May first was also my graduation day.  My mother, my father, and all my living grandparents came to Gainesville and stood outside the O’Connell Center in the blazing sun for what seemed like an eternity waiting for the previous commencement ceremony to conclude.  When I was at last allowed to enter the building, sweaty and thirsty, I located my fellow English majors, and stood silently in line waiting to be ushered into the arena.  I didn’t know or even recognize anyone until the ceremony was under way, and even then, of the hundreds of names called that afternoon I recognized only two besides my own.  I had pleasant conversation with the girl sitting next to me.  She, too, was an English major, but her focus was literary theory, and mine was eighteenth- and nineteenth century British literature: our paths never crossed.  I was genuinely proud and happy to be there, and I thought the ceremony itself was dignified. Miriam captured a funny picture of me looking like Sasquatch as I crossed the stage.

After it concluded I gathered my people, and we made our way in several cars to Satchel’s.  I was frustrated by the experience, not because the restaurant was so crowded and the wait was so long; I expected that.  Rather, I was disappointed that Satchel’s made no attempt to reduce the suffering of their waiting patrons.  I knew I wanted one of the rare and desirable deep-dish pizzas–I had even reserved one ahead of time–but they wouldn’t start preparing it until we were seated, even though doing so would have freed a table forty minutes earlier for other patrons.  The lack of any real climate controlled waiting area was hard on my older relatives.  But the food was delicious, and everyone loved it.  Plus, Miriam brought a cake.

That day also marked the first time my mother and grandmother ever saw where I live.  I am sure they loved our home.  Miriam and I set our air conditioning down to seventy-six degrees to make sure everyone was comfortable, and it felt so comfortable that we decided then and there that we’d keep it that way all summer long.  I dubbed this “Summer of Seventy-Six”.

I received some nice graduation gifts: Miriam bought me new sneakers, my Grandma gave me a picture of her with my grandfather taken in the 1940s, and my Grandmom gave me a classy engraved pen.

That’s how summer began.  Just last week I received my diploma in the mail, so it’s official.  And now summer is ending.

We arrived early, and parked in a distant, but cheap, parking lot.  We had to walk five blocks or so, but we saved at least ten dollars, and avoided all the post-game traffic.  We bought tickets at the park this time, and for two extra dollars each, the tickets included lunch.  The folks in the box office must have really been pushing the right field bleachers, because our seats–in Row GG, Section 142–were cramped.  When the end of the second inning rolled around, we opted not to try and squeeze our way back through the crowd, and instead moved to an emptier part of the park, above the Rays’ bullpen.  Those were much better seats.

The game itself got off to a troubling start.  Cleveland scored three runs in the top of the first.  But the Rays came back, and were ahead by the time Wheeler took over for Niemann.  Regrettably, Wheeler blew the lead, and the game stayed tied into extra innings.  The Rays had ample opportunities to go ahead, but they left more than a dozen guys on base through the course of the game.  Finally, in the bottom of the tenth, Bartlett hit a ball into deep right-center field, sending the winning run home.  The Cleveland outfielders didn’t even bother to pick up the ball; they just turned around and walked off the field.  My Dad and I left happy.

Later, I saw that we were on TV: once when we were in our outfield seats, and several times when the cameras focused across the infield.

All in all, a wonderful day halfway through the Summer of Baseball.

So, as I sat with my father on a blanket under the open sky last Saturday night, watching Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band play “Racing in the Street”, I felt like things couldn’t get better.

Sure, it looked like the sky might open up any time and unleash a raging storm.   But aside from a few sprinkles here and there, the weather held out.  And, sure, I was a little worried about how bad our view would be way back on the lawn, but that actually turned out great, too.  And, if $56 per ticket seems expensive, we did get three solid hours–twenty-seven songs–of rock.

Miriam and I met my dad at my Uncle Tom’s apartment in Tampa.  It could not have been more conveniently located.  We ate an early dinner at Longhorn Steakhouse, which was enjoyable and new to me.  We made it to the Florida State Fairgrounds before six o’clock, but they didn’t open the gate for a little while after that.  We weren’t too far back in the line at the gate, but there were still enough people that I was slightly nervous about getting a decent spot on the lawn.  Plus, while were were standing there, the sky, which had spent the earlier part of the day raining, then the afternoon threatening more, began doing just that.  It didn’t last, though, and by the time we reached the grass we were hopeful.  Though there was a mad dash for the closest seats on the lawn, we managed to find a great spot.

As I expected, “Badlands” opened the show, but for the next two songs I was nervous.  Springsteen’s voice was shot.  It wasn’t that he couldn’t sing in tune; he couldn’t sing.  I honestly expected him to call the show off.  But he drank some sort of hot beverage, saying, “I’ll be better in a few songs”. Sure enough, he was.  By the time he got to “Seeds” his voice was strong.  In the request portion of the show, which has become a fixture of the last couple tours, Bruce grabbed just about every sign from the pit.  I saw some fools asking for “Ramrod” and “I’m a Rocker”.  Fools.  I did see someone after my own heart requesting “Drive All Night”, though, of course, we didn’t get it.  What we did get was “Growing Up”, requested by a child in the front row, “All or Nothing at All” which has only been played six times ever, and “Jole Blon” which hasn’t been played since 1981.  So, we did okay, especially considering that a few nights later he played “Ramrod”.

