Tiny Miracles

It all began as I sat through yet another two-hour lecture with the infamous Dr. Fitts. I desperately reined my wandering mind into studying his aphorisms and anaphoras, synonomous tristichs and synthetic distichs, and other such intricicies of ancient world literature.

Suddenly, the volume of Fitts' voice increased. As any good student knows, often this is indicative of a "you may see this again" moment. The loud words are the important ones. I should be writing these tidbits of teacherly wisdom for future edification (or at least for future nightmarish exams).

Not so.

For through the seemingly impenetrable wall of my concentration, a low noise crept into my conciousness. Fitts' voice was raised to be heard over the droning.

Something was amiss.

I took stock of my surroundings: the warm fleece jacket I was wearing, a mug of hot tea on the desk in front of me, winter coats and scarves tossed across chair backs around the room, and windows closed to the January winter outside. All of these clashed alarmingly in my subconcious with what my ears were so clearly delivering to my brain.

The sweet sound of a lawn mower.

In January.

In Lincoln, Nebraska.

Yes, indeed, today, there was grass being cut on the Union College campus. Miracles do exist.

Although it was not so long ago that visions of sugar plums danced in our heads, today, some grounds-person graciously filled mine with John Deeres, good times, sunshine, and summer time.

And it made a marathon lit class just a little bit sweeter.