A Walk Through Time and Tradition

Have you ever noticed how many different smells there are on campus? I believe they are living memories of the School’s history, changing periodically with the seasons.

 

This is about my journey from the boarding house to the fourth floor of the Main Building. Mornings outside Copeman’s always greet my nostrils with the earthy scent of pine needles and regret as I realize I forgot my coffee inside, along with my keys to the boarding house. Knowing that coffee is available in the staff room, I don’t let it bother my commute through the Alumni Gardens on my way to work. As I trot down the Copeman’s stairs, the smell of the gardens dance around me like a symphony of memories, all fighting their way into the archives. I like to imagine that the different smells are the spirits of the Old Boys, who were forced to work on the landscape through Wilberforce – disciplined yet in harmony with the grounds. The summer mornings always augment the smells on the groomed path. Sometimes, the pond will rear its head with an alchemical concoction of wet mud, dead leaves, and fallen orange peels – the remains of fruit taken by students on their way out of Marion Hall are solemnly scattered here at times. We’ll be hearing about this in Chapel, I’m sure of it.

 

As I enter the Main Building, the nostalgic scent of polished wood and milk flickers in the air. Walking through is like stepping into a time capsule: every floorboard carries the worn marks of steps taken by thousands before me. I can smell the eagerness and excitement of old students as they walked these halls for the first time. The Main Building has a grounding smell – like the traditions of the School have been soaked deep into the wood surrounding me. I make my way to the other end of the Main Building to find the stairwell to the fourth floor. Confusion begins to set in. The scents come at me rapid-fire: old textbooks, like knowledge left out in the sun for too long; a perfume cloud, a wall of fragrance not even the strongest battering ram could undo; the ancient photocopy machine, which stares into my soul. Lunch wafts from the dining hall, unidentifiable. Everything goes dark just as my hand reaches for the stairwell door. I yell “Good morning!” but no one is there. The stairwell is quiet, and at least 15 degrees colder. I can see my breath. My nostrils are now too cold to smell, so I grip the frozen rails and begin my journey, a local sherpa to the fourth floor.

 

As I finally reach the top and step onto the fourth floor, the drastic temperature change may have awakened a cold in me, but nonetheless, I am ecstatic to have completed my journey. I take in the air. It’s heavy and old, as if it’s been trapped on this floor for ages. I get random bursts of citrus and lavender air freshener that feel out of place, the scents mixing with the stagnant air to create an odd cocktail of staleness. Lifeless, but filled with quiet whispers of late-night audits and last-minute budget approvals.

 

I open the door to Communications.

 

“Good morning, everyone.”