There was a light coating of snow on the ground. Layers of frost stuck in the cedar braches. This all surrounded a very large grouping of home-esque buildings that belonged to Waring.
Approaching the door, I was feeling a shake in my gut. Nerves, I thought, and chuckled a little to make them go away. Everything would be fine, I said to myself. I opened the door, and was immediately wrapped in warmth. Hanging up my thick winter coat, I was looking around the pleasant room and admiring the scenery. It looked very much like a cabin, I thought. I saw some of my friends from school sitting at a table near the window, talking and reviewing the schedule for the planned events. I invited myself into their space, set my black Timberland backpack on the ground, and started to chat
Later on, even more of my friends came through the door, bright-eyed and some pink-cheeked from the bitterness of outside. I was walking around, both looking for friends to talk to and making new ones. Soon after, we were all ushered into a living room with a fireplace, a mantle holding pictures of kids or scenery, ornamental rugs, and about sixty chairs splayed out across the floor for our convenience.
As all of the students took their seats, Rod Kessler, one of the directors, started introducing us to our mentors. From the light that illuminated Rod from the old window at his back, he started to read short autobiographies about our different mentors. We soon found out that they were from all over. Salem, Methuen, Hamilton, and even Kansas! Upon meeting all of these cheery faces and having a good laugh–due to Rod’s friendly comment on one of the writers’ works, we split up and got down to business. I was put into a group with a journalism teacher from Boston University, Jay Atkinson. He was already sitting in the study upon our entering, surrounded by books, maps, and various other décor that one might find in such a small study as this one.
Jay proceeded to introduce himself and his program to us, the eager young writers, throwing some snide comments in “just for kicks.”
Such a charming little place, Waring is, captivating the mind and the heart upon first pulling up to it. Looking back on first pulling up, now as I sit in the study summarizing all these thoughts into this journal, I think about how the end of this story, this…adventure, will turn out. I have already met people who are just as captivated as I am by writing, and these thoughts call up a book I have read in the past.
The book was “Old School,” by Tobias Wolff, a chronicling of these young boys at a prep school writing to win an audience with a famous author of the time. It was an interesting book and had a rigidly constructed storyline. I now feel like one of those boys, writing for some sort of competition. I know it shouldn’t feel that way, but the settings sometimes block my mind from the realities. Everything is not as it seems, and the end of this story, I know, will just be the beginning of another.