Personal Entries

Magic Water Fountain Of Wisdom

“Drink deeply from the Magic Water Fountain of Wisdom, boys.  Jake, you drink more deeply than the others,” I said.

“Really, Mom? Is that really necessary, really?”  Asked Jake.

Yes.  Yes it is.

It was a long first semester at Chapel Hill.  Jake had a lot of fun and did very, very well in his major, if his major had been Co-ed Dorm Living.  Sadly, that is not his major.

The semester was peppered with quotes which might haunt Jake for years; things which one with a less-than-stellar GPA should probably not say to their mother.

My favorite?

“I can’t concentrate right now because two girls are rubbing my head.  They say my new buzz feels really good.”

This, said by a boy who had called me to discuss the need for tutoring.

There have been many talks.  Many, many, many talks. Talks about maturity, priorities, and expectations.  Talks about hard work, and potential.  Talks about appropriate times and places for having one’s head rubbed, and the wisdom of telling one’s mother of details which one might never live down.

In fact,  just before this picture was taken there had been one last talk over lunch at Spanky’s, capped off by my mother leaning forward and whispering to the grandson she loves, “Get your ass in gear, kid.”

And Jake, being Jake, listened graciously.

On our after-lunch walk to Chapel Hill’s famous fountain, The Old Well, Jake’s brothers had teased him relentlessly:  Did he need his head rubbed? Had he had a long enough drink from the fountain on the first day of classes?  Because Chapel Hill legend says that drink was supposed to have ensured a 4.0 GPA,  so what happened?  Upon reaching the Old Well, the brothers showed Jake the proper way to drink from the fountain, because he obviously had done it wrong last semester.

Perhaps my suggestion that he drink more deeply than the others was a bit much?

When Jake hung his head and cheerfully bemoaned the abuse being heaped upon him, I worried: had the teasing gone too far?  I hoped not, but I did want to assure him that he was very loved.  And so, I did what a good mother should do:  I rubbed his head and sang “Soft Kitty” to him while his brothers beat the snot out of each other behind us.

I think he’ll do better this semester, if only to make sure that he doesn’t have to switch to a local college and come live at home.

I love that boy so much.


Personal Entries

Chapel Hill, y’all!

After he finished his Freshman Orientation on Friday, Jake gave us a full tour of his new campus.   For those who have never been to UNC Chapel Hill ,  it’s exactly what you’d imagine an old Southern school to be.

Perfect, sprawling lawns.  Towering old Live Oaks with mossy trunks. Gracious old brick buildings, their front porches supported by rows of columns.   The bell tower, engraved with the names of all who’ve graduated from Carolina. The Civil War statues (uh-huh).

At The Magic Water Fountain, and OH SWEET MOTHER OF PEARL I HATE THIS HAIRCUT. "Not too short, " I said......

I’ve been concerned about Jake’s level of anxiety going into his freshman year, and the relaxed, excited young man who greets us when we arrive on Friday evening is a far cry from the nervous kid I dropped off two days before.  This Jake is sure of himself and the possibilities ahead of him, confident of his place here, and he’s so proud to show us what will be his home for the next four years.   I catch a whiff of swagger–just a hint of cocky–and it tickles me.

As Jake leads us along the campus pathways,  I’m bowled over by Chapel Hill’s beauty and grand dignity.  Who wouldn’t want to go here?  I want to go here! Trust me, you’d want to go here, too.  This is exactly what college should be, and I’m going to be so proud to be a Carolina Mom.


“So, where do they keep the Nittany Lion statue?”  I ask my son.  My son who is not going to Penn State University, his parents’ alma mater.  My son who used to beg me to sing, “I say JoePa, you say Terno!  Joe Paterno, Joe Paterno!”  The son who was conceived at Penn State.

I have been so neutral while Jake looked at schools, even discouraging him from applying to PSU when it seemed like he was only doing so to make his Dad happy.  I’ve been so good; so well-behaved.

Walking a few steps ahead of me, Jake’s posture changes as he pretends not to hear me.  I can tell he’s smiling,  suppressing a laugh.

“Honey? Sweetie?”  I raise my voice a bit,  ” Do you know where they keep the Nittany Lion statue?  Is it on the map?”

“There is no Nittany Lion statue,  Mom.”  He doesn’t even turn around to say it, and his tone is the same one might use when speaking to incoherent drunks.   This new college Jake is harder to get laughing than old high school Jake.

“WHAT? That’s crazy talk! No lion?”

“But a Nittany Lion statue is the mark of excellence!”  Adds Riley, grinning at me.

“Exactly!  All the best universities have a Nittany Lion, Jake!  They must have one around here if this place is any good!”

“Nooo Nittany Lion,” Jake repeats.

“But then, ” I ask, “where do you take pictures?  What do they have if there isn’t a Nittany Lion?”

“No Nittany Lion.  We have The Old Well,” says grown-up Jake. *

We all agree that we should head towards The Old Well,  the most recognized symbol of UNC Chapel Hill.  The well dates back to 1793, originally supplying all the water for the dormitories on this end of campus.  It took its current form in 1897, when the University erected a neoclassical rotunda around it.  The Old Well sits in a shady brick courtyard, circled by benches.  It’s a lovely, quiet place, and Jake explains the site’s history as we approach it.

