June 14th, 1997 was a clear, sunny Saturday. I would soon be thankful that. It was also the day that I took my SAT test. You know, the test that was supposed to help determine whether or not you could get into the college of your choosing. Like almost any other test I've taken in my life, I obsessed too much about it and did plenty of cramming to prepare for it. At the time, I lived just outside Sunbury, PA and the test was being held 20 miles away at a high school in Shamokin, PA. Early that morning, my father and sister dropped me off and wished me luck.
The test went ok. It took several hours, but I got through it and ended up scoring high enough to get into most of the schools I was looking at. After I finished, I wandered the halls of the school in search of a phone to call my sister to come pick me up. When she answered, she told me that Dad was taking a nap. I asked her to wake him up and see if he would let her come pick me up. For some reason, he still hadn't gotten comfortable with her driving alone. After a long hesitation, she set the phone down and went to wake him up. A few minutes later, she returned and told me to find a ride home with one of my friends. There were two problems with this. First, I hardly knew any of the people who took the test that day. Second, everyone else had already left. After explaining this to her, I pleaded with her to come get me. She sat the phone down again. A few seconds later, I could hear my dad talking. I couldn't understand all of it, but he was clearly pissed. I was only able to make out the last two words: "start walking". I started to panic. She picked up the phone and said "Dad said to..." I cut her off. "Yeah, I heard what he said, but is he serious?". "Yes", she said. I continued pleading with her, nearly in tears, but both of us knew this decision wasn't going to change. After a minute or so, I heard him again "Hang up the phone!". [Click]
I wish I had paid more attention to our drive than my last-minute cramming. I had only a rough idea of how to get home. No cell phone. No Google maps. Just me, my feet, and the shoulder of a long road home. I think I cried for the first mile or so, which I regret. I'm pretty sure it just made me even more thirsty. After a couple miles, I decided to stick my thumb out and see if someone would stop to pick me up. Almost immediately, I heard an approaching car slow down. It passed me at a crawl and pulled over a short distance in front of me. I thought "Holy cow, that was fast!". I smiled and broke into a slow jog. As a approached the rear of Joe Dirtbag's Camaro, he floored it, shot gravel into my chest, and flipped me the bird as he roared away. Thirsty and humiliated, I cursed my thumb, put it back into my pocket, and continued walking.
I didn't really keep track of time, but I estimate that it took me about 6 hours to get home. Obviously, it was a memorable experience. I told my daughter the short version of this story last night, and even showed her the original copy of my test scores, accompanied by a quick pep talk on working hard to succeed in life. After I kissed her goodnight, I began wondering (for the thousandth time) why my dad made me walk home that day. Perhaps he wanted to "toughen me up"? Maybe he was simply too tired? I'll never know for sure, but I often try to reflect on these experiences to learn a lesson and gain something from them. In this case, I realize that I am usually very reluctant and sometimes even embarrassed to ask for help...especially from strangers. That's it! I need to be more willing to ask for help. I think I'll share this perspective with my daughter tonight. It's certainly easier than a 20 mile walk. Life is better when you ask for help.
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