Maybe the Real Anniversary is the Friends We Make Along the Way

A Monthiversary Celebration

Three months ago, on July 2nd, we woke up in a Motel 6 in Oriskany, New York. Oriskany is, by all indications, a fake town. Our motel had all the charm of an abandoned public pool in Chernobyl, and it was smack-dab in the middle of some enormous government “Preparedness Training Center”, which was complete with makeshift rubble piles and things that would occasionally blow up for practice. If the directors of Stranger Things are looking for a spinoff location, Oriskany is the logical choice.

We got up with the sunrise, sedated our pets (this had become an easy habit after a week on the road), drove to an eerily quiet gas station and an equally eerie Dunkin’ Donuts, then located our foggy on-ramp and hit the highway. Our destination was a little house we had only seen in pictures, in a neighborhood we had never visited.

In the last six days, we had traveled the length of the country with our cat and dog in tow. That day, we made it home.

That first day was a blur: driving dazed through Western Massachusetts, mumbling “we live here now” and trying to make it feel more like a statement than a question. Walking into our house and almost immediately leaving to pick up our new mattress from a friend’s house. Coming back to the house and realizing it had been left in poor condition, and that any unpacking we wanted to do would have to wait until the house was clean enough. An exhausted drive to Costco, right before the fourth of July. Chaos in the checkout lane. An overeager solo trip to Target and Trader Joes, a terrible container of Pad Thai, and a subsequent crash on the floor mattress. Staring up at the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling and musing on the word “home.”

It’s October 2nd, and three months have passed since that day. The cobwebs have been cleaned up, except for a few persistent ones in the basement. Our mattress is no longer on the floor. Our neighborhood is no longer a stranger to us; it’s filled with incredibly kind and interesting people who have been unendingly welcoming. Our little house under the big oak tree is a place of calm and safety. The drive was worth it. Three months in, it feels good to stop and soak in the journey. I know it hasn’t been a year, or only half a year, but I don’t care. I want to celebrate, so I will.

Our neighborhood is no longer a stranger to us.

I remember that in high school, I used to laugh when young couples would celebrate “monthiversaries” or even “weekiversaries”, but later, as a high school teacher, I stopped laughing and started loving it. After all, when young people change as fast and as constantly as they do, why shouldn’t a month of consistent love be a feat worth celebrating? In fact, if there’s anything I’ve learned in the last year, is that life changes at light speed and without warning. Living in awareness of that, it makes sense to celebrate anything, any time.

One of my former students, who is now living it up in college, joked to me recently that every day is a holiday and needs to be celebrated accordingly. He and I may have different definitions of “celebrating” at the moment, but PBR-chugging aside, I think there’s something genuinely wonderful about living that way. Life has thrown a hell of a lot of curveballs in the last chapter or so, so why not make an anniversary out of anything you can? Why not celebrate every tiny thing worth celebrating?

After I publish this piece, I’ll be getting ready to drive an hour away for a “Garlic and Arts Festival.” I have no idea what that means, but I feel pretty confident that this is the kind of world I want to live in. Wherever you are, I hope you have a festival of a day.