Blegen Hall houses various classes for the social sciences and humanities, though I will always associate it with Anthropology, my intellectual awakening and principal course of study. The artifact and bone labs occupy the uppermost levels, which leave a lingering scent of sawdust and a greasiness that only comes from thousands, or maybe even millions (particularly after a hard-won grant), of years of age. It smells like academia. It smells like golden youth. It smells like home.
On the main walk outside of Blegen, trees flank the sidewalk to funnel students into the main entrance. In the spring and summer the treetops mesh to form a refreshing and green respite from the sun. Spidery fingers rake the winter sky, not unlike students reaching for heavenly salvation during finals week. However, it is autumn that wears the crown. The spindly tree trunks glow dark ebony and eventually erupt into a gilded cloud, merging the majesty of nature and knowledge as lettered minds pass through to Blegen.
I recall admiring these trees after finally being back on campus in the fall after being a complete slug that past summer. The next day I walked to Blegen, but instead of looking solely at the trees, I also looked down. My shiny black riding boots mimicked the tree trunks before me, and my ruffly golden top fluttered like the leaves above me.
I too had merged.