A bittersweet 'fall migration'

My father would tell me that the earliest milestone to discern an approaching autumn was not the obvious leaf-color change but the slightly cooler temperatures of late August and early September mornings. It was not the daytime afternoon temperature, which could be the same as a midsummer July afternoon, but just the morning coolness.

I have come to learn there is another telltale sign of fall — an annual migration of sorts. Not the common Canada goose migration, which is pretty enough in its own right, but a sometimes less-attractive American college student migration. Whether the species is the Common Commuter or the Dormis Coedis, they migrate by the thousands, all over the country.

I took my daughter to school a few days ago. Some of the behaviors were quite interesting to observe. For instance, how teen nomads pack. There are the extremely frugal, bringing only spartan accouterments for their rooms fitting in one small box and a backpack. Others (my daughter is regretfully in this category) take pull carts and make multiple trips, employing various muscular relatives as beasts of burden. There is a lot of aimless chatter and people watching among the students. I survey the faces of other parents, searching for signs of reservation or relief.

And then — after the nervous laughter, the awkward moments of roommate introduction and a whole afternoon of denial — that difficult moment arises. We realize that unless we're having a big family dorm sleepover, we must leave and they must stay behind. Tears are flowing, and during my hug goodbye, a whole life flashes by: the stroller walks, Halloween costumes, athletic competitions, family dinners and vacations, all in a blur.

It's a strange thing, parenting. You spend so much time preparing those you love the most to do what we fear the most: leave the nest. That is our painful purpose.

I was wondering whether this was just one of those self-absorbed, baby boomer faux angst moments. Then I spoke with my Depression-era mother who, although she sent eight children off to school, still vividly remembered the first time, with my oldest sister. She related how, after the drop-off, she cried all the way home on the return trip from Boston to Baltimore.

As I was leaving, I noticed a student struggling up a hill with two forearm crutches. My physician training told me this was likely spastic diplegia — a form of cerebral palsy. I wondered how much apprehension this student has in a world increasingly aspiring to perfect dentition and coiffed hair. And then, even closer to home, I wondered how much worry his parents felt at leaving their son on his own in this setting. Had they sufficiently prepared him?

Still, we all share one common consolation. We — the parents of jocks, nerds, the disabled, cheerleaders and the everyman — have one modicum of comfort as we drive away this day and forevermore. At least this painful milestone is in our rear-view mirror.

Clark Brill lives in Howard County. His email is drcbrill@yahoo.com.