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.

The flooding Cumberland River has caused terrible destruction in Nashville.  The water is several feet high at the door of the Grand Ole Opry, and LP Field, home of the Tennessee Titans, looks ready to stage mock sea battles.  The Opryland Hotel looks ruined.  (The Tennessean has a gallery of images on its website, though I couldn’t get it to work in Firefox.)  Today I see that the Schermerhorn Symphony Center has been added to the list of damaged buildings.  This is a pity, because of all the recent concert halls built in the United States, the Schermerhorn is one of the few I find aesthetically appealing.  Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles is a masterpiece, of course, but Verizon Hall in Philadelphia is ugly, and, apparently, acoustically flawed.  Other halls constructed in recent decades seem to aim for the appearance of modern, but instead look bland and soulless.  Schermerhorn Hall, on the other hand, is unashamedly neoclassical.  The architects must have recognized that a hundred years from now, when the trendy glass and steel boxes commonly built today are all torn down, columns and sculpture-adorned pediments will look as handsome as ever.

Sadly, Schermerhorn Hall, with its classic box shape and interior windows like the Musikverein, will now have to go extensive restoration.  The flood waters destroyed the organ console and pump, and trashed two Steinways in the basement.  Something has me confused, however: I know there probably wasn’t any way to move the organ’s mechanical equipment from the basement, but I am certain that the organ console could have been lifted onto the stage.  And, surely the pianos could have been brought up to the stage on an elevator, as well.  Why didn’t anybody think of that?

In the morning, as I was about to depart for my haircut, I noticed some ominous clouds to the south.  Miriam had the day off work, so I opted to drive the car rather than ride my bike, as I otherwise would.  I am glad I did, because shortly after Danielle got me in the chair it began raining.

The morning rain didn’t last long, but I had a feeling it wasn’t done for good, so I decided by the late afternoon to skip the ballgame, since a thunderstorm would leave me stranded with my bicycle on campus.  That turned out to be a wise decision.

At dusk I began seeing flashes in the eastern sky.  Eventually I heard the thunder, as the lightning moved closer.  When the storm arrived it was frantic.  Each bolt of lightning immediately followed the one before it.  The rain became so heavy, and the wind blew so hard, that looking through the living room window was like staring into a waterfall.  I watched as the cedar tree in the front yard lost one limb, then another.  When the hail began, I ran to the front door to try and snap a photo.  The floor just inside was soaked from the wind driving the rain sideways under the door.  When I opened it, the rain blew in directly at me, and the wind slammed the door shut.  I went to the back door, which has a larger overhang.  No sooner had I turned the knob than the wind blew the door wide open, and I had to reach way out to grab it and close it.  That was my last attempt to take a photograph of the storm.

Then the lights went out.

With the lamp across the street dark, I could see the creepy glow in the sky.  I went to the kitchen to try and light some candles, but was disappointed to learn that my stove won’t light without electricity.  Miriam, who was in Melbourne for a charity event, called to say she was on her way home, but with a terrible storm raging, and no power to check the radar to see which way the storm was moving and how long it would last, I advised her not to come.  She spent the night at her parents’ house in Orlando.

The wind died down after a while, but the rain continued.  I began hearing the sound of chainsaws in the distance.  Some city trucks came rumbling down the street, but the downed limbs from my cedar tree sent them back in the other direction.  Every once in a while I would see an emergency vehicle with lights flashing pass by.  Some time around two o’clock I saw the bathroom light come on.  I must have absent-mindedly attempted to turn it on when I went to brush my teeth in the dark.

When I woke up in the morning I found my neighbors already outside clearing debris and cutting up fallen branches and limbs.  I saw the fellows from the house behind me attempting to untangle a limb from the cable line running from the street to their house.  I had so much to do on Saturday that I barely had time to remove some branches that were blocking our driveway, and survey the rest of the yard.  One rotten tree had fallen in the back, but, miraculously, it hit nothing of any great value.

