, who brought us to some truly decrepit places in our new price range. We were about to give up, or settle for a house we didn’t really love, when we found our home. It was at the top of the price range the mortgage specialist had set for us, but it was beautiful, especially in comparison to the houses we’d been seeing. When we walked in, I thought, “This house is too good for us.”
As it turned out, it was not too good for us. Our realtor recommended another bank and set us up with a meeting there. The woman we worked with there was fantastic, and got us a much, much better deal on a mortgage. And so we ended up with a great house, one that didn’t need any renovation, for a great price. I felt so fortunate to work with our realtor, the woman at the new bank, and even the lawyer. But the person I turned out to be truly grateful for was that first mortgage specialist, the one who’d downgraded all our hopes and dreams with a flick of her pen. If not for that one meeting with her, we might have naively bought a home that we could afford, but without a cushion. We would never have been able to afford nice furniture, organic food and that very memorable Alaskan cruise. Most importantly, we wouldn’t have been able to have me stay home with Edwin for two years. I trace these two years, this happy life as a stay-at-home mom and writer, back to that meeting with the depressing bank lady. That one meeting changed everything for the better, though we couldn’t have known it at the time.
Think about the things you’re most grateful for. Can you trace back to events, even unlikely ones, that contributed to what you have today?