When up to 11 inches of snow blankets a town, everything falls silent. Everything, that is, except for east campus neighborhoods.
Music blasts from houses full of friends who braved the snowy streets for some company. Cars with “Jimmy John’s” signs up top swerve and swivel their way through the seemingly impassible narrow streets, screeching as they go. Some east campus residents clearly forgot to go to the grocery store yesterday.
So, if you’re looking for quiet on a snow day in east campus, grab your best jacket, hat and friend. Head to the periphery where Clyde Wilson Memorial Park borders civilization. Entrances lie along Rockhill Road, Wilson Avenue and Rollins Street.
As you take the snowy, but passable path, deeper into the 9-acre, wooded park, the sounds of east campus are stilled. You won’t be alone, though.
“You just feel calm and peace among the snowy trees,” said my friend standing beside me, only her eyes showing beneath her purple, frosted hat. “All you can hear is the air.”
When the only sound is the air and crunching snow, vulnerability becomes less and less daunting, the further in you go.
Your friend, in the snow-capped, purple hat, tells you heavy things that rise lightly in the tranquil air, disappearing. You do the same. When everything around you is covered in white, you see one another better.
Today, these woods are lovely, dark and deep. Promises you once said you would keep rise and sweep away with the downy flakes.