Consider the popular image of the ship as a floating palace, with opulent ballrooms, elegant dining halls, grand staircases, and vast promenades, where passengers of different classes were kept separate, and where your class largely determined whether you survived the voyage. Almost all of the first-class female passengers survived, while many, if not most, of the female third-class passengers perished. Consider the spirit of hubris and optimism that caused its builders to provide lifeboat capacity for fewer than half the passengers under the best-case scenario. Given that some lifeboats were launched with as few as a dozen passengers, the picture becomes much more bleak. The same irresponsible forces were at play in other disasters of the era. The Iroquois Theatre fire comes to mind.

Titanic fascinates us because, in some ways, it stands as a metaphor for nineteenth century society. Beneath the ship’s splendid exterior were men and machinery, making it all work. And the photographs of elegantly-dressed passengers amid the splendor of Titanic’s luxurious rooms belie the tremendous danger that all were in, though they didn’t know it. Plus, shipwrecks are just fascinating in general. In 1750 Samuel Johnson wrote that “almost all the fictions of the last age will vanish, if you deprive them of a hermit and a wood, a battle and a shipwreck”. Shipwrecks make for good stories, and, as it has been commonly observed that nothing is more dramatic than real life.

I remember reading or hearing about Titanic when I was a small child. But I recall being spellbound when, in the mid-1980s, the wreck was located. National Geographic made a television special about the discovery, and I watched it with tremendous interest. They showed images of the wreck at the bottom of the sea, and it was like seeing a ghost. The ship’s bell, its wheel, the rail above the bow – it all astonished me.

Ten years after Titanic was rediscovered, I had largely forgotten about it. I mean, if I was asked a Jeopardy question about it I am sure I would have answered correctly, but I didn’t think about it often. So, when the film Titanic was released in 1997, I didn’t really care. All my friends went to see it. We refered to it as “Crytanic”. Mostly I just thought Leonardo DiCaprio seemed like a terrible over-actor. Then, in 1998 or 1999, I went to see the band NRBQ play a show in Tampa. They played a song that sounded made up on-the-spot, but that I remember to this day. It was a sort of list of all the stuff that was making headlines—indeed, the stories that wouldn’t go away—at that time. Prominently mentioned were “el Niño”, “Year 2000 Computer Disaster”, and, of course, Titanic. The verse went like so:

That was a pretty accurate summation of public consciousness at the time.

I did eventually see the film, and my opinion of Mr. DiCaprio’s performance was confirmed. But Kate Winslet was fair of face, and the story was gripping. Friday night we went on a double date with a lovely couple, Michael and Mandy, and we saw Titanic in its newly-engineered 3D format. (I will say, for the record, that I do not like 3D movies. It never looks like real life because photography itself cannot mimic what the eye sees. That is, 3D films rely on a standard formula of shallow depth-of-field and selective focus. The director chooses an object in the frame to focus on, and the rest goes totally soft from the wide aperture. Often, he will adjust focus so that the a new object becomes the subject, while the other goes soft. Granted, our eyes do this all the time, but they do it instantly.  What the human eye can accomplish the lens cannot, and, too often, the 3D film looks like a Viewmaster slide.) Though it was not originally shot in 3D, the transfer was skilfully handled, by which I mean it was not obnoxiously done, with silly gimmicks, like chunks of iceberg seeming to fly out of the screen. With so many distant-perspective shots in Titanic, it seems like a logical choice to give it a go, and I admit it could have been a lot worse. My opinion of Leonardo DiCaprio has not changed. Why does he always seem like he’s acting in a high school play? And while Kate Winslet remains beautiful, I did not realize before that her character is supposed to be seventeen. I was not convinced. Though I still found the story compelling, many of the special effects look awful. I have criticized CGI for years, and in spite of substantial improvements in computer technology, CGI still does not look as good as traditional special effects with models. Nearly every film I have seen that uses a considerable amount of CGI has disappointed me. Both Incredible Hulk-inspired films looked terrible. Gollum in the Lord of the Rings films looked fake. Not quite Elliott in Pete’s Dragon fake, but close. And last night we watched Rise of the Planet of the Apes and it looked so cartoonish that I couldn’t decide which was worse, the special effects or the story. Both were nearly unwatchable. I am not exaggerating when I say that Dr. Zaius looked far more realistic in 1968 than Caesar did in 2011. The Titanic filmmakers used lots of models, and those look great. But the CGI effects, especially long sweeping shots of the ship’s deck and surroundings, look cartoonish. Indeed, in several instances, the computer-generated passengers walking along the decks looked like a video game. Grand Theft Auto: Titanic. Considering the film’s budget, that is disappointing. They would have done better to build a model on a set and use cranes to shoot it.

All that said, we had a splendid time with Mandy and Michael, and the sinking of Titanic is still fascinating, even a century after it happened.

We had stopped for food in North Carolina somewhere, and filled up with gas at least once. We were about halfway through South Carolina when I heard a rhythmic beating. At first I thought I was riding over a damaged portion of road. Then I felt the steering fail, and I knew at once it was the right front tire. Fortunately, I was in the right lane, and could get off the road without too much trouble. I pulled as far off as I could while still keeping the flat tire on the asphalt.

Now, I am, of course, perfectly capable of changing a tire. But it was pitch black outside—the Milky Way Galaxy was easily visible—and we were on the side of one of the nation’s busiest highways, and since Kaitlyn is a member of whatever the Canadian version of AAA is and offered to call them, we decided to just wait for assistance. South Carolina is so boring that we hadn’t been paying attention to where we were exactly. Fortunately, our phones have GPS, so I could see that we were about halfway between Highway 78 and Highway 61. Kaitlyn gave the information to the operator, and we were told we’d have help within the hour. So, we just stepped off into the brush by the side of the road and waited it out. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t raining, and we weren’t anywhere otherwise dangerous.

An hour passed and no assistance appeared. Then my phone rang. The service guy was totally wrong about where we were. He didn’t even know we were on the Interstate. I knew the dispatcher told him correctly, because she repeated what we told her verbatim. Then the service called us back: “You’re on 95 south between 61 and 62, right?” No! So I told him again, and he once again told me it would be twenty minutes.

