Roots in New Soil

The leaves swayed gently against the soft breeze, their synchronized movement rustling the peace around them. High in the canopy, the smaller branches whipped back more violently than expected, only to rest calm once more as the wind passed. The lower branches, impressively large, were unfazed even yards out from the trunk supporting them. Vivid shades of green covered the oak, the color working its way up from the grass at its base, to the moss growing in large patches against its trunk and the bright leaves that shaded the ground in darkness. Already now, weeks away from the start of fall, small batches of foliage were being drained of their vibrant color, their tint already molting to something new, something equally as magnificent. 

Surrounded by the backdrop of urban life, the oak was clearly out of place. Its nearest cousin was yards away, separated by manicured lawn or sidewalk, but the oak was unbothered. It had not only withstood the elements, but the passage of time. As the environment had changed, nothing could change it. It stood as an outcast in a vastly different world it didn’t belong in. Yet, over the years, it thrived and would surely outlive everything around it.

A soft tap on the shoulder brought me back, my attention shifting to our tour guide as my new roommate motioned to see if I was okay.

“……is the quad. It’s a great place to come and hang with friends. On rare sunny days, this place will be packed, but outside of what your tour guide told you back in the day, there is a cool tradition that begins here at 10PM on Thursday nights. Bicycles are required, but I would highly recommend you check it out one week.”

“What if we didn’t bring a bike?” The question rose from the edge of the group, others in it murmuring support.

Our resident advisor smiled. “Good question Steve!” he said, a little too excited to give the answer. “This past year the university bought each residence hall a set of school bikes that students can use for the day. I think we have about twenty or so at our building so all you have to do is ask at the front desk and you can use one for the night. Any other questions?”

With no response, he turned and waved us on.

I stared at the tree as we cut across the quad, passing a few other tour groups, the sets of other new freshmen likely hearing the same points we had, the same tricks and facts our upperclassmen were directed to share.

The tree became less grand as we left it behind, but the contrast between it and the broader landscape could never be insignificant. Beneath its canopy, I saw myself. A younger version of myself, sitting against the trunk, a book in one hand. With each step away I was slightly older, my activities changing with time – climbing, sitting, napping, studying, talking with friends.

With a deep breath, I held my gaze for one more second before turning around, my focus taken by the faint words of our guide as he pointed out different academic buildings. I followed his directions, scanning each building, their facades bright and new, the color barely touched by the sun or the harsh winters I knew so well.

“Since I know most of you got a tour of campus before applying, I’m going to take us on a little detour off campus. We’ll aim for a theater at the end of town, but I’ll point out some things here and there as we go. Sound good?”

With no objection, we took a quick turn and headed toward the far side of campus. The further we got from its center, the older campus became, the buildings now draped in vines, their stones darkened with wear. We crossed the aging landscape until our guide stopped suddenly at the top of a small knoll. He pointed to a bench just off the concrete pathway.

“Check this out,” he started. “This bench has been here since the start of the university over 200 years ago. They’ve had to do some maintenance on it to keep it going, but a lot of it is still original. To keep it preserved, someone comes out to cover it when it rains or snows. Pretty cool, right?”

Most were mildly impressed, with others confused by the effort. One brought up his confusion with a simple, why? “History, of course, and so we can have something else to tell you guys on these tours. We’ll cross the road over there and head toward the theater. We’ll pass blocks of off campus apartments where a lot of upper classmen live.”

The group started off, but I held back, my focus on the bench.

It was a couple yards from the sidewalk. Flat, cracked stones made the detour to it. Following those, and surrounding the bench itself, were flower beds with bright yellows, reds and whites. It was made of slated wood, connected on each side with ionized copper. The wood looped itself around the front and ended just below the knee. In the name of preservation, white paint had recently been applied, but still chunks of wood were visibility missing on several pieces. Outside of our guide telling us the short history, there was no indication on or near the bench itself that explained its significance.

As I approached, I could see intricate designs on the frame, a swirl of flowers, vines going up from the base. Even with the green tint, the design showed little to no noticeable wear, its beauty now as clear as it was when first installed. At the base, new metal was welded against small concrete slabs that held the bench sturdy against the shifting soil. Quaint and elusive to anyone passing by, it was the perfect spot.

I sat and observed its view.

Just past the network of campus buildings was the distant city skyline, its high-rises glistening in the late morning sun. To the city’s left, human sprawl. To its right, more suburbs until ending with a vast forest as far as the eye could see. Different than what I was used to, the view seemed spectacular in its own way, a way I had never thought of before.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Footsteps and distant chatter of those walking by came from my left, the breeze against my face. Nothing echoed from the city streets below, nothing broke the calm that seemed to envelop this spot.

When my eyes reopened, everything changed. My father was across from me, sitting in his usual lawn chair. In between us, a firepit, lit and roaring with orange flame. Trees on our right look ominous, the view of them only extending a layer into the thick forest. Smoke replaced the summer night scent and fireflies danced around us, their green tint adding the only contrast to the dark night just past the flame’s reach.

I slumped in my own lawn chair, closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” The question came from behind me, from a new but now familiar voice. I nodded, then turned to follow my roommate back to the group. They waited at a crosswalk, the final barrier before officially leaving campus.

“So, as I said,” our guide started after noticing our return. “A lot of upper classmen live this way. You are required to live on campus for two years, but after that people usually rent a place with friends over here.”

“These are where all the parties are, right?” someone asked.

He chuckled before responding. “Technically yes but as your RA, I can’t say any more about that.”

We waited as bustling traffic raced through the intersection. Overrun by noise, our guide waited until we were safely across and block away to continue. He began to point out specific houses along the street that were known for one thing or another – this one seemed to always house the soccer team, that one was usually reserved for theater kids, this next one holds monthly yard game tournaments.

The further we got from campus the more interesting the facts became. Several houses had historical significance with either honored alumni living there in the past or even historical figures growing up there before it became student housing.

Halfway to our destination, we were stopped by a group of fraternity brothers calling to us from their porch. The group beckoned us toward the game of beer pong they were playing, instructing our guide, who seemed to be a part of the same organization, to bring of us over.

“Come on Tim, what’s the harm? We’re just playing around. The cups are full of water. Let’s show these newbies some fun instead of just walking around like zombies. Knowing where alumni lived isn’t going to enhance their time here. We’ll be on our best behavior, we promise.”

At first reluctant, further pestering slowly got him to cave. “Do you all want to stay here for a bit?” After a resounding yes, he followed up with, “there can be no beer or alcohol anywhere in sight.”

Our groups became one and conversation quickly spurred the idea of a beer pong tournament. Another long table was pulled to the front yard and everyone from our floor was quickly paired with an upperclassman.

The games began and the energy was electric. No one would’ve thought this was our first time together, our interactions fluid and fun. We were quickly accepted as ping pong balls flew back and forth, our laughter and conversation now starting to draw others walking by.  As my team’s turn approached, a sudden lightness filled me.

“What was your name again?” my partner asked, reaching his hand out.

“Spencer, you?”

“Phill.”

We shook.

“Where are you from?” He began to set up our side of the game.

“Like four hours away from here, in the country.”

“Like the country country or a suburb?”

I let out a short laugh. “Country country, there are more cows than people where I grew up.”

“Damn, that’s impressive. I haven’t heard that from many people. Do you like it here, in the city?”

“It’s my first time here, really,” I started, looking around me. “I’ve seen a couple things that remind me of home, so I think it’ll be okay.”