Bent Words

Bent Words

November 17, 2004

The Fall must have had her every feature held in mind for compliment, for it is now, with the daylight fading ever fast into the folds of night, that she captures my breath. The leaves of red and gold and brown and orange, strewn about her base, allow the white and grays of each limestone building to stand most brilliant. In these darkened evenings, as I walk to class, I am stunned by the angled lights aiming high that catch her boldness and grace in architecture.

To my left is Voorhees Hall, with blackened windows that span over the entire front, which was once an open porch. At one time, this was one of the women's dorms and it is where all the young couples would gather to kiss in the shadows before the lights flashed, signaling curfew. Now it is where the Registrar's Office is located and perhaps a few classes that I have not yet attended. Here, upon these steps, I captured my parents embrace with my father's new digital camera.

Ahead of me and slightly to the right, in the center of this splendid scene, is the most magnificent of them all. Built in 1885 and recently renovated is Main Hall, which holds the largest lecture room on campus and stands with inimitable grandeur apart from the rest. Almost castle like in stature, this stately edifice impresses upon my mind with each passing and, if I am not in a hurry, always provokes a proud smile.

Rankin Hall lies beyond and sits neatly to my left. Here I often find a group of smokers, gathering at her steps, breaking from the intensity of the sciences they have been immersed in. This structure holds a fine greenhouse that I have not yet ventured into, but I have been witness to the beautiful effects when strolling in the garden to my right. A curling walkway with a variety of flowers blooming in the spring and summer, broken by a pair of benches where I often like to sit, leads eventually to Lowry Hall. But I do not venture that far.

Down the sidewalk from Rankin Hall, to the left of the garden between Pine and Oak trees, and at the end of the campus is Maxon Hall. Geography, science and mathematics classes are always in session and this is where I have my Statistics class. It seems a to be an oddly proportioned place to me - with its winding, glassed in stairs and women's bathroom on the third floor when my class is on the bottom. Walking up these stairs, footsteps sound with hollow echoes and the water from the bubblers is always luke warm. Desks and chairs that no one uses are placed in obscure areas about the building and, for them, I almost feel sorry. I arrive early before class to fill these void spaces with my leisurely posture and latest novel.

When we are dismissed early, which is nearly every night as our professor instructs another night class at UWM, I take a stroll over to Rankin Hall and turn left. Directly across the lawn, where students throw Frisbees and footballs, is the modern looking Todd Wehr Memorial Library which was renovated in 1998 when my father and I first wandered these grounds. The library now holds a Starbucks-life cafe with high wooden tables and the ever whooshing sounds of a cappuccino maker. More than forty years ago, my father sauntered amongst the book shelved aisles, where he became aquatinted with a bubbly girl named Vicky who was in his Spanish Class.

"I know you," she squealed pointedly on that second floor maze of books, "you're in my Spanish Class!"

"Yeah..." my father replied, looking up and slightly taken aback.

She persisted and chattered and soon took on my father's heart. Eventually, they would go their separate ways, but she was the love of his college days.
I stand there, outside of the library, for the length of a Marlboro light and think of these memories that seem more of my own with each day of my presence on these grounds. I turn around and smile, hefting my backpack more securely upon my shoulder. I let out a sigh and return to my illegally parked car, passing collegians with equaled dispositions, saying hello to anyone who will connect their eyes with mine.

I think of my grandfather, who surprised my father with an invitation to lunch a long time ago. How proud he was and how endearing that moment, when he boldly strolled up that walk to greet his eldest son. I'm sure, if my grandfather were here now, he would recall that story with a sideways grin and I would enthusiastically reply with my own experiences. In each of our minds, together we would stroll, hands pocketed through the crisp air of Fall, over the stately beauty of Waukesha's Carroll College.

Written at 1:04 p.m.