It was a hot Saturday in early autumn – Parents Weekend at Longwood. And the sun looked upon beauteous Farmville without mercy: the rolled sleeves of D-Hall workers saturating in sweat. The bright rays beating down the heads of puppies and children alike and the post-picnic slumber into a dreamless sleep back at the Hampton Inn is imminent.
No lawn games would be played. No faces painted. No balloon animals twisted into being: unless there are snow cones. There can be no easy way to quench the thirst of so many Lancer families for color-flavored ice. Who will find and crush the bags of ice? Who can pack the snow just right for the cascading of syrup? Most importantly, who can create the legendary Rainbow wirl cone for the worthy?
This is surely a job for a Band of Brothers: Schwanks the Sleuth, The White Lightning, Chocolate Thunder, Sir Dash and Charlie Eats-a-Mountain. And their trusty comrade, Longboardman!
And thus began the Brothers’ watch over the snow cone booth against the thwarting of Nature and the Public University Budget.
And, as you can see, my fraternity brothers and I take serving our community onto a whole different level.
Sure—some of us have five meetings tomorrow (on a Sunday). Some of us have three exams on Monday. Some of us have to work more than two jobs to stay in school. And then there’s always the one who can’t figure out how to crush ice into snow with a lever—or talk to that smart girl in World Lit, the one who wears the polka dot bows and reenacts the best parts of “The Iliad.”
We may be college men and women with great responsibilities and challenges. There may not be enough time in the world for all that we do, yet something can’t be right if our best years are spent on a one-way ticket aboard the struggle bus. We can’t just rush into a $14K job mopping floors with loans strapped onto our shoulders, or four more years of beating my hippocampus in with esoteric texts the size of size 19 Orwellian boots. I am not so sure about looking so far ahead so as to leave my present behind already.
Somewhere in our dreams and ambitions is that child who doesn’t think twice about jumping into piles of leaves—if anything, just to feel the soft kiss of wet leaves. Somewhere in us is the determination to, someday, eat a whole chocolate cake without throwing up, so that our body weight irrelevant to our happiness. Somewhere in us, we can’t wait until snow comes so we can charge down the hill, pretending we wore chain mail instead of marshmallow coats. Even if only to fall down laughing with a crackling pitch after we are nailed by our buddy’s “perfect” snowball (45 percent slush for velocity, 60 percent packed snow dust for burst). Somewhere in us, we want to wheel each other down Brock Commons carrying lawn games packed away in bags—to be a power train instead of the struggle bus. Somewhere—anywhere and everywhere—we will play.
Did I mention orange/cherry slush was the best swirl cone?
