Hamilton College - Alumni Review - Summer 2007

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O.

By John McKay '04 and Jon Bellona '03
Illustrated by Elaine Verstraete

I'm driving, one hand on a cup of coffee, the other nervously twitching the stereo dial. The wheel rests comfortably between my knees. As we pass a sign welcoming us to the Central Leather-Stocking Region, I grab a cassette from the console: Ultimate Waylon Jennings. I bought it used at a gas station 20 miles back. When I pop it in, "Luckenbach, Texas (Back to the Basics of Love)" is in mid-song. Satisfied, I return my hand to its original resting place. Out of the corner of my eye, I see J. He places his hand on the passenger side window and tilts his head up to the sky. All traces of sunshine have quickly vanished behind a stealthy cover of gray. He jerks his hand off the frost-veiled window and shoots me a look. I smile and shake my head. As we expected, spring has not yet sprung.

At mile 233, we turn off the concrete tundra of I-90. Casually, I glance at my watch. "How long's it been?" asks J. "A little over four hours, plus that one stop for gas." He laughs. "Not what I meant." I pause. "Oh! You mean since I've been back? Graduation, almost three years." He nods, as if to say the same is true for him. "Do you really think some of those West Coasters will be there?" "I don't know." At once a dozen faces flash through my mind. Faces I haven't seen in years. Smiles I hope to see shortly. I'm invigorated. "Turn it up," says J. "You got it." Waylon's "America" is now inside the car as we cruise down Route 12B.

And the men, who fell on the plains
And lived, through hardship and pain
America, Amer-ica

Patches of dirty snow still line the road. The whole area seems colorless. Each house we pass blends with the last. I notice J. perk up slightly as he stares out the window. "You actually see something worth seeing?" He points at a house on his side. Then at the next. Then at the next. "Haven't you noticed the flags?" I catch a glimpse of the flag in the back corner of someone's front porch. "So?" We exchange puzzled looks. "I don't know," he mumbles, and sits back.

We turn off 12B onto the main drag in Clinton. We aren't far now. J. turns to me. "This last stretch of road seems shorter." I nod.
"The whole town seems closer. Almost right on top of us." He's right. I can see the faces of Clinton, familiar and sharply defined, like neighbors. Despite the bitter wind, they don't hide.

Even with the heat up, I'm still cold. I don't think I prepared myself for the bitter winter of Central New York. J., with his Carhartts and lightweight long-sleeved tee, can't be any warmer. He does, however, look happy to be here. I smile a short sigh. We're home again.

I never could find the right speed up the Hill. The car practically drags itself. My hand shakes slightly as it grips the wheel. The stiff combination of coffee and spirit is an old college sensation that stirs my stomach into butterfly knots. No more driving. "So where're we gonna park this bird?"

"How 'bout North Lot?" says J. "We'll be on campus in an hour." I laugh. The jolt of the car kicks us back as we round the corner. At once, the campus begins to unfold. Open grass, classic stone buildings and the air of April winter welcome us. "Take a right," J. insists. "I want to see the view of the village. Besides, there'll be parking down this way."

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'Typing fast and telling lots of lies': commentary on the contest and notes on the writing life

By John Nichols '62
I'm a lousy person to judge a writing contest. I'm no fan of 10-best lists, nor of Oscar nominations, nor of the 100 "best" novels ever written. People have often asked me what writers or books have influenced me most, and I've always replied: "I never met a writer (or a book) I didn't like." More ...