After much longer than twenty minutes he arrived. He started digging around his truck for his jack, and when he found it he put it under the Volkswagen. But he couldn’t get it to go up. I told him that I had a jack, but he kept fooling around with his. He clearly wasn’t going to get it to work, so he starting screwing around with two bottle jacks, but couldn’t get those to work, either. Finally, I reminded him that I had a jack. He used it, and of course it worked. But he jacked up the car before loosening the lug nuts.

When he put the spare tire on, I asked him if he could inflate it, because it had been in the trunk so long and I was sure it had lost some pressure. “Sure”, he said. He had a compressor in the truck. But his compressor didn’t work, so, no, he couldn’t inflate the tire. Once the tire was on, and I walked around to the driver’s side door to get in, he was peeling out. I knew that was a bad sign, because the hazard lights had been on for hours. Of course the car wouldn’t start.

I immediately called the guy, and he said he would come back.

When he got back to us, he tried to pull his truck around, but he got stuck in the mud. I was not at all surprised. Canada, who has a great deal of experience getting out of tough situations in trucks offered to help him out. Once he had us jumped I pleaded with him to wait for us to get underway, and follow us to the next exit.

There, we filled the tire, got some snacks, and were back on our way to Gainesville. Alas, instead of arriving before midnight, we got home closer to 3:30AM.

It was a crummy experience, but Miriam and I were both happy to have Kaitlyn with us. Her personality calms everyone down. Her signature phrase is “no worries”.

We traveled with our friend Kaitlyn, who we call “Canada”. We started later than we would have wished, but we all had last-minute errands that prevented us from departing at the ten o’clock hour we had agreed to the night before during a game of charades we played at the house Canada shares with another of our friends, Leslie.  We stopped briefly for food in Starke, then ignored our hunger until we reached South Carolina. From there we drove on, through North Carolina and southern Virginia, arriving in Richmond some time around midnight.  We had booked two nights at a bed and breakfast in the heart of the city, but our check-in there was not scheduled until the following afternoon, so, while on the road, Miriam booked us into the Holiday Inn next to Richmond International Airport. The Holiday Inn, as it turned out, was right next door to a hotel where Miriam and I stayed the year before on a trip to Washington.

The next morning we headed into the city so Miriam and Canada could meet up with Kat and the other bridesmaids for a lunch. While we stood in front of the restaurant on Harrison Street, we watched a driver attempting to park grind the side of his car against a steel post, reverse, then repeat the process. We gestured to him repeatedly in warning, to no avail.

While the ladies enjoyed their lunch, I explored a nearby city park. Monroe Park is handsome, with large, old trees, which, at the time, were in various stages of leaf-loss. Some were bare, some were orange or yellow, and still others, like the magnolias and conifers, were green. A sign informed me that Monroe Park, formerly Western Square, was home to the Virginia state fair in the 1850s, a Confederate hospital in 1864, and the site of the city’s first baseball games in 1866. Along Laurel Street, which forms the western boundry of the park, stand two impressive structures: the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart, and the Landmark Theater. All through the neighborhood, Virginia Commonwealth University occupies old magnificent row houses. The variety of styles of the houses—built during the 1870s and 1880s, after Richmond was burned to the ground—is marvelous.

When I rejoined Miriam and Kaitlyn, we proceeded to our hotel, a lovely bed-and-breakfast on the corner of Grace and Meadow. The Grace Manor Inn, though once a boarding house, still posesses all its original ornate details, from the pocket doors to the fireplaces. And it is clear that this house was built for a very wealthy family, since those details are the fanciest of fancy. It isn’t simply that the rooms have crown molding, it is that those moldings are elaborately sculpted in a way that today could hardly be duplicated, but even at the time must have cost a fortune. Outside was a lovely garden, with a fountain and a sculpture, a greenhouse and a pool. We crossed our fingers that the pool might be heated, but alas, it was freezing cold. Still, we found the parking situation—a small private lot along the back alley—very convenient. Many an urban hotel charges extra for parking.

Kat and Harris were booked in a suite upstairs, but Canada, Miriam, and I were staying in the carriage house, which, as its name suggests, is an apartment above the garage that would have onced housed the family’s carriage. The operators of the Grace Manor Inn have decorated the carriage house in a conspicuously modern style, which, if a bit lackluster compared to the main house, still proved very functional. Indeed, the carriage house was extraordinarily generous in its amenities: a huge bedroom with attached bathroom, a living room with a couch and chair, and a large dining room and kitchen area complete with a washer and dryer. Kaitlyn had a small futon to sleep on, and Miriam and I had a huge bed – a bed, in fact, that was familiar to us, since we have the same one at home.

Friday evening Miriam was scheduled to attend the wedding rehearsal. That left Canada and me with some time to kill. She was looking to get an outfit to wear for the occasion, so we got in the car and headed to a neighborhood called Carytown, so-called because it is centered around Cary Street. This is, from what I could tell, a fashionable district, with many antiques shops and vintage clothing stores. And when I say vintage, in a couple cases I really mean vintage. I had been a little miffed that, in one “vintage” shop we went the day before, most of the clothing was from no earlier than the late 1990s, and virtually none of it was from the 1980s or before. But in Carytown we found a shop with racks of clothes from the 1940s through 1960s. If one were looking to procure costumes for a play set against the backdrop of the Second World War, head to Carytown. Meanwhile, Canada was looking for pants, and I was looking for a black belt to wear with my suit. I found one at a shop with the humorously unpretentious name, “Need Supply Company”. I quickly found a made in USA black belt, but I also found tables covered in the finest looking blue jeans I ever saw in my life. I cannot exaggerate how good these pants looked. And the quality looked to be extraordinary. The tags proclaimed them to be “CRAFTED by JEANSMITHS in NORTH CAROLINA” by the Raleigh Denim Company, which, of course, pleased me. I would surely have bought several, but the price per pair was around $200. But I had the belt I needed, and Kaitlyn and I continued down Cary Street. We dipped in a shoe store, which isn’t normally my thing, but they had a whole wall of New Balance, which is my preferred sneaker these days, having become familiar with their extraordinary comfort. The pair of New Balance I have been wearing for a while now are an attractive gray color, and quite casual, with none of the clutter one often sees on New Balance sneakers designed primarily for runners. This store, West Coast Kix, had a pair remarkably similar to the ones I was wearing. Unfortunately, they were not made in USA like my current pair. But they were made in England, and that’s good enough for me, so I bought them. Canada found some pants, and we made our way back to the hotel to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.

