Naiad 1975 - Lake-Sumter Community College

138
Summer Shenanigans at Sewanee
It was 1945, and the indolence of those carefree days pervaded the entire
mountain. Having done with books and homework, we tried to put school
forever out of mind by hiding our notebooks in the darkest corners of our closets.
We spent late evenings catching fireflys for our lanterns, and before our last
bedtime call, we chose a star, crossed our fingers and fervently wished that
September would never come 'round again.
At midmorning we lazily stirred to dress in jeans and old white dress shirts
salvaged from Mother's mending basket. We carefully rolled up the baggy
sleeves past our elbows in the mode accepted by adolescent girls that year. We
dawdled over breakfast and tormented our mother with whining complaints
that there was nothing to do. Raised eyebrows and an exasperated look sent us
scampering outside to formulate our plan of attack for the day.
We trooped up and down the streets, gathering forces along the way to
assault the community with our exuberance. We cut across the common, and if
we happened to come upon Sergeant Torn Harrison resting on one of the stone
benches near Breslin Tower, we slowed our pace and eyed him with a curious
and reverent silence -everyone said he had come horne from the war with a
steel plate in his head. Although Sergeant Torn never responded, we sometimes
managed to murmur inaudible hellos before turning the corner of the tower and
resuming our speed.
Once more we slowed our pace a bit as we passed the low, stone fence that
bordered the Vice-Chancellor's lawn, and as we deftly plucked handfuls of ripe
cherries from the overhanging branches, we sneaked furtive glances to see if Dr.
Guerry was watching from his sunporch. We raced on down "hospital hill"
where memories of last winter's sledding seemed vague and far away, laughing
with easy camaraderie and exchanging sly grins because we had not been
caught.
Upon approaching the broad curve that circled the hospital, we zigzagged
across the lower slopes of Mr. Bonholtzer's tomato field, stripping the vines of
luscious fruit as we went, When we reached Morgan's Steep, we stretched out on
the huge, sun-warmed rock that jutted out over the treetops reaching up from
below. We bickered for awhile about whose turn it was to bring the salt-shaker,
and if someone had forgotten, we punished him with a stony silence. As we ate
our unwashed contraband, the warm juice ran down our chins and dripped onto
our shirts leaving telltale traces. Then we would turn over on our backs and
perhaps resume yesterday's argument over whether there were eighty-seven or
eighty-nine steps carved into the rock that comprised Mdrtgan's Steep.
Afterwards, we always eased our way down the narrow steps, recounting
them for the hundredth time as we made our way to the cave at the base of the
waterfall below. Sometimes we braved the icy spray of the water, taking care to
scrub away the stains from Father's shirts. Someone invariably lost his footing
on the slimy, green rocks only to have to wash his shirt again.
Finally we raced each other horne, and we yelled our good byes as each of us
turned into his front walk, seemingly as if we would never see each other again.
We tried to sneak in without being seen, but Father always looked up from his
reading and would pull my sister and me onto his lap to tell us once more how
pretty we were. Mother, however, gave us a stern look of disapproval and
chastised us for looking like street urchins.