First of all: Last week I referred to the sad case of a man I know who lost his tuxedo jacket. This man was me. I lost my tuxedo jacket at the Colonnade Ball. The jacket, size 44L, was manufactured by Jones New York. If anyone should discover an unknown tuxedo jacket somewhere, I'd profoundly appreciate -- and reward with money -- the person who returned it to me.
So, let's talk about the wind. There's been a healthy dose of good, strong wind on Grounds this week, and it's exactly what we all need. We've been here for a long time since we all arrived, for the first time or the last time, three months ago.
I was discussing the wisdom of the redesign of the calendar recently with a lady of my acquaintance. I was a fierce proponent of this year's model of the truncated Reading Break and the extended Thanksgiving Break; I always believe relaxation is better in blocks than in little fits and starts. The lady with whom I discussed this, though, suggested there might be some problem with the almost unbroken length of the term so far. I didn't go home for our three-day Reading Break, so it might feel longer for me than for some, but one way or another, it's been a while.
Things have settled down, classes are getting more tiresome and less interesting as they wind themselves down to a conclusion, finals are beginning to darkly amass themselves on the horizon, and all in all, we're getting stale.
This was particularly true of my room. Though my roommate has recently sought to improve our quality of life by installing air fresheners in the wall sockets that exude a lovely scent of mentholated vanilla, it's really not possible for two guys to keep the air in their room particularly pleasant. So the other day, in a fit of olfactory rage, I just threw open all the windows and let in the wind.
And damn, it was a fine wind. This time of year produces spectacular gusts, north and south alike; I enjoy thinking that the proximity of the Blue Ridge Mountains has something to do with it, that somehow the nearness of the looming rock-walls channels winds from thousands of miles away and twists them together into a blast of invigorating wonder, though I have no reason to believe that is actually the case. Whatever the reason, there's a wonderful lot of wind.
At the same time, while I'm glad to taste the change of the season on the air when I open a window, and while I love walking the raging night when it beats furiously against our walls, it remains a little alarming. It's a time of changes and a time of endings, as much as it's a time of heedless life and remembrance.
So, as this is my last column of the semester, let me remember a few things and celebrate a few changes. Some change can refresh and recast our lives into new and brilliant patterns that recall the best of what went before. I have, for example, had the great good fortune this semester to meet a number of new and extraordinary people, some of who have grown profoundly important to me. That's a good change. Some change, of course, can tear down the guideposts and the firm rocks we think invulnerable. I've had the misfortune in the past six months to lose my wonderful, sorely-missed grandmother as well as a lot of the easy comfort that I used to presume lay quietly under the heaving surface of the world. That's a bad change. Whatever the change, I feel some days as if I don't know anything anymore.
Change, though, is as much a part of life as a good burst of wind and just as likely to do either good or harm. At the same time, some things roll on as they have and as they always will, and here's what I do know: I owe my life to my friends and my family, as they know and as I can never repay. Good books are as good as they've ever been. There's nothing in the world like sinking into sleep and nothing like staying awake for far, far too long, either. I love sunsets, sunrises and black-and-white movies.
So, my friends, I'll go home for this long, long break, and sleep, and eat, and watch "Casablanca" and "The Man Who Came to Dinner," and read long and languorously. And then I'll come back, and when I put my head out the window as the poetry of the mountains raises itself around me once again, I'll feel the wind and remember I've come back to the second home I never thought I'd know. And no matter what changes, that will always be the same.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Connor's column runs biweekly on Fridays. He may be reached at sullivan@cavalierdaily.com.
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