I begin down the long flat stretch of pavement on this February afternoon, I first pass through a residential section that can only be described as nondescript. Clapboard houses in desperate need of fresh paint sit idly by the side of the road, rusty shovels on porches, discarded toys half-buried in the snow-covered yard, and blue lights of televisions flickering through unshuttered windows. Perched on cement blocks in one driveway is an aging skidoo, a prized possession; if only the owner could pay the $3.89 per gallon to get it running and had a job at which to brag about it to his co-workers.
The hill simply screams, “you’re not welcome.” The incline separating North Street from Colby’s campus is the kind of hill that meets a person head-on. It warns; it dares; it all but orders, “turn around and go back where you came from.” This route is only for those who feel that it is, for one reason or another, appropriate for them to enter Colby’s campus. Once on campus, it’s evident that this is a place of learning.
As I drive along the stretch of Mayflower Hill Drive on this winter afternoon, I can’t help but think however that there may be even more to be learned back down on North Street. There are lessons to be learned from the families sitting down to dinner, wishing that they could—for once—eat something other than microwaveable TV dinners. Lessons to be learned from the men putting their rusty shovels to work, hoping to clear the snow so they can leave for work by the time the sun comes up. There are even lessons to be learned from the single father in the clapboard house who, as he puts his daughter to bed, watches the Colby Jitney pass by his bare, unshuttered window, heading up the hill.
http://youtu.be/05Ixm0_BqNk