Big dinners have always made me a tad uncomfortable. For one, I don’t like meeting new people. And, of course, my discriminating taste makes many restaurants unappealing to me. When Kaitlyn and I arrived at Mekong Restaurant, on West Broad Street, we were a few minutes late. I spotted a long table with at least thirty people, and I assumed that was our party, but I lamented that I’d be squeezed in next to nobody I knew. I really didn’t recognize anyone. But that’s because it wasn’t our party. Ours was in a separate room, with several large round tables. I spied Harris, and gathered that the bridal party was not yet present. So we just chatted until they arrived, then took our seats. Happily, my table was inhabited by people I knew, or—in the case of Harris’s lovely sister and our dear friend Laura’s long-time boyfriend—had recently met. So we all had a fine time chatting and catching up. Amy, a psychologist and former Gainesville Roller Rebel, moved to Nashville some time ago to start her own practice and we had not seen her since. Laura (who, you may recall, has knitted me a fabulous cap, accompanied me to baseball games, gone with us to Disney World, and, in general, spent countless evenings watching television on our couch), moved to Providence last summer to work at Brown University, and has been sorely missed. Her boyfriend, who I had heard about for years, is a splendid fellow with a wonderful sense of humor. He kept me laughing constantly. Meanwhile, dinner guests made toast after toast to the couple, and we all enjoyed ice cream cake. Dinner ended quite late.

On Saturday morning, Kat and Harris, Kaitlyn, Miriam, and I all met downstairs for breakfast in the very fancy dining room at Grace Manor Inn. The meal consisted of several courses, concluding with a dessert. In fact, such a breakfast was served both mornings of our stay. Saturday, though, we were joined by Mel, another friend and Gainesville Roller Rebel who is a professional hairdresser. She had come all the way to Virginia to attend the wedding and do hair for Kat and her bridesmaids.

After breakfast, Miriam was occupied with wedding stuff, so Kaitlyn and I went on another quest: to get her some shoes, and me some bottled water. (We had set the thermostat too high the night before, and I felt like I was going to burst into flames all night, and it left me so thirsty.) Canada used the GPS on my phone to get us to a shopping center out in a suburban area of Richmond, and there we got all our errands done in one shopping center. Laura, who was doing bridesmaid stuff, had asked if Canda and I could pick up her boyfriend from his downtown hotel on our way to the ceremony. Kaitlyn, once again, used my phone to guide us there, navigating the many one-way streets.

We headed to Maymont Gardens, which is a large park on the north side of the James River. It is a beautiful place, even in late autumn. As you see in this photograph, Maymont has a stunning Ginkgo tree. We found Mel and her husband Cory when we arrived, and we walked around a while admiring the structures and the scenery before taking a tram on a fun ride to the site of the ceremony, beneath a rocky cliff, in front of a brook. The place looked rather like the Shire. A string quartet was playing when we reached the wedding site, and guests were standing about. We saw Harris, too, chatting with friends and family. I know the nervousness that plagues grooms as they await the appearance of their brides, and, after a while I noticed Harris was standing all by himself, looking terrified. He told me later he was alright, but he sure looked scared. Miriam, Laura, and Amy were in the bridal party, but Laura’s boyfriend, Mel and Cory, Kaitlyn, and Shannon Sisco, and I were all just there to watch.

Before Kat appeared in the arm of her father, we had seen some punk teens wandering around the rocks behind the wedding site. In fact, all of us thought we might have to go have a talk with them to tell them to get lost. Shortly after, we heard a commotion coming from the top of the cliff. I expected to look up and see some kids tumbling down. But it was a deer. It had slipped down, then scampered back up. But Kat arrived, looking lovely, and the ceremony went off without a hitch. Indeed, we kept remarking how perfect the weather was, and how wonderful the setting. As the newlyweds passed by, Harris gave one of his trademark thumbs-up.

As the wedding party disappeared for an hour or so of posed photographs, my companions and I traveled back up to the site of the reception. We stood around chatting, having a nice time, but all the while quite concerned by the appearance of another guest – a young man wearing a black suit and black leather gloves, holding a black briefcase. He was completely bald, and looked rather like a comic book villain. We badgered Shannon to go use her charms to see if she could find out what was in the briefcase, but he would reveal nothing. I thought that, perhaps, as the couple arrived, he might free some doves or butterflies, but that never happened. He just walked around with the briefcase, looking mysterious.

The bridal party finally did arrive, and when they had their first dance everyone stared, as is custom. There wasn’t much dancing besides that, but what the reception lacked in dancing it made up for in speeches. It is custom, of course, for weddings to have two speeches: from the best man, and from the father of the bride. But many couples, dispensing with tradition, invite a bridesmaid to say a few words, or some other relative or friend. Kat and Harris being the sort of people they are, could not restrict the speeches to just a chosen few. No, practically everyone who knew them wanted to tell all just how wonderful they are. The stories are true; Kat and Harris are splendid. But it was comical just how over-the-top the speech one-upmanship became. Initially, Harris was just a great guy and a great friend – one who made you always feel he was your best friend. I get that. Harris has a knack for connecting with people. But by the fourth or fifth speech, Harris is saving his friends from drowning in the Atlantic Ocean. Again, these stories are true, and anyone who knows Harris would not be at all surprise by such tales, but so nice are Kat and Harris that the speeches just went on and on, until at least ten people had spoken. Finally, time was up and the venue was closing. We’d have to leave.