“So,”  I clarify, ” they keep the Nittany Lion statue in the rotunda? Good.”

Jake sighs and shakes his head.  But this time he bites his lip to keep from laughing.

In the middle of the beautiful rotunda sits a short, dark marble column.

“Now, the marble thing in the middle,”  I ask  ” is that engraved with the history of the well?”

“No,” Jake replies as we step up to the rotunda, “it’s a water fountain.”

A water fountain.

“A water fountain? A WATER FOUNTAIN?!”  I sputter,  “The symbol for UNC Chapel Hill is a water fountain?”

Jake struggles to hold onto his collegian dignity as he tells us about the fountain; how it replaced the old well, how drinking from the fountain on one’s first day at the University brings good academic luck.

“They couldn’t have have gone with a reflecting pool, or maybe a nice splashy fountain?”  I ask.  “Something…I don’t know….not a water fountain?”

“But look!  You can drink from it for luck!”

We all watch, as if awaiting something magical, and Jake leans over the fountain to take a slurp.

“Uh, it’s warm.”

“Uh huh, ” I say, and that’s all it takes to push Jake over the edge and into laughter.    “C’mon, guys, let’s get a picture around the magic water fountain! This is so much better than the Nittany Lion! “



More on The Old Well at UNC Chapel Hill

Personal Entries

The boy. He toys with me.

The boy will be attending The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and studying biochemistry.

Why?  Because he is chock full of awesome, that’s why.

It was a tough decision, and he was a bit tightly wound over it.  Now, he seems to be relaxing and feeling the full force of his awesomeness.

“I think I should get a tattoo before I go to school this fall.”

We’ve had this discussion before.

“That,” I say,  ” is such a good idea.  Get something enormous.”

“Mom,” he says, “I’m serious.”

“Dude, you know how I feel, and you know what I’ve asked of you.”  I’ve asked the boys that they wait until they are in their mid to late twenties before getting a tattoo.  I have no problem with tattoos, I’ve told them, but the tattoos one gets at a young age are likely to be regrettable.

“I know,” says Jake, ” that’s why I want to get something meaningful.”

I picture something having to do with running, or maybe science.

“I want to get a Polynesian tribal tattoo.”

“Really?”  I say. “Huh.  Oh, I don’t see you regretting that at all.”

“No, no!  I want to have it done in the traditional way!  It’s a rite of passage in the Polynesian culture.  I watched a show about it on The History Channel. They do it by hand, by tapping–“

“Ohhh, I know how they do it!  And it makes a lot of sense, because of all your Polynesian heritage.  You are a fine example of a Polynesian Irish Jew.”

“Listen!  Listen!” he laughs, ” I want it to be more…. Gaul-ish”

Gaul-ish? Because you’re a Polynesian Gaul?”

“No, like Celtic–“

“A Polynesian Celtic tattoo.  I love it.  Can I give it to you?  Can I do the tappy thing? I could totally do that.”

“Ok, ok, maybe I’ll wait on the tattoo, and just get my ear pierced.”

And then I do that thing he hates.  That thing where I just don’t grasp his need to rebel.  Where I get excited about his ideas and I don’t realize I’m putting a kink in his groove of rebellion.

“Would you do both ears, or just the one?  I think you should do both, with, like,  mid-weight, handforged small hoops.  Like the ancient Roman hoops–  I love them!  Can I make them for you, please?  They’d be so cool!  Please?”

I show him pictures of Roman earrings, thousands of years old.  He agrees, they are cool, but….. he’s thinking studs.

Roman gold hoop, 2-3 c AD


“Yeah, all the sprinters wear them,”  Jake says,  “like big, diamond studs.”

“The sprinters who are all on the football team?  Like the HUGE black guys?  Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you are NOT a huge football player.  I’m not seeing the big diamond stud thing working with your skinny white distance runner mojo.”

“I think it would be fiiinnne,” he laughs.  We both know he’s not serious.  I think.

The earring idea sucked dry of all fun, Jake moves on.

“You know what I think are REALLY cool?  Jake asks.  “Torcs!”


Snettisham Torc, Great Britain, Iron Age

“Yeah!  The Celts wore them.  They’re like a solid piece of metal around your neck.”  He goes on to explain how warriors of ancient cultures wore these heavy ropes of solid metal, often bent closed to make them permanent.  The words, “The History Channel” are mentioned several times.  If The History Channel has its way, my son will have a full body tattoo obtained on a Polynesian beach, and wear an archaic piece of body adornment weighing twenty pounds.   Imagine that, blogosphere, on the boy in the picture above.

“I want one.”

“A torc?”

“Yeah!  That would be so cool.

“Absolutely,”  I tell my Polynesian African American Football-playing Gaul-ish Warrior Irish Jewish son.   “You go get the tattoo and the big diamond studs, and when you get back I’ll have you a torc all whipped up.”

“I don’t think I like your tone.”  Says Jake, grinning from ear to ear.

“My tone is awesome.”

And with that, he heads off to do homework, and several days later he buys this:

Jake's new guitar. He also bought a "sick amp."

I love him so much.