Questions lingered about first real ‘life decision’

I can still see the new red and black plaid bathrobe I packed in my suitcase that afternoon.

Can it really be 70 years since that day in August?

Within an hour,

I was to start my first year at Dominican College, a small Catholic women’s liberal arts college in San Rafael, California.

My decision to attend “Dominican” — as we called it — was my first major “life decision.”

As a 17-year-old wrestling with college applications, I felt uncertain yet heady with expectations.

Where should I spend the next four years?

Which college was the right choice for me?

If I’d made the wrong decision, would my life be ruined?

How would I pay for college?

Dominican was an offbeat choice for me. I’d always enjoyed attending large public schools where I’d received excellent educations.

I’d never been to a religious school, but since I thought I wanted to become a nun, this college might be a good launching pad.

During the application process, the photos of campus life in Dominican’s brochure gently drew me in.

I can still see the photo of a graceful, yet unassuming, Dominican student putting last-minute touches on a sculpture. I wanted to be like her.

A photo of a group of young women in plaid skirts walking in a campus garden called me. The girls looked cool, pretty, popular. Even as a prospective nun, I wanted to be like them.

My parents had taken me to visit the college earlier that year.

Mom and Dad were not in favor of my choice but did not stand in the way. It was to be my decision.

The pot was sweetened for me and my parents when the college graciously offered me scholarships to cover most of my costs. That cinched the deal.

The campus was more parklike than I’d expected, and it was hard not to fall in love with its architecture, small creek, and woodlands.

Even now, on rainy days here in Loveland, I can still smell the sweet California dampness of boots and slicker raincoats inside the ivy-covered Gothic and Victorian Buildings.

Even today my heart recalls being calmed by Gregorian chant soothing me from the nearby convent.

I can still see the sun flickering on Mt. Tamaulipas from the lawn of the freshman dorm.

And so it was, that 70 years ago, that I found myself in the dark wooded parlor of a freshman dorm.

An upperclassman, Barbara Salmina, came to show me my room.

Wanting to appear confident, I said a quick goodbye to my parents. I don’t recall pausing for lengthy goodbyes or tears.

This was it. I would love it here. Or would I?

Although my roommate hadn’t arrived yet, I’d met several of the girls in my wing of the dorm. They were bright and outgoing. I didn’t know it then, but these young women would become the sisters I never had.

Yet, by evening, doubts crept into my mind. I was in culture shock.

Was this the right place for me to spend the next four years?

Had I made a terrible mistake?