I was hoping to hear some classic songs I had not yet heard live, and I got them, including, in the encore, “Rosalita”.  After “American Land”, I figured the show was over.  But the crowd was so frantic that he busted out “Bobby Jean” and “Dancing in the Dark”, then, finally, “Hungry Heart”.  The place was out of control, and I didn’t think he would try and top it, so we grabbed our blanket and were making our way out when the noise got even louder.  Something was happening on stage that we couldn’t see.  Then we heard Bruce grab the mic and say, “I guess we forgot one”, before the opening strains of “Thunder Road”.  It was incredible.

Still, in a show which included so many highlights (including an enthusiastic version of–of all things–Stephen Foster’s “Hard Times Come Again No More”, which, as you know, is my personal anthem), perhaps the best single performance of the night was an astonishing version of “Johnny 99″.  It turned into a rollicking railroad reel with dueling guitar solos and showboating.  It was thrilling.

Nevertheless, ages and ages hence, when I think back on that night, I’ll most fondly remember hearing “Racing in the Street” while seated on a blanket with my father under the open sky.

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

Christmas Eve was spent in St. Petersburg at Grandma’s house.  She was at church when I arrived, but had made dinner and left it on the counter.  Plus, there were brownies.  When she got home we watched It’s a Wonderful Life.  On Christmas Day we went over to Julie’s.  It was a great time.  I gave Miriam some aluminum plates for her skates.  I gave my dad a book of selected essays of Samuel Johnson, a book which has changed my life.  Grandma gave me a book of photos of me as a child.  Julie gave me a neat personalized stone for the garden.  Miriam gave me the DVD of La fanciulla del West I’ve wanted for a long time with Sherrill Milnes as Jack Rance, and the Penguin Classics edition of Dumas’ Count of Monte Christo I’ve been itching to read.

Today is my sister’s birthday.  I vividly remember many of her childhood birthdays, like one in 1984 when I received a 45RPM record of Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl”.  (It was customary in my family for the non-birthday sibling to be given some small gift to avoid feeling left out.)  I also distinctly recall her 16th birthday, which almost feels like it was yesterday to me, where I think my mom’s enthusiasm exceeded my sister’s.  I know she really, really wanted a car.

So, thinking back this way, where even a quarter of a century can pass in the blink of an eye, the changes wrought by time seem overwhelming.  But if you had asked me at my sister’s tenth birthday party if I thought she’d be a married mother of two in her mid-30s, I’d probably have said I did. 

Happy birthday, Heather.

It was my intention to stop at the Sam Ash store in Clearwater (formerly Thoroughbred Music, a Dana Heritage Project Historic Site), but it was getting too late by the time we reached Tampa to hope we’d make it to that store before it closed at six o’clock. Then I remembered that there was a guitar store or two on Hillborough Avenue in Tampa. I had not traveled down that stretch of US 92 between I-75 and Dale Mabry for well over a decade, and it has changed almost beyond recognition. It was once one of the narrowest four-lane highways in America, with no room whatever for driver error. At six wide lanes with a median, it is now hard to imagine how narrow it once was. The only indication you get is at the bridge crossing the Hillsborough River. While the west-bound lane is a new span, the east-bound lanes still use the old vertical lift bridge I crossed countless times when I was a kid and my dad lived in Seminole Heights.

The Guitar Center is a pretty good store for those looking for new Fenders. I was interested in playing a couple different models, to compare neck finishes and pickups. When I walked in a fellow asked if he could help me find anything. I said, “I’d like to play the ’52 Hot Rod Telecaster through a Twin Reverb. Lo and behold, they were right before my eyes, one atop the other. He gave me a pick, and I tried it out for several minutes before switching to the Deluxe Series Telecaster and finally the American ’52 Reissue. The pickups on the ’52 RI were by far my favorite, with extreme treble. I also really liked the sound and feel of the Deluxe Series Stratocaster, and the beautiful color of the Yngwie Malmsteen Stratocaster. The twenty minutes we spent in Guitar Center were torture to Miriam.

We made it to St. Pete around 6:30, and we treater Marshall and Grandma to dinner at Applebee’s. Our waitress was super nice. I wasn’t sure if I liked the hamburgers at Applebee’s, but it turns out I do. Not as much as Chili’s, but not bad. I couldn’t eat my fries, and we took them home. Back at Grandmas we chatted until after ten o’clock, then went to bed.

