The day was beautiful and we parked our car on University Avenue, walked onto the grassy University Grounds, and sensed a renewed excitement in anticipation of this beautiful and magical place, as we have done so many times in previous years. We walked up the concrete path leading to the Lawn and the Rotunda. The quiet narrow brick walkway on our left appeared, to us both, most beautiful, serene, and inviting as ever. Although aware that I have done so many times before, taking another photograph was something I could not resist.

It felt so good to face Jefferson’s Rotunda again. Each time we visit, I remember the time we came here, joined by my father, when our son Constantine began his first year at the University, and my father and I sat on one of these brick walls in the warm autumn sun and I listened to him tell me how much he was impressed by Constantine. Here Liam and I came again so many times, visiting Constantine during his four years of study. Here Stephen and I came to view Constantine’s Commencement Celebration. Here we have been coming every fall since retirement, just to enjoy our fond memories of years past in the unique beauty of this, to us, most dear place.

Inside the Rotunda everything was shiny under a fresh layer of paint. The glass of the entrance door glistened with startling clarity. At the other end of the Lawn, seen between two of the magnificent and luminous pillars, is Old Cabell Hall. On the sides of the Lawn are rooms awarded to the best students only. (Since our visit was during the summer, only a few students were around.)

At the first landing on the way to the upper level, the same view to the south. This window is above the entrance door.

In the dome room at the top of the stairs. Taking a look at the shelved books, we admired the art of old-time book covers. As we sat, I imagined I could feel some of the inspiration that young students might take in having an opportunity to study in these quiet surroundings, with such heritage all around them.

Toward sunset, we ride on our yearly pilgrimage to Ash Lawn for another opera night in the Highlands.

We wait for the opera to begin. It is to be performed on a small wooden stage in the open under old ash trees surrounding the home of President James Monroe, and we are just a few steps away from the house. This sight has not changed since the modest beginnings of this grand nation, and I feel awe. Just as it might have been back then, the sun is setting on the farm, and cows are calmly munching as darkness falls. They will be at it all night.