November often inspires an attitude of gratitude. As we sit around the table and think of what we are grateful for, the lists are long. It’s easy to pick out the big things. Many would say they are grateful for family and friends. Some would say health. Food. Shelter. Safety. Then, we can drill down on the specifics. Personally, I am grateful for almond croissants, the newest season of Only Murders in the Building, and TSA PreCheck. Those three things (sometimes enjoyed simultaneously) have brought me a lot of joy in recent months. And this time of year always takes me back to 1993 and my thankfulness for a most unexpected gift.
In 1993, I was a poor college student. I had registered to take a one-month-long short story class at Holden Village in Chelan, Washington, between semesters. I attended a college where nearly everyone went abroad for a semester, and to say I was envious is an understatement. While others jetted off for five months to Italy to study the art and boys of Rome, I could afford one month in Washington in January. Let me interject how grateful I am for not having social media back then because photos of my peers eating gelato in front of the Trevi Fountain would have ruined me. Luckily, I did not see in real time what I was missing.
Nonetheless, I was excited to go to Holden Village. It is located in the Cascade Mountains, a stunning landscape, and is a very unique experience to live at this isolated retreat center. Plus, the thought of spending a full month reading by a fire while some of my peers took organic chemistry in Minnesota made me feel like I was winning at something. As I packed up my things, I realized I didn’t have the right footwear. Holden Village is described as a “remote wilderness community”. That is putting it mildly. It cannot be accessed by car. We would take a train to a ferry, and from there, we would travel via bombardier snow coach. I had boots but not serious boots, so I would have to make do.
A few days before I left, three of my friends surprised me with a gift. A pair of winter boots from Eddie Bauer. Off white. Waterproof. Ice blue laces. These were boots that needed to be worn on a snow coach. I was stunned. It didn’t just feel like a gift. It felt like a miracle. They were all poor college students as well. I knew they had all sacrificed to give them to me. My gratitude was overwhelming.
So I stomped around in those boots all over those Northern Cascade Mountains. I wore them snowshoeing, hiking, porch jumping into twenty feet of snow, and on trips to and from the sauna. After college, I wore those boots until they split at the seams and the soles peeled away. By then, it was not because I didn’t have other boots but because of what they represented. I cried when I finally gave them up.
Some gratitude is fleeting. But sometimes, it lasts for decades. I miss that collegiate sense of community. It was easy and comfortable to share what you had or ask to borrow what you needed. There was a strong awareness of “we are all in this together.”
Hopefully we take a moment to feel grateful for the large things but also the tiniest kindnesses. In 1993, it wasn’t the boots. It was the kindness. People in my proximity noticed the need, and they cheerfully filled it. May we be lucky enough to have those observant friends in our lives and luckier still to be the wish granters in the lives of others.
Jen Fortner is a freelance writer who enjoys asking friends and strangers far too many questions. She spends her spare time sitting in inclement weather watching youth sports, traveling, cooking, and searching for the very best baked goods. She lives in Shorewood with her husband, three children and the most spoiled dog.