We all met back at the carriage house, dressed in our street clothes. We had lots to talk and laugh about. The plan was to have two after-parties: one at a bar/arcade, the other at the home of a friend of Kat and Harris. We were assured that, at the early hour of nine o’clock at night, parking would not be an issue, nor would we have to pay a cover at the bar. That was just not the case. Parking in Richmond is hard to come by. Streets are crowded, and since many are one-way only, one has to be prepared to parallel park on the left side of the street. Not to sound boastful, but I can parallel park the hell out of a car. Still, left-side parallel parking was a challenge. We finally found a spot, and somebody negotiated a deal with the bar to let the wedding party in for free, provided we agreed to leave when the bands started to play. All our hands were marked with a large “W” to distinguish us from the regular bar folk. We all ate because we were starving, and it was cute to see Kat and Harris’s first meal as man and wife. Then the two played old school arcade games before we had to leave.

We parked back at the Grace Manor Inn and walked the three blocks down Grace Street to the home of one of Kat and Harris’s close Richmond friends. Inside, all the young wedding guests were there, but wearing normal people clothes. Even the mysterious briefcase guy was there. It turns out, he was just screwing with everybody. Nothing was in the case. We had brought Kat and Harris’s wedding cake (or what was left of it), which we had transported from Maymont Park, and everyone had another chance at some of that. Miriam and I, Canada, Laura and her boyfriend all sat on a couch in a large, mostly empty parlor.  Kat came in after a while and we chatted some more with her. Then began a strange spectacle, but what that really defines Kat and Harris, and really all their close Richmond friends. Loud music could be heard from the dining room, then a crowd formed a huddle, singing Misfits songs at the top of their lungs. It’s their thing. We spectators watched for a moment, then let them to it. We walked back to Grace Manor, and said goodbye to Laura. Mel and Cory had gone, as had Amy and Shannon. The next morning we would leave, too.

But we still had one more breakfast in the elegant dining room, and it was an honor to spend it with the bride and groom the morning after their wedding. They would stay on at Grace Manor another night, so we hugged them goodbye and went back to the carriage house to pack. We made one more stop, at a little coffeeshop in a working class Richmond neighborhood to meet up with Sarah Jean, who moved from Gainesville to Richmond last summer. We chatted for an hour or so, while a hipster couple sat on a nearby porch, the fellow playing an acoustic guitar, his girlfriend looking at him admiringly. “That’s the dream”, I thought to myself. We bid Sarah Jean farewell and got on the road after noon on Sunday morning, the twentieth of November.

We had an epic misadventure in store. But that is for next time.

Now, as you may recall, earlier this year I built Mrs. Hill a whole new kitchen, and when it was finished I wished she might have some quality cookware to enjoy. So, on a trip to Charlotte over the summer we paid a visit to the Le Creuset store in, of all places, Yemassee, South Carolina. Le Creuset is a French company that makes enameled cast iron cookware. I saw an episode of How It’s Made once where they showed the production of a Le Creuset Dutch oven, and it was amazing. And somehow, in spite of my relative lack of enthusiasm for cuisine, I had actually heard of the brand. I somehow knew that Le Creuset was known for lasting a long time. A lifetime, really. So it didn’t take much to convince me that this was something I wanted Miriam to have. I just didn’t expect to personally get as much use out of it. I now cook almost exclusively with one of the pieces we brought home that day, and it is marvelous. I say all this to make the next part of the story more clear.

Whether it was from our testimonials or not, our close friend Kat expressed a wish for a nice new Dutch oven, especially since one she owned previously, but made by another company, had been recalled by the manufacturer for a potentially dangerous defect. Miriam took a mental note of this, and on the day after Thanksgiving, six days after Kat’s wedding, Mrs. Hill and I found ourselves on our way to the Le Creuset store in Orlando. The problem for us was that everyone else in the country apparently had the same idea. I cannot possibly convey the enormity of the traffic. We moved inches at a time. Pedestrians on the sidewalk appeared to move away from us so quickly that I think I noticed a red shift. When we at last reached the entrance of the shopping mall, we found the police had barricaded the street; no one was getting through. Imagine the busiest football game day in the history of Gainesville, where cars park anywhere they can make room, where pedestrians cross the street where ever they feel like it, and where police tape restricts access to the very places you wish to go. Imagine that, and then imagine much worse. Miriam had to jump out of the car at an intersection and proceed on foot to the store while I tried my best not to get smashed by the insane drivers determined to reach their goal if it killed them. Cars covered the median and shoulder of the road, and people openly defied no parking signs to secure a small bit of real estate. Miriam emerged from the nightmare unscathed, and with a beautiful turquoise blue Dutch oven she was sure Kat would love. I was shaken. “I am never coming here again”, I vowed. I think I even shook my fist.

We proceeded on to Miriam’s parents’ house, and the next day, as we were enjoying an afternoon at Walt Disney World, Miriam received a textual message from Kat, who was on her way home from Richmond, where her wedding had taken place. “I just got a turquoise Le Creuset Dutch oven at a store in North Carolina”, it read. I died a little, but it was actually kind of funny. Miriam is such a good gift giver that she knew exactly what the bride would have purchased herself given the chance. And she did.

So, it’s back to the nightmare for us to exchange a Dutch oven for a skillet. It’s a good thing Kat and Harris are such wonderful people.

That story is still to come.

At last night’s Florida baseball game, I stood on the deck of Dizney Plaza [at the left on the picture below] overlooking left field and basked in the cool breeze blowing across the diamond.  The temperature was precisely what one would choose if somehow, as with a giant magical thermostat, he could select a permanent outside temperature that would never change.

The afternoon before I had met up with our friend Laura who had never been to a UF baseball game, but was excited to have the chance.  We arrived for the five o’clock game perhaps fifteen minutes early, and took our seats in my normal spot, halfway between third base and the left field fence.  Shortly thereafter we were approached by one of the athletic department staff who asked if we’d like to volunteer to be “Captain K”.  Captain K is the person or persons who sits in the bleachers above the left field wall and hangs up giant posterboards printed with the letter K, signifying a strike out thrown by a UF pitcher.  I had never done it before, and was a bit hesitant, only because I’d be committing to paying perfect attention.  McKethan Stadium does not have a billboard-sized screen offering repeat glimpses of important plays.  Moreover, Captain K is expected to distinguish between strikeouts in which the batter was caught looking or went down swinging.  Nevertheless, Laura and I fulfilled our duty admirably, tallying eight strikeouts during the amazingly brief two hour game.  For our trouble we received a “Captain K” t-shirt and a $25 gift card to the Gator Sports Shop.  I now have a tinge of regret that I didn’t trade Laura for the cool shirt, since it isn’t every day that one gets to be Captain K.

