If cherubs has taught me anything, it is to be flexible, from uncooperative sources, to changing plans at the very last possible moment. Journalism, and indeed life require an ability to change as quickly as the weather. And remember- if you don’t like the weather in Evanston, wait five minutes for it to change. You won’t be disappointed for long.

After a quick-witted lecture from John Kupetz, the cherubs were ready to descend upon Evanston for their descriptive writing assignment. Three hundred words in three hours seemed like a slow pace, after the all-day story just a few days earlier, and this time, the reporting seemed easy enough.

One catch: it was raining. I repeat: raining. It was the sort of slow drizzle that soaks everything without you really noticing.  As someone who lives in a desert where rain comes in short powerful busts that result in a yearly total of eight inches, this slow deluge was certainly foreign.

After I finished reporting for my descriptive writing assignment, I returned to campus with a few of my fellow cherubs. At the entrance of Fisk, we got the news.

“The power’s out. You’ll have to handwrite. Go back to Jones.”

To me this was the kiss of death. As my third grade teacher told me “You can’t spell your way out of a paper bag.” It’s true. My brain just sort of sees the whole word, not the individual letters.

When we got to Jones, the fire department had already arrived, attempting to extricate a custodian who had gotten stuck in the Jones Elevator. We decided to sit in the foyer, a space which had just enough light to see our papers.

By this time in the program, I only knew one of the people who stayed with me in the foyer, but we were quick to learn each other’s names, and commiserate over our rain-soaked misery. Luckily, my new-found friends had the two things I needed to finish my story: a dictionary and a plethora of writing implements. Spelling is an outdated skill, so long as you can alphabetize.

Eventually a group instructors arrived and informed us that the power in the cafeteria was still out. They instructed us to go to Allison hall, and to use our campus maps to guide us there. Fine. We survived the all-day story. We survived the walk to the Fourth of July parade. This can’t be any worse.

Wrong. First-we didn’t plan on it pouring. I mean really pouring. This style of rain, more like a New Mexican monsoon, rendered umbrellas totally useless.

As for our map-reading skills, I must say that there is a reason we are journalists and not sailors or pilots.

We ended up totally soaked, standing under the awning at the Bursar’s office, totally confused as to where we should be. So, as every good cherub does when in distress, we called Roger Boye.

Roger had already made it to Allison, and could barely hear himself think among the hundreds of transplanted summer students. After several unsuccessful tries, we managed to tell Roger where we were, and he came quickly to the rescue. He led us to Allison, trudging through the puddles.

I must say, that even though Allison food is just the same as Hinman, I have never been so grateful for a warm meal with friends.