Fall 2004
Each morning in the fall of 2004, before the sun climbed too high, I left the farm to head to West Virginia University. It was my first semester there, after transferring from the University of South Carolina. I was thirty years old, a non-traditional student, and though I had chosen this path myself, I sometimes wondered what it would mean.
The road north was a familiar one, winding through valleys where fog lingered low against the ground. The hills rose gently on both sides, dressed in the bright colors of autumn—maple and oak turning to red and gold against the blue of the sky. Sometimes I passed farmers in their trucks or children waiting for the school bus, but more often the road was quiet, and I traveled alone with my thoughts.
I thought often of my friends in South Carolina. The fall leaves of West Virginia were beautiful, but I missed the warmth of the life I had left behind. Would I make new friends here? Would I feel at home again? Driving alone left me with these questions, as well as the uncertainty of the future.
After half an hour, the Coliseum came into sight. It rose round and gray above the trees, its dome broad and unyielding, like a giant cement turtle standing guard over Morgantown. The parking lot stretched wide around it, full of cars that glinted in the morning light. I found my place among them, stepped out, and shouldered my bag.
From the lot I walked to the PRT station, where the yellow and blue cars waited upon their rails. They were small and trim, yet they carried hundreds back and forth each day. I stepped inside, and the doors closed with a gentle slide. The car hummed to life, lifting me high above the streets, gliding over the highways and rooftops below. The Monongahela sparkled in the distance, and the mountains crowded close on either side.
Tuesdays and Thursdays brought a special sight. Chris Henry, the Mountaineers’ wide receiver, would sometimes be waiting for the PRT as well. He was tall and quiet, shoulders broad, and though none of us knew it then, he would soon be drafted by the Cincinnati Bengals. He stood like any other student, backpack slung over his shoulder, yet he seemed larger than life.
The PRT was not always steady. Once, as I sat with my books in my lap, the car shuddered and halted. We looked out the window and saw a squirrel creeping along the rail. All at once we were shouting: “No, no, no, no, no!” But the little creature darted forward, touched the rail, and was struck down. “Awwwww!” we groaned in unison, throwing up our hands. There was nothing to do but wait. Sometimes the delay lasted a few minutes. Other times it stretched to an hour. I was oddly moved at how fragile the system was—shut down by the smallest interruption—yet it remained the easiest way to travel across campus.
When I arrived downtown, I stepped into the fullness of campus life. The sidewalks were crowded with students, the air alive with voices, and the sound of footsteps and traffic blended with the bell of the tower. Strangely, most of the kids at WVU seemed to come from New Jersey. I made friends in classes and often led study groups, though no lasting friendships grew from them. Still, there was a spirit of optimism in the town, a cheerfulness that belonged to college days.
At noon I often went to the Mountainlair, which stood at the heart of it all. The building was broad and lively, filled with the smell of food and the murmur of laughter. Inside, I once found a Sbarro tucked away in a corner. It was my first taste of that pizza. The slices were cut wide and thin, with cheese that stretched long when I bit into it, and sauce sharp and tangy on my tongue. I carried my tray to a table by the tall windows and ate while the students passed by outside in a steady stream.
Afterward I climbed the hill to my classes. The old buildings stood proudly there, their brick walls darkened with age. Woodburn Hall rose above them all, with towers sharp against the sky. The stairways creaked, the windows poured in the light, and the air smelled faintly of chalk dust. Once I saw a football player pause at the door. His shoulders were too wide for the frame, and he had to turn sideways to fit. The sight made us laugh, but it also reminded me of the narrowness of the old halls.
Across the way stood Martin Hall, plain and simple, the oldest of them all. Its stones were laid when the school was young, and its walls had held generations of students. The rooms were spare, the windows tall, and when the wind stirred the trees outside, their shadows moved softly across the desks.
When lessons ended, I returned once more to the PRT. The cars glided above the town, their hum steady as they bore the last travelers back to the Coliseum. The dome waited in the soft light of evening, the lot now half-empty, the air hushed at the close of day. I climbed into my car and turned north. The hills deepened into shadow, and the fields lay quiet in the dusk. Through the open window came the cool mountain air, carrying the scents of grass and earth.
One evening at home, as we sat in the living room, my father turned to me. His voice was plain and steady.
“Would you like it,” he said, “if we drove you to college some mornings?”
Mom looked at me too, her hands folded in her lap, waiting for my answer.
“Yes,” I said at once. “I’d like that very much.”
So the next morning we rose early. A light mist lay low in the valleys, and the air was cool. We sat down to breakfast at Cracker Barrel together, for the kitchen in the farmhouse was not yet finished. Dad ordered Uncle Hershel’s Favorite—eggs, grits, and country ham. Mom chose French toast. I ordered pancakes with eggs and bacon.
When the waiter brought our plates, my mom gave me a knowing smile.
“You’d better eat,” she said. “You get hangry when you don’t.”
I laughed, for it was true. Growing up, when I was unruly, she would ask the last time I had eaten. Often I had forgotten, and hunger made me sharp. “I suppose I always have,” I said, shaking my head.
When breakfast was done, we set out. Dad drove, as he always had. The hills along the road to Morgantown were turning their colors, gold and red against the blue sky. The ground was nearly bare of hay now, the fields waiting for their winter’s rest.
At last we came to the downtown campus. Students filled the sidewalks, their voices bright in the crisp air. Dad pulled to the curb.
“Well, here you are,” he said.
I stepped out, my bag on my shoulder. Though I was thirty, I felt in that moment like a boy again.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
Mother leaned forward. “We’ll be back this afternoon to pick you up.”
“You better!” I laughed. “How else am I getting home?”
Those rides became part of my semester. Not every day, but often enough that they shaped my memory of that fall. Driving with my parents gave me the comfort of family and familiarity, a reprieve from the tension of adulthood. They were eager to drive me, and I think it was as fun for them as it was for me.
Living on the farm, evenings meant working on the house, doing chores, and sometimes homework. Often I did my assignments during the long breaks between classes, two or three hours at a time, so that by nightfall the farm work could take my attention.
Those rides were simple things—an hour on the road, a drop-off at the curb, and later, a ride home again. Yet in them I felt a closeness I had not expected, a reminder that no matter how many years had passed, I was still their child. And so I count those rides among my sweetest memories. For though the days of youth were long behind me, in their company I found them once more.