UPDATE: Laura’s Captain K t-shirt was too big for her so she let me have it!  Huzzah!

Day One

I was in the process of painting our house, and I really wished to have a substantial portion of the work completed before I left town for several days.  When Sandi arrived in town I was just finishing the front, and was the sweatiest man in America.  I was sweatier still the next day on our six-hour drive, since the air conditioning in Sandi’s car is intermittent at best.  It will blow frigid air for about four minutes, then quickly turn warm.  Then it’s “windows down”.  In normal city driving it’s tolerable, but at highway speeds the wind noise is deafening.  Still, the conversation was good and made the long drive pass quickly, both coming and going.  Kathleen came along, also, and she rode in the front seat on the way down, and I rode up front on the way back.

We arrived in Homestead late Monday afternoon.  It was my first visit to their house, which they have lived in for over two years.  It gave me a very comfortable feeling, and I especially liked the floorplan, which has the guest rooms and bath on one side of the house, and the master bedroom and bath on the other side.  And, though it is a ranch-style home, it isn’t just one long rectangle.  The swimming pool is a luxury.  Sandi and Jeff were nice enough to lower their thermostat so that when we walked into their house we experienced an arctic blast, which I appreciated a great deal, especially each time we came in from the Sweltermobile, as I call her Explorer.  Plus, in the hot months, I love the feeling of coming in to a cold house while I am wet from the pool.  I cannot explain it, but I assume that I got the taste for it when I lived in a pool house as a kid.

Jeff came home shortly after our arrival, and we all went out to eat right away.  I wasn’t hungry, since we had stopped in Orlando to have lunch with Brenna on our way down, and after I eat a meal I am full for hours and hours.  But it was a pleasant Mexican restaurant in downtown Homestead that we went to, and I enjoyed just being there.  We came home afterward and did some night swimming.  There is a small stereo system out on Jeff and Sandi’s patio, so one might enjoy a tune whilst swimming.  Their very well-behaved dog was not at all interested in getting in the water.  Or barking, or jumping on anyone, or doing anything at all that I generally find annoying with dogs.   She just liked standing around wherever we were, and being embraced bodily by Sandi at frequent intervals.  I have been around this dog on several occasions (she formerly belonged to Sandi’s mother), and she’s really a first-rate animal.

Most nights during my visit we all sat in the den chatting and taking turns playing Grand Theft Auto.  That’s one of few video games that is even fun to watch other people play, since each person’s turn feels like watching a movie.  I don’t have any sort of video game system at home, so it’s a novelty when I get to play.   We didn’t worry too much about playing the regular missions that further the game’s narrative.  Rather, we preferred to amass stockpiles of weapons and then go on crime rampages in an effort to see just how many law enforcement agencies would attempt to apprehend us.  Jeff also likes playing in “Vigilante” mode, which involves hunting down various enemy characters somewhere in the game, and that was particularly exciting to watch.  We all spent a good deal of time in the comfy den, and were up past midnight every night.

Day Two

Sandi must have been up well before me on Tuesday morning, because she was already out shopping for victuals for the boat trip we were going to take that day when I arose.  After she returned and packed the cooler, and after Jeff got the boat trailer affixed to the Sweltermobile, we all hopped in and made our way to the marina.  Only a few minutes’ drive south of their house and you find yourself in the hot, flat, agricultural belly of the Everglades.  Long, straight roads run along canals that pierce deep into palm groves and banana farms.  Being a week day, the marina was mostly deserted, and we didn’t have to wait at all to launch the boat.  Sandi and Jeff have it down, so Kathleen and I didn’t even need to help; we just got on and got going.  While we were idling toward open waters, we all applied sunscreen, and though I was methodical in my application thereof, I still felt nervous all afternoon, since the day was perfectly clear and the sun was exceptionally strong.  Taking Jeff’s advice, I borrowed a long-sleeved shirt to wear.  It seems counter-intuitive to wear long sleeves on a ninety-five-degree day, but it was a wise choice.  I didn’t get sunburned anywhere.  Kathleen, alas, was scorched, though I am sure I saw Sandi helping her apply sunscreen.

Biscayne Bay is long and wide, and the southern portion from whence we set out sits along the western edge of the national park, which is comprised of mangrove islands.   Jeff had evidently had some engine work done on the boat, and was therefore expecting that we’d be able to cruise across the water at high speed.  Something was wrong, however, and the engine didn’t want to run above about 3,500 RPM.  Having never been on their boat I didn’t know any difference, but Jeff did, and he was frustrated.  But he got it working right, and, as it turned out, speeding across the water was my favorite part of our boating experience.  I’ve been on many different watercraft in my life, but aside from ferries and vaporetti and the like, they have been almost exclusively sailing boats.  I hadn’t traveled at such speeds across open water.  It was nice.

We selected a swimming spot in a natural channel between two small islands, dropped anchor and dove in.  The water was extremely warm, and, thus, not particularly refreshing, but swimming was still fun.  The current was strong there, so I tied a line for us to all hold on to so we wouldn’t have to work hard just to keep from floating away.  I snorkeled a little, Jeff a lot.  Climbing back into the boat was something that nobody had ever tried on that boat, but we all proved perfectly capable.  I probably had the hardest time of anyone, since I opted for the pull-up method as opposed to the step-up method the others used.  I just found the step-up method awkward to negotiate.  Once back in the boat I was immediately bitten by a horse fly.

We spent several hours out on the water, and since everyone had had some food while at sea, nobody was dying when Jeff had to go off for a while to do some work once we returned home.  But he was back a couple hours later, and we all headed to a pizza restaurant called the Big Cheese.  They had taken Miriam and me there years ago, but I had forgotten how affordable it was.  Jeff, Sandi, Kathleen and I all ate for thirty dollars and change.  And Jeff got a huge calzone.

