That which binds
I am horrifically sentimental at times. Whether this is a flaw or a strength is uncertain to me. In any case, this University is the worst offender.
Yesterday, as I wandered from Caribou to Manning, I was assaulted by four-and-a-half years of memories. See, it’s not the words or the ideas which get me: it’s the places. And as the buildings and quads passed through my sight, I realized that I associate specific events with each of them. There is scarcely a location on campus which, for me, isn’t tightly bound to an event or seventeen. In all seriousness, I can think of only three buildings which I don’t have a clear association for.
The quote may be completely spoken to death, but it holds even so:
What is it that binds us to this place as to no other? It is not the well or the bell or the stone walls. Or the crisp October nights or the memory of dogwoods blooming. Our loyalty is not only to William Richardson Davie, though we are proud of what he did 200 years ago today. Nor even to Dean Smith, though we are proud of what he did last March. No, our love for this place is based on the fact that it is, as it was meant to be, the University of the people. –Charles Kuralt at the UNC Bicentennial
Midnight adventures of questionable legality from steam tunnels to roofs. Epic battles resulting in shredded latex refuse on muddy ground. The love of toast. Halloween murder mysteries. The cups of coffee—psh, the gallons of coffee. Sunday chocolate devotion. Remaining to the buzzer, even while standing alone. Battle wounds in the name of the cards being mine, !@#$ it. Seafood seafood gumbo. Hijacking classrooms until horrible hours. Pages of translations performed in hallways. The window lounges. 40 laps of the Pit at 3am. Emergency room visits. Rainy espresso days. The endless amusement derived from chucking acorns at their source. Squirrels leering from trash cans. Caroling under umbrellas. Caroling under soap. Ten dollar tickets. Secret bathrooms with vandalized grout. Free blue books and Scantrons. Knowing where Krispy Kreme is. Exploding chalk. Pretending you’re supposed to be there. Coaxing the voice of an angel from trembling. Jazz squares. Cuban rock. Bouncers staring for a long time at IDs. Hours of pondering yielding two lines of proof.
One tassel left. Another right.
Well, it’s clear what you need to do in your remaining year-and-some-change. You need to check off those last three buildings. And then add double more over what you have on them and all the rest. You best get crackin’, boy.
Just watch out for siamese twins.