The Eighth Page

The Lawrence Trail

The Friday of finals week at the end of Fall Term will be remembered for many things: some students embarked on their journeys home, others studied for the AP chemistry exam, and some fed their pet lemurs. However I will remember that day for a different reason, a white, powdery reason. Known as El Blanco in traditional Mexican folk tales, snow causes different reactions depending on the person it is affecting. Some folks enjoy snow for amusement purposes, like throwing snowballs and sledding, others anticipate the winter snowfalls in hope of the small chance the higher powers will cancel school for the day. However, since I have long been initiated into the rite of manhood and Phillips Academy hates day students, I no longer have a reason to enjoy this frozen cousin of the raindrop. Hence, aware of our blood feud, the God of Snow decided that last Friday in Fall Term would be the perfect time to strike me down. It happened while I was inside the gym, taking my beloved Japanese final. After a fierce battle, the test finally succumbed to my superior intellect. I handed it in to Shimazu Sensei, who looked a stunning as the first cherry blossoms on my family’s ranch in Hokaido. I stepped outside to find the street was whiter than the skin on my inner thigh. I dashed to my car (affectionately known as the bat-mobile by James McGuinness ’08) and drew my ice scraper out from its rhinestone covered sheath. With the strength and accuracy of the Greek legend Achilles, I beat the snow like an under appreciated Vietnamese circus clown. I opened my trunk to place the battle worn weapon, and to my surprise discovered I had forgotten to untie Tanner Kaufman ’06, who was lying there in the hope he would find his creative genius. I then began my arduous trek to my homeland of Lawrence. The streets were desolate; a lone polar bear crept across the sidewalk. Confused, I looked closer to find out the polar bear was actually Nick Bowen ’06. When I questioned him on why he was wandering the streets aimlessly with a hunk of fur on his back, he responded by urinating on my leg. God bless America. After about two hours of tedious driving, I had finally reached Tower Hill. To my surprise a river about nine feet wide and twelve feet deep had formed at the hill’s base. So I could have: A) Attempt to ford the river B) Remove the wheels and attempt to float across C) Pay an Indian guide to ferry me across for three sets of clothes and a chicken I tried to ford the river, and fortunately only lost two oxen in the process. A beep sound in the dashboard suddenly penetrated my earlobes. I was low on gas. In a last ditch effort, I slammed my foot to the accelerator. The smell of burnt rubber inundated the frosty December air. If something didn’t happen soon, I would end up rolling backwards into the icy river. Suddenly and dark figure emerged and began ramming the back of my car. I turned around. Could it be? Asland, the legendary king of Narnia had finally returned! The mighty lion pushed my car up the hill and into my driveway and released a mighty roar at the top of the hill. When I got out to thank him, he had already left. An eccentric elf then came up me and asked, “Where do you think he is going?” “ Wherever he is needed Andres, wherever he is needed.”