Day Three

Wednesday we had a pretty lazy day.  We didn’t leave the house until almost noon, and then it was to go to Cracker Barrel for lunch.  I don’t recall doing anything for the rest of the day except swim in the pool.  At night we went to Sonny’s where we had an unbelievably sassy waitress named Fallon.  She was incredibly sarcastic, but Jeff found it a refreshing change of pace from the otherwise bland and snobby Miami servers.  On our way out I held the door open for a policeman, and for a brief instant I worried that I might assault him.  That’s how much Grand Theft Auto we had played.  When we got back home I spent an hour or so monitoring an eBay auction (I won!) while the others played Tetris.  While Jeff and I chatted about the array of awesome G.I. Joe action figures, vehicles, and playsets we each owned as a child–and how, as adults, we are entirely able to buy as many of these items as we’d like–we theorized that we were doing exactly what little kids assume adults are doing at any given moment: playing video games, shopping for toys, eating junk food, staying up late, etc.

Day Four

Thursday was to be our last day, and we spent the first part of it heading down to Florida City to a place called Robert Is Here.  It’s a roadside produce stand that also serves fruit shakes and smoothies.  Sadly, vanilla didn’t appear to be an option, but they had numerous creative flavors besides.  Next we headed down a long, straight two-lane road until we got nearly to Key Largo and ate lunch at a placed called Alabama Jack’s, which has great significance to Jeff and Sandi.  I didn’t care for my food, but everyone else seemed quite satisfied, and, stuffed, we headed back home.

The last part of the day was spent packing and swapping photos.  Both Kathleen and I experienced battery failure during the trip, so during our maritime adventures neither of us took photos.  On the other hand, Kathleen took many more pictures at Robert Is Here, and I took many more during our sitting-around times at the house.  Together, we all documented the fun pretty well.

We left close to six o’clock on Thursday afternoon.  We made a last pit stop near their house to get some food.  Sandi had a little card that entitled her to a summer’s worth of free Frostys at Wendy’s.  She was generous enough to let me have it.  It was refreshing.  And hilariously small.  While there was moderate traffic heading north, it wasn’t absurd.  The first couple hours of the drive are entirely suburban, where the Turnpike–which we entered at Exit 2–runs along the western edge of Miami, Miramar, Hollywood, Ft. Lauderdale, Pompano Beach, Delray Beach, Boynton Beach, West Palm Beach, and so on, until turning to the west at Fort Pierce for the long, entirely agricultural stretch south Orlando.  We saw a beautiful sunset somewhere near Okeechobee County.  After darkness fell the air conditioning worked much better, and the drive was substantially quieter and more comfortable.  Sandi and I talked at great length about drywall and her kitchen remodel, which, though only halfway done, looks wonderful.  Kathleen enjoyed her iPod in the back seat.  We made two stops: the first for food in St. Lucie County, the second for gas in Micanopy, only fifteen or so miles from home.  We took Highway 441 for the last half-hour of the drive.  It was a relief to be off the Interstate, and it felt wonderful to be home.

The whole trip, while short, was actually exactly what I had wanted it to be.  There was almost no pressure to do more than we felt like doing at any one moment, and we had many opportunities to simply relax, swim, talk, and play video games.  So, thank you to Jeff and Sandi for being such gracious hosts.  Next time: night boat.

In Gainesville, 3 July is a big day.  Since so many people are out of town in the summer, and those who are left often travel, the big fireworks display is held a day early.  Two years ago, in the midst of huge budget cuts, it was canceled, and only saved at the last minute by an anonymous donor who ponied up so everyone could enjoy a spectacle.  Last year, though, no savior came forth, and the town was silent and dark.  Since fireworks were scheduled to return this year, there was excitement all over town, and especially in my heart.

In the afternoon we were invited to a pool party out in the country near Newberry.  We drove way out of Gainesville before heading north on a narrow two-lane road, and finally an unmarked dirt road.  Posted signs led us to the party.  All the derby girls were there, many with their significant others, and some even brought their children.  It was a huge crowd.

Everyone brought some food or drink.  Since the party had a luau theme I took Hawaiian Punch.  Sara made Jell-O shots–dozens of them–and they were wildly popular.  As time went on the girls went from eating them individually, to eating them in unison, and finally to feeding them to one another.  Eventually though, it turned into a game of catch, albeit with limited success. Everyone seemed to enjoy all the food.

The weather was hot, of course, but mostly overcast.  It seemed as though it might rain at any time, and for a little while it did sprinkle a bit, but not for long.  And whatever rain and occasional thunder there was didn’t keep anyone from swimming in the pool.  At one point there were twenty-five people in the water.  I was more excited about the homemade slip and slide.  Kaylen brought plastic sheeting and baby shampoo, and I helped lay out and spray down the plastic.  I hadn’t been on a slip and/or slide in years and I was really looking forward to it.  It was fun, but the ground where we set it up–the only place available–wasn’t especially soft or smooth.  As you slid you could feel every bump.  But a lot of people tried it out, and the kids loved it especially.

By the late afternoon it seemed like the storm clouds were gathering in the east, and with the Jell-O shots depleted people began to depart.  As we made it into town the sky was black.  We met up with Robin, Sarah Jean, and Kerri back at Kerri’s place.

The fireworks on campus begin at 9:30, and we hoped to get there before nine o’clock to find a good place on Flavet Field to set up our blanket.  Two years ago, at the last Fanfares and Fireworks, we had all met up and enjoyed the music and fireworks together.  This time, though, the rain that persisted well into the early evening meant that the field would be wet, so we also had some plastic to put beneath the blanket.  We arrived on campus shortly after 8:30, and I hoped that the rain was done for good.  But the storms that afternoon were not like the typical summer storms that come in swiftly, rain violently for an hour, then move on leaving clear skies.  This storm rained slow and steady for hours, not looking to let up.  We parked initially behind Weil Hall, but as no other cars were parked there, we thought perhaps other people knew something we didn’t, namely that the fireworks had been postponed due to rain.  The radio provided no information at all.  So we drove over toward the the Keys Complex across from McKethan Stadium where we found a police officer directing traffic.  She told us that no decision would be made until after nine o’clock.  So we drove back and parked again, and began walking.  But by the time we reached the corner of Gale Lemerand and Stadium Road the skies opened up again, and it began raining so hard that it was nearly impossible to see.

