Cady Rombach
Editorial Staff
Cady is a third year majoring in Media Studies and minoring in Health and Wellbeing. Her time is usually spent showing off photos of her dogs like a beaming mother, listening to music that's way too good to sing along to (but doing so anyway), or trying to think of that one word for that one thing... Solving crossword puzzles and smelling flowers are some of the little joys she finds in life.
February 25, 2021
Art by Kim Salac
There is an urban legend that, as a boy, George Washington damaged his father’s prized cherry tree with a hatchet. Upset, George’s father confronted him directly. As the story goes, young George replied, “I cannot tell a lie.” He confessed to chopping the tree.
Each time I hear that story, I picture the cherry tree in the front yard of my childhood home. Situated in the corner of a busy garden, the tree grew with me through the years. And, as they fell, its dainty petals graced the grass I grew up in. To me, the cherry tree represents comfort. So, I could never help but ask myself...
November 20, 2020
Art by Kim Salac
As this year’s November calendar page curls toward a smudged and wrinkled 26th square, I’m reminded of Thanksgiving day. With a continued pandemic preventing many of the traditions that seem to define this Day of Overeating, I’ve found myself fondly considering the holiday’s less celebrated routines.
In my family, for example, it’s tradition to bake pumpkin pie from the same recipe each year. The final product is a pie rich in the warmth of cloves and cinnamon, with a flaky homemade crust that melts in your mouth beneath a smothering — no more, no less — of whipped cream. Somewhere...
October 29, 2020
Art by Kim Salac
Sometimes, life ebbs and flows. The “yay”s have their time, and the “uh oh”s steadily creep in uninvited. Other times, though, life flies out of nowhere, lands on your windshield, and cracks it down the center.
Last week, I left home for Charlottesville. It was a misty morning, but with a synchronous class on the horizon, I put my trust in fog lights and the warmth of daybreak, then went on my way. I moved steadily through a thick haze, past blurry creek beds speckled with reds and browns in the leaves of thirsty sycamores and the manes of nearby horses.
Then, after miles of...
October 15, 2020
Art by Kim Salac
Do you talk to yourself? I do, every day. If I had a text conversation with my own mind, it’d always be at the top of my iMessage list. I’d never thought about it, really, until the idea of the internal monologue began making headlines and, subsequently, making its way into many of my (interpersonal) conversations. When it came up over a recent family meal, I was shocked to learn that this...
October 01, 2020
Art by Kim Salac
When someone asks, “How are you?” what do you say? Maybe you bare your soul, laying out your triumphs and trials to a perfect stranger. Maybe you brush past every mishap, replying with only the highlight of your day. Or, if you’re like me, perhaps you rely on an old standby. If “How are you?” is Pavlov, I am its dog. Over many years, my people-pleaser brain has trained me to err on the side of politeness, and avoid at all costs any action that might be overbearing. So, my response is simple, tried, and true: “good.”
“Good” gets me through sidewalk encounters with flying colors, not...
September 16, 2020
There’s something unsettling about sleeping in a hotel. Maybe it’s the clicking of the air conditioner, which hums in a rhythm unfamiliar and strange, then conjures you from sleep at 1:30 a.m. Or maybe it’s the car horns and sirens blaring in the distance, raising questions in the minds of those who, with blurry vision and heavy limbs, wish they were already asleep. What’s happening out there? Won’t it calm down? Will it ever?
It seems that in January, we walked into the hotel room and swung open the door with anticipation. Around February, we settled in for the night, and...
March 04, 2020
Art by Kirsten Hemrich
In hindsight, it probably smelled like burnt rubber early on. We were jet-lagged, though, and wet from splashing in the Irish Atlantic, so our senses were dulled. I leaned my head against the cool window of the van, focusing my eyes in and out on the water droplets that clung to its surface. The sky was, like usual, cloudy, and the air was chilled with the misty remnants of that afternoon’s rain shower. In the blur behind the window droplets, kelly green painted every grassy space from sidewalk cracks to the pastoral hills beyond. The color was concentrated beyond belief, like a streak of...
February 12, 2020
Art by Kirsten Hemrich
In this February season of saccharine serenades and pink paper hearts, the term “love language” seems to pop up everywhere. Just as banner ads dare you to discover your own love language through quizzes, media organizations dissect the theory in articles about millennial dating. I’ve taken time to consider what my own love language might be. After all, it wouldn’t be Valentine’s Day without chocolate, candy grams, and existential contemplation. Prompted by the seasonal disappointment of tasteless candy hearts and their robotically-written, HUG MEs, I finally reached a conclusion. At...
November 14, 2019
Art by Kirsten Hemrich
I’ve never really felt ashamed to sing. My mom sang to me as a kid, and I remember quietly humming along to her rendition of "She’ll Be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain” nightly. Alongside her soothing voice, I lullabied myself to sleep. I have the same habit as my mom, singing mindlessly while doing various tasks. Even after my siblings and I have all grown up and passed the nursery rhyme phase, it’s never a surprise to hear my mom singing while she’s washing dishes, grading papers, driving, cleaning, or walking the dogs. Loud and proud or through a gentle hum, I’ve never known my mother to...
October 24, 2019
Art by Kirsten Hemrich
As October rolls into motion at UVA, I’m reminded of all the reasons my heart soars when the seasonal clock strikes fall. Yellow leaves on Rugby Road outline the branches they dare to escape from, and Lawn rooms stacked with firewood hint at wiggling toes against crackling fireplaces. The air tastes fresh like bus stop breaths on elementary school mornings and feels crisp like a farmer’s market apple. I’ve always been partial to fall. If the seasons were cups of porridge, I think it’s safe to say that even Goldilocks would be satisfied with autumn. Not too hot, not too cold, but just right...