Wednesday, July 20, 2011

The heat sets in.

It’s my first summer in Iowa, and I imagined a brisk summer like those spent in Seattle as a child-- pulling plums from a tree in the backyard and regretting the decision to wear shorts. Instead, we subsist in what has been dubbed ‘corn growing weather.’ The Iowa City Bank sign illuminates red digits. One, zero, seven. I didn’t think it possible outside the southwest. The humidity knocks you back, down, and rolls you around on the ground.

I run into Liz and Sydney in the writing center. I think we all escape to Peterson to find a little quiet in the nearly-empty basement. With the exception of a few glass research students, our little niche is cool and silent. The coffee supply has dwindled to only decaf, but it doesn’t seem to matter. We complain to one another about the systems migration. F-drives and I-drives don’t work. Or maybe they do. Everyone laments lost progress and class assignments. My honors composition portfolio is gone, but then again, maybe my prose isn’t as good as I recall. The summer is rattling its last few breaths; classes start in a week and a month - Emily

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Watching the books pile up and hankering for a cup of writing center coffee

Dr. Bob’s books for his latest nature-writing course cascade from his mailbox-- the one across from cherry auditorium. Unwrapping book after book, almost exclusively the Best American Science and Nature Writing 2005, I found myself hankering for a pot o’ Joe. Not just any, but the writing center’s own special brew, black. It’s the middle of summer and nothing will cut it. No coffee roasters around or mysterious burlap bags filled with green coffee beans arriving. I can’t help but miss walking into Peterson and being accosted by what smells like hot pencil shavings, knowing that there would be a fresh cup waiting for me downstairs.

- Emily