It was not quite nine o’clock, but the weather was so bad that all of us–including me–thought there was no way they could put on a fireworks display.  We decided then and there to cut our losses and go home.  Of all people, I am the most in love with fireworks and would be the last to be convinced that they might be canceled, but I saw no way that they could go on in that weather, and I did not doubt my conclusion for a moment.  On the way back to the car, as the deluge reached absurd proportions, we covered ourselves with whatever tarps and blankets we had.  When we reached our vehicle and I fumbled for the car keys, Kerri stood with her arms akimbo and asked me to take her picture.  I snapped a quick photograph, which involved the camera experiencing no more than three or four seconds of direct exposure to the elements, but that turned out to be a bad idea.  The picture you see here was the last my Nikon D70 would ever take.

The next morning I awoke and hung my flag on the house outside.  I read the newspaper which contained the shocking news that the fireworks display had, in fact, gone off as planned, though with a slight delay.  I couldn’t believe it.  Evidently there had been a brief window just before ten o’clock in which the rain subsided and they could uncover the pyrotechnic machinery.  I was, of course, sorry that I missed the fireworks, but I couldn’t feel sad about it.  The rain the night before had been so extreme that my very best judgment concluded fireworks were impossible.  I had not been talked into giving up, nor had I felt there was even a small chance.  In any case, I was actually glad that the few intrepid souls who had braved the weather were rewarded for their efforts.  They deserved it.

We had been invited back to Matt and Kerri’s house for barbecue and fun that evening.  Matt had kindly provided IBC cream soda again, which was a delightful treat.  I didn’t eat anything, but there was a whole buffet laid out, and, if I recall, everyone brought something.  Sarah Jean was there, of course, and Kat and Harris came, too.  After dark we set off our own cheap fireworks.  Sarah Jean made the most ghetto pyrotechnic display I’d ever seen, which consisted of a flaming black plastic trash bag hanging from a branch that dripped boiling liquid plastic onto the ground as the fire burned its way up the length of the bag.  We all had sparklers, and Kaylen brought some more impressive Roman candles and bottle rockets and such.  We did all of this in Matt and Kerri’s front yard along Northeast Ninth Street.  My camera was broken, so I was sad to only be able to capture the goings on with my cellphone camera, but that’s all I got.

Back inside the house we played the original Super Mario Bros. on Nintendo, and it was great.  I had never had that game, which was included with each Nintendo game console, because my system came with a book instead.  So I never got good at Super Mario, either.  That hasn’t changed.  Harris was expert.  We had a lot of fun.

And that was Independence Day 2010.

On a hot Sunday back in mid-June, eleven of us met at Matt and Kerri’s house in the morning, then carpooled up to the park.  Kat and Laura rode with us, and our convoy stopped at Ichetucknee Tube Center in Fort White – the first place we came to.  Choosing a tube is a matter of personal preference.  Like Kyle, I opted for the smooth, clear variety.  Like Sarah Jean, Miriam chose a big blue tube.  The shirtless man with skin like leather took our nine dollars and helped us load our tubes.  It’s a procedure that he seemed to have mastered, but as we learned, it wasn’t so simple.

Matt and Kerri rode with Sara, and as we drove behind them we noticed that their tubes were flailing wildly on the back of her SUV.  They were whipping about so violently that we were certain they would soon be jettisoned.  There was a car between us as this was happening, and it began to slow down as its driver, no doubt, recognized what was about to happen.  When the tubes did fly away, that car avoided running them over.  Sara realized she had lost her cargo, and stopped down the road a ways.  I stopped our car and ran into the road to save the tubes.  Sara pulled off the road, and as she and Matt re-secured the payload, they discovered the cause of the disaster: the twine the leathery man used to tie the tubes had been rubbing against a sharp piece of plastic along the back portion of Sara’s car; the rope was sliced through.  With the tubes safely stowed we continued the short distance to the park, where the car with Robin, Sarah Jean, Adrienne, and Kyle was waiting for us.

We parked our cars, and as Kat inflated her two red tubes, I changed into my river-ready clothes, and switched from sneakers into flip-flops.  I had taken my Nikon camera with me and I used it to take a great group photo before we set out to catch the tram to take us up the river.  Knowing it would be foolish to take a digital camera into the water, I had purchased a waterproof disposable camera ahead of time, and I used it to photograph our river run.  It stayed attached to my wrist with a rubber band.

I am always nervous when I get to the bank of the river.  Like all of Florida’s spring-fed rivers, the Ichetucknee is seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit all year.  While that makes it refreshing on a hot summer day, diving into the cold water still takes your breath away.  Some people wade in slowly, trying to get acclimated instead of shocked.  I find that that is useless.  Plus, on a busy weekend, taking your sweet time can irritate those in line behind you.  I just drop my tube in the water and jump into it.  I squeal, of course, but it beats the alternative.  The water moves swiftly, and if you mean to keep together with your pals that have already–or not yet–entered the river, you have to do some paddling.  It took us a couple minutes, but we all got in the water, and thanks to Robin, who wore flippers and swam like a Rhinemaiden, we were united.

The strategy for keeping together on the river varies from group to group.  Some don’t worry about it, and simply spread out.  Some bring rope and tie their tubes together, forming, in effect, one large raft.  That has its drawbacks, chief of which is inflexibility.  The Ichetucknee, like any pristine river, is wild, and its banks are lined with downed trees and limbs.  Below the surface of the water, logs and limbs, often invisible to the eye, wait to snag tubes.  You sometimes see groups of tethered tubers struggling to dislodge themselves from such an obstacle.  On our June excursion, we opted for the more flexible “grab-hold” system.  Each of us held on to the handle of the tube next to us.  When hazards appeared we were able to quickly reconfigure to avoid disaster.  And should one of us chance to be left behind, Robin the mermaid was there to tow him or her back to the party.

Passionate tubers arrive at the park early in the morning in order to ride the river all the way from the spring itself, a process which takes several hours.  In general, if you go after ten o’clock it’s too late to do the whole river.  We certainly did not arrive in time, but we decided to make two runs from the halfway point, with a break for lunch in between.