On Christmas Eve, Grandma was delighted to receive a series of phone calls, bringing news good and bad, starting with word that my Aunt Julie would be picking my Dad up and bringing him to St. Pete to continue his search for a driveshaft for his BMW. (By yesterday he had found an exact replacement transmission, so he could use his original driveshaft.) We also heard that Uncles Joe and Charlie’s dad had been admitted to the hospital, which is unfortunate. Then Heather called and said she would be coming by later in the day. Indeed she did, and brought Liam and Harper. We hadn’t seen them in two years, and they’re much bigger. Harper enjoyed playing with the same old toys Heather and I had played with when we were children. In the evening, when Grandma went to church, Miriam and went driving around the downtown area of St. Pete, looking at the sites and the lights. We looked at the city from the roof of the Pier. Later that evening we watched It’s a Wonderful Life.

On Christmas morning Grandma gave her gifts to Marshall, Miriam and me. Marshall got a tambourine; Miriam a blanket which Grandma stitched by hand; and I got another selection of old tools that had belonged to my late grandfather and great-grandfather. She even gave me a framed photo of me with my father and grandfather–perhaps one-of-a-kind–but I forgot it when we left on Wednesday. We went to the new home of my cousin Jessica, which is spacious and bright. Plus, she has one of the most beautiful white cats I have ever seen. Back at Grandma’s, I had a great long talk with Dad, then Miriam presented her magnificent eight cheese lasagna, which everyone loved. Grandma showed us the present that Connie and Charlie gave her: two stars named for her and Grandpa.

Wednesday morning I helped Grandma by replacing a light on her car above her license plate. We gave her our old carpet shampooer, and got on the road at about noon. On the way back home, I discovered how the Sam Ash store on McMullen-Booth Road is a pale shadow of its former Thoroughbred Music glory. The weather was warm and nice, but there were many more cars on the road than I would have liked. It makes driving fatiguing. I-75 is becoming increasingly congested day by day, and will soon have far more cars than it can safely accommodate.

We got home around 3:30 and were glad to see Moggie again. A fine Christmas.

It began for me on Wednesday the 21st, when I drove down to St. Petersburg to spend the evening with my grandmother – something I always enjoy. The drive was exceedingly slow due to heavy holiday traffic, which only cleared southbound in Wildwood, where the Turnpike begins. But I arrived in St. Pete eventually, and Grandma and I chatted into the night. I slept comfortably, and, as an added bonus, my cousin Marshall–who is presently living with my grandmother–has an Arctic White Fender Stratocaster.

Grandma and I chatted away Thanksgiving morning, and eventually made our way to my Aunt Julie’s new house in Pinellas Park, which was actually quite a nice place, with a huge back yard and a garage tailor made for Thanksgiving dinners. Of course, it is a custom in my family to sing a hymn in lieu of a spoken prayer, and this year was no different. One of these days we ought to make a recording of it, so that ages hence we’ll remember what it was to spend Thanksgiving at a Hill household.

Uncle Tom, Dad and I gathered around and flipped through Connie and Charlie’s scrapbooks of their roadtrip down Route 66. Miriam would have enjoyed that. But before too long I had to make a road trip of my own, back to Gainesville to spend what was left of the holiday with Mrs. Hill, and help her organize our own Post-Thanksgiving in what ever way I could. The drive back was considerably less congested, and in the absence of traffic, I enjoyed crossing the Howard Frankland Bridge, speeding through Tampa, and passing a favorite old landmark. I even made a short detour as part of the Dana Heritage Project, which I will detail in a future post.

Our premiere Post-Thanksgiving was to have been a happy gathering of combined families, an idea Mrs. Hill had, and she pulled off something remarkable, bringing together over a dozen people whom otherwise would have had no home-cooked meal. Unfortunately, my grandmother fell ill, and my mother had to work, so their absences were felt. But the food was delicious, and Miriam’s efforts were super-human.

My father bravely drove alone in his 1983 BMW 320i, which he loves. But the sudden death of his transmission at the Newberry Road exit spelled the end of his car’s journey under its own power. After some confusion regarding his exact whereabouts–I thought he was at the Red Lobster, when, in fact, he was on the Interstate off-ramp–I met up with him, and we got his car to a safe location in the Borders parking lot and made our way home for dinner. But we had to leave early to take advantage of the little remaining daylight, and attempted an on-location repair with no success. An improvised tool proved ineffectual, and the appropriate-but-pricey Craftsman version was too large to fit in the limited space beneath the car. While I was in Ocala photographing a wedding the following day, Dad worked more on the car, only to come to the conclusion that repair was likely impossible. Sunday the 25th was spent arranging for the BMW to be transported back to Pasco County. The best solution we could find was a trailer attached to a U-Haul. It worked fine, and the fellow at the Gainesville U-Haul even gave us a deal. So, U-Haul is hereby removed from the Axis of Evil.

My father’s automotive calamity was an unexpected expense and frustration for him, I know. On the other hand, I was able to spend more time with him than I had in a decade. And you can’t put a price on that.