Provided that I remember to pay my lingering library fines, I will graduate from the University of Wisconsin in just a few days, making this my final column for The Badger Herald. As I'm sure many almost-alumni feel, graduation brings mixed sentiments, such as excitement tempered by separation anxiety. After all, the smiling faces in the UW pamphlets and viewbooks don't lie. Undergraduate life offers all the thrill of these pictures, though usually in a less photogenic way. With this in mind, I've been trying to squeeze as much enjoyment as possible out of the waning weeks, and I have been paying visits to some of the more meaningful haunts.

I find myself wondering: What is it that has made UW such a memorable place to live and learn? Is it the stellar faculty and intimidating assortment of courses? Can it be the din of a well-quaffed student section at Camp Randall? Or a toasty tavern gathering? A jaunt from Regent Street to the Capitol Square? Footballs and Frisbees?

Well, all of the above can enrich the campus experience, and there is something universal about them. Yet somehow, none of these would matter quite as much if not for the special little corners and crannies that are peppered across the campus and nearby environs. There are no signs to denote them. There is no consensus on their excellence. You will probably not find them featured on the glossy pages of any UW publications.

The places that I am talking about are the alcoves, attics, vistas and unsung locales that strike a chord with us as individuals and help to make the expanse of the UW feel welcoming. Whether far-flung or in the hub of campus, these places help us take possession of our school. We feel as though we belong to UW, and that UW belongs to us.

While we are students, we should not feel as though we are merely "passing through." This is true whether you are from Hayward or Pittsburgh. You can seek these spots out or you can stumble across them; they will tether you to this city and make the time spent here that much more indelible.

I can only speak from experience. For instance, what better to lift your spirits than to come across a monstrous, gigantic Japanese sea crab on the walls of Birge Hall? Anyone seeing it for the first time will naturally recall the countless crustacean-horror films watched as a child. Better to encounter this taxidermal glory in a glass display case than on the beach!

What can be more weirdly thrilling for an undergraduate than to lurk about the fusty, cob-webbed crevices of Memorial Library's North Stacks, surely enjoying communion with the itinerant ghosts of students long dead?

Or, on a more serious note, how fascinating it is to come across something like the little-known memorial to the Lincoln Brigade in front of James Madison Park. Taking the name of that president, the Lincoln Brigade consisted mostly of American communists who fought fascism in the Spanish Civil War. The names of the brigadiers from Wisconsin are listed on a stone next to an old church.

There is no limit to these evocative, peculiar, special places.

Years from now, when I reflect on my time spent here, of course I will think of the football games, the terrace and Bascom Hill. But alongside the thoughts of these famed locales will be recollections that I can call my own and that few others can understand.

I will know that although I shared the campus with thousands of others, I experienced it in a way that no one else did.

Frank Hennick ([email protected]) is a senior majoring in History, Alchemy and International Studies.