Everyone had brought some sort of foodstuff, and back at our cars we set our tubes on the ground and ate.  I was delighted that Matt and Kerri brought IBC cream soda, which is a rare and special treat for me.  Miriam made a potato salad that everyone seemed to love, and people ate it with chips made out of dried beets.  It was blazing hot in the parking lot, so we didn’t bother waiting the suggested hour before returning to the river.  We reapplied sunscreen and hoofed it back to the tram and down once more to the river’s half-way mark.

Since I had totally dried out in the hot sun, I still gasped when I leaped into the chilly water.  But our second run was more relaxing than the first.  We had gotten the lay of the land, so to speak, and knew what hazards to watch out for.  So when a downed tree forced tubers through a narrow safe channel, or when the rare snail habitat came up quickly around a bend, we were ready to avoid them.  The river was somewhat less crowded, and I remember looking up at the sun shining through the cypress trees and thinking how enjoyable the whole experience was.

There are no signs on the Ichetuckneee River telling tubers how far they are from the end of the run.  You just become familiar with the landmarks on the way.  The fallen tree that hangs over the water that people jump from; the cave; and the power lines all provide clues to your whereabouts.  The power lines mean you’re near the end.  You see them crossing over the river, then around the next bend a sign tells tubers to move to the left to exit.  The river ahead becomes rougher, apparently, and further on it exits the park altogether.  A net is there to catch any tubes or riders that miss the exit.  If you do it right you can stay seated in your tube until you are safely over the dock, then stand up without completely submerging yourself.  We all made it out alive.  Robin distributed our flip-flops, which she had carried with her in a mesh bag for safety.  We walked together up to the tube drop-off, and waited for the tram to take us back to the parking lot.  It was late in the afternoon, and we were all starving, but it was a Sunday, so our hopes for dinner at Conestoga’s in “downtown beautiful Alachua” were thwarted.  In fact, all the restaurants we thought of nearby were closed.  We returned to Gainesville.

We returned to the Ichetucknee again in August.  Kyle and Adrienne couldn’t make it then, but a few other friends could, including Emma, and Kerri’s sister Kristen.  Sara brought her twin brother, and he seemed to enjoy it a great deal.  We had a full-scale picnic, complete with barbecue.  It was twice as crowded then, but still very fun.

The Ichetucknee is seventy-two degrees year-round, but I suppose it will be next summer before I go back down to the river.

On Friday, 15 May, our friends Matt and Kerri, who had been legally married for several months, finally hosted a reception at the Thomas Center gardens in northeast Gainesville.  Miriam and I dressed pretty and arrived somewhat early, so that we observed the caterers setting up tables and the band plugging in instruments.  Soon enough, all our other friends arrived, food was served, and Matt and Kerri wandered around greeting everyone.  There was an open bar, so I took advantage and drank many an IBC Root Beer.  The gardens looked beautiful after dark, since the newlyweds had carefully strung lights and hung decorations.  They gave out as favors some fake mustaches, and many guests were wearing them.  The band was talented, and though people didn’t dance so much, everyone appeared to be having a good time.  Such a good time, in fact, that some time after nine o’clock the police arrived.  Kerri greeted the officer wearing a fake mustache and explained that she and Matt had obtained a noise permit in advance.  The party continued.  In fact, it would have kept going had the Thomas Center staff not begun removing the tables and chairs.  It was well after ten o’clock when we all disbanded, but only to be parted for a few hours.

Many of the party guests were roller derby girls, and the team was holding a car wash the following morning at Coffee Culture on 13th Street.  That place seems to like the Gainesville Roller Rebels: they even have a drink called a “Ruby Typhoon”.  The team had held successful car washes there before, and this was a good opportunity to raise money for charity.  Miriam and others arrived quite early, but I stopped by later on my way to work.  I was glad that Harris was there.  He’s fun to talk to.   Sara brought Coleslaw, which amused everyone.  Tradition has it that everyone will meet at Big Lou’s following a GRR carwash, and when I got out of work I rode my bike over there.  Alas, we sat outside in the sweltering heat.

While I went Swimming at Kat and Harris’ apartment, Miriam spent the afternoon preparing food to take to a surprise birthday party for our friend Kyle that his girlfriend Adrienne was holding at her apartment.  Guests were advised to dress like Kyle, which for some meant wearing glasses.  Many of Kyle’s friends were there, and we all socialized until he was brought home unaware, we hoped, of the party that was waiting for him.  Kyle thought he was just coming over to Adrienne’s for a quiet dinner after having some drinks with friends at the Top.  You know how you become suspicious when your birthday is coming up, and people begin acting strange?   As the party went on, and reports came in describing Kyle’s whereabouts, we began to worry that the secret would get out.  At one point, Matt, who was with Kyle, informed Adrienne that Kyle had wanted to go to his own apartment.  This was bad, because all the party guests had parked in front of Kyle’s apartment.  When he observed the vehicles of all his friends he would be sure something was up.  But we hid anyway.  Some of us hid, that is.  A few friends stayed in the dining room, figuring that we could still get him even if he was suspicious by making him think that he was having a small party, then, Surprise!, we all jump out of Adrienne’s bedroom and it’s a big party.  So Adrienne tells us it’s time to hide, and we go in her room and turn off the lights and wait.  Kerri and I kept watch out the window, waiting for the boys to come up the steps.  After what seemed like forever, they finally arrived.  When he entered the house Adrienne was going to ask him to fetch something for her from her bathroom.  Sure enough, he opened the door, and I think we almost gave him a heart attack, if not from the surprise itself, then from the sheer amplitude of our shouting.  Everyone ate because there was seriously a lot of food, and Adrienne presented Kyle with a cake.  We partied until the early morning hours.

The next day (Sunday), Miriam and I awoke and readied ourselves for a little day trip to St. Augustine and the beach.  The weather was nice, and after a long search we found good parking in the old historic district of the city.  Everywhere you looked couples were walking hand-in-hand.  Unfortunately, the service was terrible at the restaurant where we ate lunch.  But after that unpleasant experience we took A1A south to Marineland and found a nearly deserted stretch of beach.  By the time we left we were the only ones there.  Alas, I forgot my camera, so all I got were cellphone pictures.  But it was a lovely Sunday, and the perfect end to an epic weekend.