misty watercolor memorieeeees (August 09)

This serene view of a post-rainstorm Minneapolis rooftop scene is hardly what I remember when the two words "PARTY BUS" are uttered. I recall chaos, as the giant raindrops we dodged soaked us while we sprinted across a parking lot to Nye's Polonaise. I remember the madness that ensues when actual BEER is allowed in a MOVING VEHICLE. Scouring new (to me) bars, frequented by my friends who actually live in the city, was a new experience altogether. After the rain subsided, our little band made it to the rooftop of Brit's Pub, with its appropriate British flags. Knowing my pride for my homeland (great-grandfather came to the US of A from Cornwall, England through Ellis Island, that's right), I am sure I announced "THESE ARE THE FLAGS OF MY PEOPLE!" repeatedly. Prior to this photo, there are at least four of me, with and without flash, posing with my flag; one of my friend Eric saluting it triumphantly. Ah, party bus. I'm glad I know ye.

Sure, it's not late August, but we revel in the springtime when it comes. Something is refreshing about rainstorms like these with their elements of danger. We had our first tonight. The air, now humid yet exhausted of moisture, has just enough of a chill to remind me of the near flash-flood I witnessed from my apartment tonight. For a few minutes, all I could see from our sliding doors was ...white. Wind, rain, branches blowing, hail. Then, a few minutes later, all cleared up. The sunlight came back for its last few hours, reflecting calmly off the river, and the diligent fisherpeople jumped back to their respective places to snag their last carp of the day. I felt like walking across the bridge to the coffeehouse, to escape the prison of my own making (home for 2 days straight with some kind of virus, who knows). Along the way, I took in this unique, incredible air with a mix of relief and gladness. The brief terror of the storm squall and it's subsequent after-storm serenity does this to a person.

The cloying smell of humidity and blossoms is completely Minnesota, whether on a late August night in the city or down here in Northfield in late April. In my constant struggle to define what exactly constitutes home, I would have to say this kind of spring night puts one giant notch on this side of the country.

sounds of... (early May 08)

I lay in bed, the window near my feet open enough to let in a hint of the river's rush, the low hum of a passing car or truck on the nearby highway, the occasional footsteps on the sidewalk below... and... nothing. Earlier, I turned off the fan I usually keep on for white noise to block weekly noisy occasions, such as after the hour when the Thursday night college bar crowd disperses. Tonight is a Sunday night, so it is traditionally a little calmer, more serene. After putting fresh sheets on my bed and cracking my window, I hesitated before pressing play on my iTunes. Nights like this don't need anything else.

I experienced a moment of serenity when I snapped the photo above. This tranquil slice of early green trees, grassy hillside, and stairs descending downward comes alive especially in early morning April or May light. Part of the beauty of my college's situation on top of a hill is the sun's uncanny ability to reach us first. Mornings like this were a rare sight for me while I was a student; however, this particular 6:15AM occasion was to prepare a piece of nature art, outside our manor of a history building, for a philosophy class I passed with a sliver of luck. I reached the hill first, watching for my friend Julie to appear with her bucket so we could collect dandelions (mini Andy Goldsworthys, we were). I have a series of photos from this morning, and I remember taking them with the thought "wow, I have been here for four years and it's like I'm seeing this for the first time." I recall Julie and our friend Leah thinking the same things as we put together our little art exhibit outdoors.

Yesterday, almost two years later, I stood in that spot in another capacity: preparing to host over 200 students as part of the admissions office for our college's admitted student day. The light, the beginnings of green was almost identical. Around 7AM, as I rushed back to our commons center from that side of campus, I passed the little spot where my two early-morning accomplices and I had watched the sunrise while we decorated a triangle of grass with dandelions. The sun fell almost the exact same way on the hillside; even though recent renovations have drastically changed our little plot of land, it's still there in some form.

Those occasional, valuable flashbacks -- quick images provoked by sunlight on trees, the smell of Malt O' Meal, and mistaking current students for old friends -- are there, in a way, to remind me why I remain dedicated to this cluster of buildings on a hill: to bring new people into the story.

To quote an alum I met as a first-year, from the class of 1955: there's an intangible magic to this place.