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A Page from
Jeanette’s Journal
“My Commute”
In response to Walt Whitman’s “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”
My commute is a short 2 ½ mile
trek between Sharpsburg and Shepherdstown, over the W.Va.-MD bridge on
the Potomac, down High Street, and into the faculty parking lot. I have
reflected many times on this journey, but that is not the one I wish to
discuss yet. When I was in college here at Shepherd – back when it was a college
– I lived on the west
side of campus. My homes were various, including Shaw Hall, Miller Hall,
and Westwoods, but my sometimes twice daily journey was always the same.
I would leave my dorm and end up at the south end of Miller Hall. Here I
waited on the corner until the cars slowed down and I crossed onto High
Street. This was the part of my “commute” that I want to tell you about.
Although it occurred last in May of 1993, that walk holds fast in my mind
and my heart. I took that walk in all seasons of the year; during fall
days when the leaves were colored so warm and richly, in the winter when
the brisk air chilled me so that it hurt in the marrow of my bones, in
the spring when the cheery daffodils and the pale blushing tulips waved
their heads from their beds, and in the heat of summer when it was a joy
to walk this route just to hide from the sun in the cool shade of the trees
that lined the street. I especially remember my freshman year, walking
with a good friend through the autumn leaves and stopping to see if we
could locate the squirrel chattering in the tree above us as he gathered
his winter store. The passage was always the same; cross the road and
follow the uneven brick sidewalk past the neat row of houses lining the
left side of the street. Sometimes an acquaintance would call to me as he
passed in his car on the road. Many times there were squirrels chatting
above me and darting back and forth across my way. A few times I met
local cats and the town dogs, and even once or twice, a rabbit peeked out
among the grass. Mostly there were just students passing and nodding on
their travels to and from class. Very few times did I ever think about
those who took this excursion before me; never can I remember thinking of
who would come after, although the path ended at the Shepherd College
Nursery School.
I don’t walk that way anymore.
I found myself far from this home for many years. Now, I am back, and I
do drive this passage three or more times a week. As Whitman did, I
presently think of that walk I used to take regularly. I think of the
students I saw following the same path, my path, and I wonder about the
future that will tread upon these uneven bricks. I realize now that we
are all connected. We have shared equivalent thoughts, participated in
unified emotions, wandered upon these irregular stone pathways just as
our children will in imminent lives to follow. We have “Play’d the part
that still looks back on the actor or actress, The same old role, the
role that is what we make it, as great as we like, Or as small as we
like, or both great and small.”
There is a belonging. We belong
to this path and it to us. We have put our mark on these lofty trees, the
worn bricks, the men, women, and children that dwell in the houses. The
crossing has also left its indelible stamp on each of us that have walked
this way. We are touched through our senses, by our memories, and in our
hearts. It has been thirteen years since I have made this routine journey
on foot. I don’t seem to notice as much about it as I used to now that I
travel it in my truck. I do think about it quite often though. Excuse me,
I think it’s time that I go and take a walk. I know just the route to
take.
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