You See That Squirrel Over There?
Write About It
I attended my undergraduate college years at Oregon State University. I remember the first time I had ever visited campus. I submitted my application to that school initially because they wouldn’t leave me alone.
No, I’m being so serious it’s not even funny.
Their marketing ploy worked quite well with me. Out of every other college advertisement I received my senior year of high school, OSU outshined all others.
Honestly, not really in a good way.
They spammed my mail box — sending me advertisements about their Greek life community, intramural sports, university sports teams I could try out to be on, and pictures of their campus with cheesy sayings. I got the works.
Something along the lines of becoming a part of the beaver dam, being in a dam family, joining a community that makes a difference, blah, blah, blah.
They were honestly my last resort. I had been put on the waiting list for all three other colleges I applied to. My grades were mediocre then, so I had applied to mostly in-state schools. OSU was the only one out of Washington.
Of course they would accept me, I would pay nearly 20k more simply because I moved south just a couple of hours. I wasn’t thrilled about my choice in furthering my education until finally seeing the campus. I first saw the grounds when I attended my 3-day orientation. If we’re being honest, I didn’t even Google images of the town or campus or anything. It was the only school I got into immediately so I notified them of my acceptance and that was that.
So essentially, I applied blindly to this school that bombarded me with marketing tactics. A slave to the system.
But when I arrived, I had felt instantly at home. The massive trees bowed their limbs low over the streets and sidewalks, reminding me of some old Victorian-style movie setting. Really, it reminded me of my own hometown — green trees as far as the eye could see, a lot of dogs being walked, pretty much paradise. Most buildings were brick, and the neighborhoods felt cozy.
I remember thinking to myself that nearly every house I saw while visiting, looked like I needed to have a good book in my hand, knock on the door, then ask if I could relax on their couch in the living room to read.
I visited in late June of 2011, and I was in love.
The buildings on the campus reeked of history, and even the newer buildings were built to fake that same feeling. And it worked.
I fell in love with the library.
I fell in love with the little nooks and crannies of the campus that no one knew about — the tiny corner couches and tables stashed away from the rest of the campus community, hidden to most eyes, where I would sit and study.
I fell in love with the big trees that made me feel small.
I also, funnily enough, fell in love with the gray squirrels.
With their poofy tails larger than their bodies, their constant appetite for burying oak acorns, their fast-paced scuttles out of the garbage can when you walked by…
On several occasions I thoroughly feared for my life, only for the culprit of my fear to be a squirrel. They would pop out of bushes like sadistic jack-in-the-boxes, then run away in utter disgust swishing their tails like it was all my fault they were interrupted in their nut-gathering rituals.
These things were also massive.
I’m not kidding you, MASSIVE. The size of a medium-sized chihuahua, easy. Sometimes I was afraid they would attack me if I got too close, their tails casting shadows over their tinier twittery bodies…
This was what I was up against.
Terrifying, I know.
I talked about the squirrels to anyone and every one from home that would listen. I would send videos of them scavenging and scattering in the grass to friends that just didn’t understand. I would sneak pictures from my seat in class, when I peered one directly next to me perched on a branch just outside the window, and send them to my family like they had never seen a large furry rodent before.
I felt like sometimes, I was the only one that got excited about them. Maybe I was. Maybe to everyone else they were just sophisticated trash pandas and outgrew their stripes.
I was about to be late for class one day, it was early fall of my sophomore year. I lived off campus so I had to drive into town, and in order to get to a free parking spot, I had to drive through campus.
I hated driving through campus.
I still don’t know a single sane person that enjoys driving through a college campus. I currently work on one as a college advisor and I avoid it at all costs. Pedestrians cross the street without even looking, not even gazing up for a second from behind their phones to check their safety. It’s almost like they don’t even care if they get hit, their student loans are just too much and they’ve already succumbed to the jaded filter of adulthood… Not using cross-walks, not checking both ways… Crazy people!
So it was my sophomore year. I didn’t have that feeling yet. Everything was still shiny and new. And I was still very much going to be late to class.
There was a large group of students crossing the street and in my hurry I tried to get past them before they started walking.
It was too late…
They started walking just as I was about to go past the crosswalk sign. I was forced to stop. The group, of course, was abnormally large.
I remember rolling my eyes loudly (this is definitely a thing and I definitely did it), sighing and slumping my shoulders, slamming my hands on the top of the wheel.
Welp, they were already walking. I was already going to be late. I’ll let them just finish completely crossing before I drive again. Might as well just give up as this is my karma for not getting ready on time.
I was polite and let them walk all the way through, still rolling my eyes loudly as the group seemed to grow even bigger.
Right when I thought I could go, I realized that there was one more pedestrian about to cross.
On the lowered part of the sidewalk sat a massive gray squirrel.
I watched, completely amazed that this little guy wanted to cross the street. It wasn’t walking just sitting there. I raised my right hand mockingly ushering the squirrel across, and as if it understood me, it crossed the street.
I kid you not. Leaping over the brick walk-way like it was playing hopscotch. Hopping across all fancy-like, tail bopping and everything.
It crossed the street, in the white lines of the marked pedestrian walkway, by itself, and got to the other side.
I could not stop laughing — the massive gray feather-duster of a tail bouncing as it bounded to safety. I looked up in astonishment across the street to the other car that was stopped waiting for the squirrel too.
That guy’s face mirrored my exactly, scrunched up into hysterical fits of uncontrolled laughter.
I mean, hey, like more power to you little squirrel buddy. For real. You were trying to be safe. Kudos to you.
I will never forget that story and I will never forget that squirrel. It was more polite than most rando’s you run into on the street these days.
I’m grateful that the little creature gave me memory that makes me smile.
What was the point of this anecdote?
Was it to inform you about my life?
To instruct you on a strangely specific memory?
To advocate for squirrels?
Nope.
The point of this was to show you that there is always, always something that you can write about.
Often as a writer, I get into massive slumps. If we’re being completely honest, I’m in one right now. So you know what I did? I wrote about a squirrel. Because at the end of the day, writing is what I do. Writing is also what you do. So you can write about literally anything to make sure that you are always writing.
Not everything you write has to make sense. Not everything you write has to be meaningful — sometimes it can be funny, or even be a gentle reminder that you are doing your best.
The truth of the matter is, writing can be messy. It’s not always perfect. I know that as a writer I don’t always write as often as I should. I don’t necessarily always write about what I’m “known” for. I don’t like a lot of what I write in my first draft.
Ever since I became an avid blogger at a young age I have been brainwashed into thinking I HAVE to have a certain brand, or I have to have a specific vein of topics that I write about, and that those are the only things I’ve got. Well, I’m here to tell you that you don’t have any of that to be a writer.
Write about squirrels. Write about your experience with your terrible boss. Write about a book you just read and loved. Write about this new app that you found that is life-changing…
It doesn’t matter what you write about, just that you’re still writing.
Thank you for your time, your support, and for being a part of my journey!
If you want more by me, check out these other pieces of mine!
