In the last few days of summer,
Academic tasks loom large,
And the campus seems deserted.
Frantic chances to recharge,
All the faculty are seizing
As the August moments wane,
Ere the hectic Fall Semester
To our lives returns again.
Then, into this tired transition,
Hope arrives on yonder field:
Hark, the marching band’s crescendo
Causes lassitude to yield!
Suddenly, New Year seems promising;
Bleak mood is overcome,
As the mind and heart still answer
To the call of distant drums.
I wrote these lines last year, before Autumn 2019, when I could not imagine how strange Autumn 2020 would be. However, in finding this non-Twitter poem in a notebook last week, I considered how it represents many traditions that I still value about the fall semester– and that I still indirectly have observed in these early days.
In the last few days of summer, /
Academic tasks loom large, /
And the campus seems deserted.
My college campus in a typical summer break is an interesting place: a great deal of work occurs, but not on an academic term’s timetable. Faculty complete research, travel, and attend conferences, focusing on scholarship rather than classes. In late summer, we return to our main focus of teaching preparation: significant work that often is accomplished more easily from home. The last few days on campus before people officially return are thus particularly empty.
Frantic chances to recharge, /
All the faculty are seizing /
As the August moments wane, /
Ere the hectic Fall Semester /
To our lives returns again.
I am generally aware in late August that my schedule is about to become much busier! Most years (not this one), I take a short trip before required meetings begin, seizing “frantic chances to recharge” in those disappearing days.
Then, into this tired transition, /
Hope arrives on yonder field: /
Hark, the marching band’s crescendo /
Causes lassitude to yield!
In many previous summers, I’ve had a moment when, in wearily traveling to or from my office in the week of meetings before classes, I’ve heard music (from “yonder” football field) and suddenly realized that students must be back on campus for marching band practice. As a musician and former band member, I always notice and appreciate those familiar echoes. The recognition provides an inspiring jolt of energy, “caus[ing] lassitude to yield,” reminding me of the promise of the upcoming semester, rather than the preparations still to finish.
This year, unsure of what would happen with ensembles’ schedules, I was surprised and pleased to hear the late-summer music yet again. Moreover, these moments have continued into the fall term, as many instrumentalists and vocalists practice outside in socially distanced fashion, rehearsing across our main campus.
Suddenly, New Year seems promising;
Bleak mood is overcome, /
As the mind and heart still answer /
To the call of distant drums.
The poem’s last line borrows a phrase from the musical version of Les Misérables: throughout the show, characters anticipate the promise of a better tomorrow and listen for the “distant drums.” This idealism has always resonated for me at the start of a new school year, especially at that moment of hearing the percussion in that first band practice. (I’m hardly the first person to connect these themes with academia; I remember an excellent homage from 2015, starring faculty members at a professional development meeting!)
Over the past few weeks, we have returned to campus in a variety of course spaces. It’s been an unusual experience: remote learning and online discussions in some rooms; social distancing and Plexiglass barriers in others. However, looking past these (“beyond the barricades,” perhaps), many things are consistent: the start of a new academic year; its combination of welcome routines and unwritten pages. The early days of classes still represent enormous promise and heartening constancy in this challenging time; the cadences still sound.
Chemphasis 