Goodbyes and Better News

A professor of mine remarked a few weeks ago on the University student's pathological attraction to tradition. It seems that if people plan an event at U.Va, it's the "First Annual" Fill-in-the-Blank. If it happens twice, it's a tradition. If it happens three times, Jefferson said it should always be so.

I'm not sure when Swansongs started, and I'm not going to waste your time speculating whether Jefferson would approve. That happens enough around here, and I enjoy listening to the history buffs bandy back-and-forth. But I am not a history buff. I am merely someone who, last Saturday night, partook in a University Guide Service tradition that helped to seal my experience with some of the coolest people I've known at U.Va.

Hearing my fellow fourth-years hold forth on the things they've learned, the trends they've disliked, or the people they've respected in college was educational, hilarious, and touching. I'm glad that with so many strong personalities in the room, we even managed to keep the whole thing civil. For my own part, I was nervous to speak publicly for one of the few times in my four years here. Ordinarily I love being in front of a crowd, but this was different - I was trying to distill and deliver wisdom to the people who had taught me everything I knew. I was orating in front of those I regarded as modern-day Ciceros. I was trying to honor some of my best friends, but I only had twenty minutes to stand and deliver.

My hands shook as I took my hastily-scrawled outline to the podium. Oh, that's the other thing - though Swansongs are significant, very few people compose their speeches fully, or even on time. Mine had been written between 9:20 pm and 9:48 pm, for a speaking time of 10:00 pm. So much for practice making perfect. I was, effectively, winging it.

And I can't tell you from an objective standpoint how it turned out, of course. I do know that somewhere in there I made at least one or two points.

One was not to sacrifice people and relationships to your agenda or your pride. People, more so than your degree and far more so than your accolades, are the ones to endure beyond the Lawn. So let go of your pride and, oh, I don't know, streak the Lawn with your best friends.

The next point: college is very similar to streaking the Lawn. It's dark, you don't look your best, and you're dodging tables and chairs that have been set up for a picnic the following afternoon. Figuratively speaking. Even so, you're running with people who love you anyway, and that is a thrill nothing (not exams, not internships, not postgrad anxiety) can take away. And maybe, to lend the situation some much-needed dignity, you're wearing your pearls. Hypothetically speaking.

The Guides have been very gracious to me for three and a half years, and I'd like to believe that I left on a positive (albeit slightly inappropriate) note. Then again, those two adjectives are apropos of my time with the Guides, so I won't worry too much about my choice of illustration.

One more thing: I also got to share with the Guides something I will now share with you.

On Friday afternoon, one of my dearest friends Julia called me up to meet her after I finished giving my last historical tour. Now, a word about Julia before I tell you the news: She is kind, generous, wildly intelligent, hardworking, and so. much. dang. fun. She is the sort of woman I hope to be when I grow up.

In fact, she was one of the people I knew I'd miss most as a result of this teaching fellowship.

Well, she had also applied to this fellowship. She had also interviewed at Bryanston. She had initially been told no.

On Friday, miracle of miracles, she received a phone call from the school. The other girl to whom Bryanston had offered a fellowship had recently declined, and they had seen fit to reconsider Julia. Julia told me this as we sat on a sloping lawn by the Rotunda, cried, and then we both called our mothers to share the good news.

This means that Julia and I will be together next year. I cannot begin to tell you how much fun we will have. Britain, get ready. There's trouble coming. And by trouble, I mean tea parties, elaborate explanations of American culture, harmonizing to songs on the radio, and more laughter than you can shake a stick at.

As you can tell, I have a good feeling about this one. Thought you'd enjoy rejoicing with me.

Well, Hello There, Antique Bookstore.

In sudden panic that I might have missed out on a treasure, today I stopped by a bookstore close to my home. I came away with some new purchases and a fresh appreciation for the local character that many a Charlottesville business offers.

Now, if you said to me, “Groceries and bourbon,” I would reply Jeopardy-style, declaring, “What are things you put in brown paper bags?”

To that ordinary yet life-giving list I now submit the addition of “stuff from Heartwood Books.”

Heartwood Books offers its gracious little stoop to Elliewood Avenue, a leafy side street which itself offers quiet respite from the bustle of the U.Va. Corner. Ever the gentlemanly establishment, however, No. 5 Elliewood does not insist on one’s notice, but waits patiently until the wayfaring customer recognizes what she was missing. Too often, Take-It-Away Sandwich Shop played the harlot across the street, luring me away from Heartwood with promises of exotic potato chips and sunlit picnic lunches. Today, however, was different.

Stepping across the threshold, I noticed first the four-foot-high stacks of books about the Civil War, Jefferson, and Albemarle County obscuring the facade of the clerk’s desk. I got the message: Local heritage gets prime real estate

Nostalgia, however, isn’t the place’s only forte. Past display tables in the front, the room extends a good thirty feet, opening up to the left and to the back of the store to reveal further caverns of books. With its own antechamber, History is an unsurprising specialty, but I still wandered goggle-eyed through the rest of the shelves, tilting my head uncomfortably, the better to scan neat rows of titles on every topic.

I was in the fiction section when I saw it – a hardback edition of Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf from the year it was published. I flipped its gorgeously yellowed pages, finding them unblemished by listless undergraduates brandishing ballpoint pens. How this lovely thing had escaped annotation, vandalism, and overpricing was beyond me. I marched to the cash register, picking up along the way a P.G. Wodehouse anthology and The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton, and I paid a whopping $16 for the lot.

I practically skipped back into the sunlight, clutching the brown paper bag the clerk had used to wrap up my purchase. What a joy it was, later gifting Woolf’s masterpiece to my seminar friend Danny, who had labored for a year on an undergraduate thesis with Mrs. Dalloway at its center. Needless to say, he was ready for a clean copy.

Heartwood Books restored dignity to my paper-bag associations and depth to an acquaintance. I sought out the humble and, as is usually the case with both emporia and people, I encountered the priceless.