August 16-17, 1969

Nate and I arrived in Champaign with our first load of possessions and carried each box, bag, crate, and suitcase up to our 3^rd floor apartment. Up and down, up and down, fueled by the joy of feathering our first nest.

The apartment included a living room with a Murphy bed that pulled down from a closet (in the living room), a kitchenette with 18” of counter space, a dining room, an ironing board that also pulled out of the wall, a small bathroom, and a very empty bedroom. After we’d finished moving in, the rooms still looked pretty bare, but it was a start.

Our hardwood floors were in great shape, but every footstep echoed, and almost immediately the tenant beneath us began banging on her ceiling (our floor) to let us know we were “walking too loud.” After all, it was the sixties, and most homes boasted wall-to-wall carpeting in every room, sometimes even the kitchen and bathroom. “Naked” floors were a sign of inadequacy…. or, in our case, poverty.

We unpacked our clothes (from suitcases) but had no drawers to put them in. So we piled them on the bedroom floor. It would be an easy way to coordinate an outfit, since everything would be visible. And of course we brought the ball Nate had given me immediately after we’d become engaged 6 weeks previously. Hardwood floors made for great dribbling, though the tenant below us disagreed.

Mom and Dad had given us a brand new card table and two folding chairs as a housewarming gift, so we set those up in the dining room. They would be multi-functional – for eating, studying, and meal prep.

My folks had also given us a well worn set of china Mom no longer wanted (from the forties), most of which was chipped or cracked, but we were grateful. Wedding gifts would come eventually, but these hand-me-downs were perfect for the interim. She also contributed a set of pink sheets for the pull-down bed, an orange blanket, and one pillow (just for me, she said, since Nate would be spending his nights elsewhere). With a few kitchen utensils and a couple of sauce pans, we felt quite prepared.

Best of all, though, I’d brought my red glass goblets, each one different, and each one given by a dear friend at a special time in my life. I’d accumulated them through my college and working years, and they sparkled like jewels in our curtain-less front window.

The purpose of our weekend wasn’t to organize our apartment, though. It was to paint.

Nate had never painted anything in his life, but he was game, despite our attic-level apartment being as hot as an oven. I was the woodwork person, and he partnered with a roller for the better part of two days as we chatted our way through transforming the rooms. It was delightful to dream together about all that would happen in this place in coming months, and although the weekend theme could have been “Surviving Toxic Fumes,” instead it was, “Dreaming of Bright Tomorrows.”

“A dream fulfilled is a tree of life.” (Proverbs 13:12)