Andrea Suozzo's blog
On Monday evening, I asked a friend if she’d stopped by the town meeting in Middlebury.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t feel like I knew enough about what was in the town report.”
After spending most of a day driving through Montana and Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming, we’d turned east out of Grand Teton National Forest in the late afternoon, still with hundreds of miles to go before we stopped for the night.
Miles after the pine trees had vanished, replaced by sandy buttes and scrub brush, the snow-capped peaks still loomed behind us. Their peaks were etched sharply onto the deep blue sky, just like the mountains a small child would draw.
After the final episode of “Lost” aired on ABC Sunday night, three of my viewing companions and I stood around the television staring at each other wordlessly.
We were in a mostly empty Middlebury College campus house that a friend had offered as a viewing location, since none of us had cable at home. The show finished half an hour before the midnight deadline for moving off campus, and once we turned off the television the house was filled with an ear-shattering quiet.
Daniel, who had walked in that day’s graduation ceremony, shook his head.
If you’d asked me what Easter meant when I was younger, I probably would have said that it had something to do with a six-foot-tall rabbit bringing cheap, foil-wrapped chocolate candies in a basket.
I’ve never met a household activity I just couldn’t do.
For example, I excel at opening jars. I’m the one who opens jars when friends are struggling with them. For this skill, I have to thank my mother, who all through my childhood exerted a death grip on jars when she sealed them, giving me ample practice opening them and strong fingers.
On Saturday, when my cousins and I got back from skiing, we plugged my new camera into the computer and watched the videos we’d shot. On the screen, I licked the chairlift to see if my tongue would stick. My cousin Danny rolled his eyes.
“Maybe we should just record everything we do for half of our lives, then spend the other half watching it,” he said.
His comment got me thinking.
I never intended to play Quidditch again. I played one or two games in the first Quidditch World Cup at Middlebury College, back when it was definitely not a “World Cup.”