The Report
I know, I know. It's been days, and you're all anxious to hear what happened up at Norwich.
So, we all know how I was desperate not to cry in front of COL Henne. Well, I cried. And he majorly held it against me. But I didn't get a concrete answer. The impression I get is that he really thinks that I'd be a very bad addition to the school, and that it wouldn't be fair to the rest of the Corps of Cadets to admit me. He thinks that it wouldn't be fair to my cadre-students younger than I am who would be in charge of me-who are not equipped to deal with someone of my psychological issues. He said he saw me trying last time, and he admits that I did try damned hard, but he said that he really thinks that I'm not really capable of the physical standards.
There are new admissions standards now, a person has to pass a watered down PFT (physical fitness test) in order to be admitted. If I can do this in time (don't ask me what "in time" means, I'm not sure), he will, as I understand it, be forced to admit me. I think.
There's tonnes more stuff to say, but I can't think of it all right now, so if you ask questions, I'll try to answer them. Key word try. But seriously, if they kept people out on the basis that they cry, there'd be no Corps left. Everyone cries. Even the tough guys. That's half the idea. You learn not to as time goes on.
That was Tuesday. Monday, I had an adventure on my way up to Norwich.
I am fine. I am healthy. I am sore, but unhurt.
I am fine. Sore, but fine. Mom's car, not so much.
So there I was. Driving down I-89 North. Listening to Phillip Pullman on audio tape. Doing about eighty, as that's what everyone else on the road was doing. There's a curve. Not a sharp one, but a curve nonetheless.
Guy cuts me off. I swerve to miss.
The next thing I really know is that I'm on the side of the road, with people gathered around the car, talking to me through the missing windows. Apparently, I'd flipped completely over twice as I spun. As in rolled over. Twice. Lord bless seat belts. The guy that saw it was an EMT, and he made sure I wasn't broken or anything before letting me unbuckle and climb out through the back door. Someone collected my blankets, pillow, and coat (and various other sundries) that had scattered over the highway through the back windshield. No one knows where my glasses are. They were on my face before I spun out on the ice... and just not there after.
Everyone that saw what happened, and the cop who traced the trajectory from the tracks I made and the imprints I left in the snow... they all said it wasn't my fault and there wasn't anything I could have done. Just... eesh. So now I'm kinda sore, but not as bad as they said it would be... but hey. I'm alive. If I hadn't had a seat belt on, I'd not be. Wind was in the car, and now he's gone. He always did protect me.
The state trooper was kind enough to drive me to White River Junction. When I take Greyhound up to Norwich, White River Junction is the place where I change busses for Montpelier, my final stop. So I'm damned familiar with the place. Anywho, I get there, and there's a bus leaving right the heck then for Montpelier, so I pay and hop on. I took the bus from there with a small bag of rescued items, my shoulder bag, my backpack, and a pillow with the smaller blanket shoved into the pillow case. The cop was nice enough to stop at a dollar store for me to get new gloves on the way.
I'm wicked sore still, but it's going away. And I just really want my glasses. I'll get new ones over the weekend, I guess.
Mom and Dad are just grateful I'm all right, and aren't too upset about the car. Although, funny interaction:
MOM: Well, did you get the license number of the guy that cut you off?
ME: Uh, yeah, Mom. 'Cause that was my first thought. 'Let me read the car that I'm trying not to hit.' I couldn't even tell you what colour it was.
She got the idea.
Repeat: I am fine. I can count the scratches. Three tiny ones on the back of my right hand. Just little dots. Didn't even draw blood.
And that's that.
So, we all know how I was desperate not to cry in front of COL Henne. Well, I cried. And he majorly held it against me. But I didn't get a concrete answer. The impression I get is that he really thinks that I'd be a very bad addition to the school, and that it wouldn't be fair to the rest of the Corps of Cadets to admit me. He thinks that it wouldn't be fair to my cadre-students younger than I am who would be in charge of me-who are not equipped to deal with someone of my psychological issues. He said he saw me trying last time, and he admits that I did try damned hard, but he said that he really thinks that I'm not really capable of the physical standards.
There are new admissions standards now, a person has to pass a watered down PFT (physical fitness test) in order to be admitted. If I can do this in time (don't ask me what "in time" means, I'm not sure), he will, as I understand it, be forced to admit me. I think.
There's tonnes more stuff to say, but I can't think of it all right now, so if you ask questions, I'll try to answer them. Key word try. But seriously, if they kept people out on the basis that they cry, there'd be no Corps left. Everyone cries. Even the tough guys. That's half the idea. You learn not to as time goes on.
That was Tuesday. Monday, I had an adventure on my way up to Norwich.
I am fine. I am healthy. I am sore, but unhurt.
I am fine. Sore, but fine. Mom's car, not so much.
So there I was. Driving down I-89 North. Listening to Phillip Pullman on audio tape. Doing about eighty, as that's what everyone else on the road was doing. There's a curve. Not a sharp one, but a curve nonetheless.
Guy cuts me off. I swerve to miss.
The next thing I really know is that I'm on the side of the road, with people gathered around the car, talking to me through the missing windows. Apparently, I'd flipped completely over twice as I spun. As in rolled over. Twice. Lord bless seat belts. The guy that saw it was an EMT, and he made sure I wasn't broken or anything before letting me unbuckle and climb out through the back door. Someone collected my blankets, pillow, and coat (and various other sundries) that had scattered over the highway through the back windshield. No one knows where my glasses are. They were on my face before I spun out on the ice... and just not there after.
Everyone that saw what happened, and the cop who traced the trajectory from the tracks I made and the imprints I left in the snow... they all said it wasn't my fault and there wasn't anything I could have done. Just... eesh. So now I'm kinda sore, but not as bad as they said it would be... but hey. I'm alive. If I hadn't had a seat belt on, I'd not be. Wind was in the car, and now he's gone. He always did protect me.
The state trooper was kind enough to drive me to White River Junction. When I take Greyhound up to Norwich, White River Junction is the place where I change busses for Montpelier, my final stop. So I'm damned familiar with the place. Anywho, I get there, and there's a bus leaving right the heck then for Montpelier, so I pay and hop on. I took the bus from there with a small bag of rescued items, my shoulder bag, my backpack, and a pillow with the smaller blanket shoved into the pillow case. The cop was nice enough to stop at a dollar store for me to get new gloves on the way.
I'm wicked sore still, but it's going away. And I just really want my glasses. I'll get new ones over the weekend, I guess.
Mom and Dad are just grateful I'm all right, and aren't too upset about the car. Although, funny interaction:
MOM: Well, did you get the license number of the guy that cut you off?
ME: Uh, yeah, Mom. 'Cause that was my first thought. 'Let me read the car that I'm trying not to hit.' I couldn't even tell you what colour it was.
She got the idea.
Repeat: I am fine. I can count the scratches. Three tiny ones on the back of my right hand. Just little dots. Didn't even draw blood.
And that's that.