Fall has always been signified by the scent of cinnamon buns offset by the brisk, foggy chill of mornings that had no right being disturbed. School and work refused to honor such a system, and so I’d find myself in various places inhaling that morning scent of breakfasts enjoyed by others – in the homes of neighbors as we waited for their kids to join us on the way to school, on the campus of Brandeis, or the streets of Boston as I hurried to work at John Hancock or Structure for my fledging jobs. On this morning, as I heat up a cinnamon roll that Suzie made, I am reminded of the campus walk at Brandeis.
The office of the registrar (and I’m not going to even pretend to know exactly what that is) was not a place I ventured regularly. I can actually only remember one or two times I sat there waiting for something – maybe a copy of my transcript – and I still don’t know for what. The building was relatively near my dorm, and every morning there was a delicious scent coming from within – cinnamon rolls or other sweet pastries – which tantalized and tortured, because even when I went inside there were none to be seen – only their lingering aroma was in evidence.
As I sat there waiting for them to open one day, I wondered what exactly the office did. It feels more familiar to me now, as I seem to be in a similar administrative role in my current job, not directly or concretely working toward the specific task and mission of the agency, but working for the Human Resources side of it, for the administration of procedures that allow an office to operate. Such behind-the-scenes operations were always mysteriously glamorous to me. I understood they were needed to make a university or state office run efficiently, that they were there as a protection of sorts, and they were conduits of executing applicable laws and regulations. I would come to view all Human Resources and Personnel departments in the same way, not knowing or even thinking I would one day join their ranks. For that moment, they were the mysterious gatekeepers, who could stand in the way or grant passage, making life easy or more difficult, and I both despised and admired them for that. I also took all that I was feeing to heart, perhaps having some premonition I would be in a similar position and want the grace and decency to treat others as I wanted to be treated.
But the main thing I remember is the fragrance of those cinnamon rolls, and that became inextricably bound to the start of fall. Brandeis was quiet in the early mornings, and I was one of the rare students who preferred the early classes for precisely that reason. As I traipsed up the hill near the Hassenfeld dorm, I breathed in the cinnamon-tinged air and welcomed the embrace of change, the scary thrill of the unknown. That fall morning memory fades, ducking behind a grove of maple trees with their leaves just starting to change… and another one forms.
