COLUMN Musings and Mishaps

Author: Lindsey Whitton

In the early hours of Wednesday mornings I have come to cherish my short drive home. It is a chance to unwind after hours of frantic work, and it is the first step towards my coveted few hours of sleep.
Tuesday nights in the Hepburn basement are spent producing The Campus, and news editors are among the last to leave. Usually I spend over 10 consecutive hours grinding away in front of a computer, and the closer I seem to get, the more red marks crop up on my copy and the goofier I become. By 2 a.m. I start singing news articles to unrecognizable tunes with no rhythm. By 2:15 a.m. everyone wants me out of the office.
When I finally do step outside, I am startled by the fresh air and the black night. A few golden street lamps glow and the pavement shines, but everything else is muffled and silent. My co-editor Pierce and I, oblivious to the hundreds of students sleeping within earshot, talk fervently to ward off exhaustion. I always blast music as I buzz through the empty campus, briefly enjoying the deserted pathways and streets.
A few weeks ago, however, when Pierce and I stepped outside, the normal late-night solitude was shattered by bright flashing lights and the roar of a massive truck engine. It took us a moment to realize that our cars were being towed. I got very flustered (to say the least), imagining steep fines, lengthy negotiations and the frightening walk home alone.
I started running towards the truck, yelling and waving my arms. The poor driver looked up, shocked to see such a distressed student, laden with books and wrapped in stray computer cords, charging towards him. He immediately lowered my car back down to the pavement and, eyes wide, struggled with whether to wish me a good morning or good night.
Last week, however, was the most remarkable drive home. It was 3:30 a.m., a relatively early night for the newspaper, and I was anxious to get a few hours of sleep. But when Pierce and I walked out The Campus door everything was covered with the first snow of the season. Huge flakes slowly descended, filling the air and veiling the buildings. We walked to Pierce's car slowly, kicking at the white powder silently.
We cut the first tracks down Route 30 and Weybridge Street, and the late-night solitude was even more isolated, even more beautiful. I felt so lucky to be an unexpected witness to this natural spectacle — I couldn't help smiling to myself. It was late, it was beautiful and, for the first Wednesday morning this semester, I wasn't ready to go inside and go to sleep.