The same cannot be said for the houses further down the block.  The last house on the street was crushed by a fallen oak.  The massive trunk of the tree lay diagonal across the driveway, its enormous weight supported by the house’s brick walls.  The roof was smashed.  The old farm house at 3100 Northwest Sixth Street had an indescribably large oak tree snap in half, and fall across its front yard, obliterating a fence, and–as I discovered later when I rode my bicycle past, as I do every day on my way to school or work–smashing the sidewalk beneath it practically to dust.  Many houses and businesses along Sixth Street north of Twenty-Third Avenue suffered tremendous structural damage, from smashed roofs to downed utility cables.  The dozen or so American flags that surround the roof of National Vacuum had all blown away.  The rumor is that a tornado skipped through, and I believe it.  No other Gainesville neighborhood experienced damage approaching that which the Stephen Foster Neighborhood suffered.

All of us at this end of the street, however, are fine.  Elke and her kids rode out the storm in their bomb shelter.  The enormous decaying tree that leans perilously over their home didn’t lose a leaf, it seems.  Our mulch driveway washed away, leaving sand in its place, but that’s no big deal.  The cats were all waiting outside the door Saturday morning.  By the time I returned home that afternoon, my neighbors had cut up my downed branches and piled them up by the curb.

The garbage men have a hell of a week ahead of them.

“Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud…”

Florida State University was playing Florida at McKethan Stadium here at UF.  It is a lovely park, with a particularly fine view of great pines and some of the taller campus landmarks.  Marty met me there.  He even brought me a drink down from the press box.  My free ticket also entitled me to a free “Beat FSU” t-shirt, which I gave to Marty.  We sat up on the third base side, above the Gators dugout.

The game got off to a rough start.  FSU scored three runs in the first inning, then another two in the second.  UF scored a couple runs early on, which kept me from feeling hopeless.  But that would be it for FSU.  They hardly got another hit after the second, and their pitching deteriorated in a manner that was uncomfortable to watch.  Literally.  The changed pitchers at least six times, and by the seventh inning, with the sun having already set, and the wind having picked up, it was cold.  Hundreds–maybe even thousands–of fans who had arrived at the game wearing only shorts and short-sleeved shirts fled.  Those who stayed–Marty and me included–just wanted the game to end.  But FSU’s pitching troubles continued, and they had so many conferences on the mound, followed by pitching changes, and new-pitcher-warm-ups, that the dedicated fans who stayed nevertheless felt the urge to boo.  It got ugly in the bottom of the eighth, with the wind howling through the stadium, when the catcher once again walked from the plate out to the mound.  It wasn’t Disco Demolition Night, but there was loud, angry heckling, and many cries of “let’s just get this over with!”

Florida won eight to five, and I biked home in the dark and cold.  But it was great, and I look forward to doing it again.

Better still, it is less frigid lately than it has been in months.  I am building Miriam a closet, and while I work I have been keeping the windows open.  The azaleas are beginning to bloom, too, and the trees are getting their new leaves.  This has been a horrible winter.

I have lived in Gainesville for more than a decade, and in that time I have grown accustomed to temperatures I did not ever experience when living in St. Petersburg.  Granted, Gainesville is less than two hundred miles north of St. Pete, but, still, that makes a substantial difference.  Winter nights in Gainesville regularly dip into the thirties, and once a year, perhaps, we have a day that doesn’t reach fifty degrees.  But, no matter what, after a day or two the temperatures always creep back up, and afternoon highs once again hover around seventy degrees.

In my entire life in Florida I have never experienced a cold spell like this.  It isn’t merely the extreme cold, although it is definitely that: we have had days recently that barely climbed above forty degrees.  Rather, what is so distressing to everyone is the seemingly endless nature of this cold.  For about two weeks now it has been freezing cold.  At home, our heater is running nearly non-stop to keep the house at a comfortable temperature.  I dread turning on the faucet because the water is so frigid it almost feels worse than scalding.  Meanwhile, going outside for anything–even just to run to the car–is a miserable and dreaded chore.  I haven’t dared to ride my bike in almost a week.  School started last Tuesday, and everyone you see on campus is wearing a hooded sweatshirt with his hands tucked into his pockets.

Fortunately, Miriam bought me a windbreaker for Christmas, which has absolutely paid for itself and more over the last two weeks.  Coupled with a pair of gloves my mother sent me, I have managed to protect my skin from frostbite (possibly an exaggeration).

The forecast for tonight is eighteen degrees, and there is no word yet when the cold will end.  Some say Friday, but I feel it may never be warm again.

I did add a class about ancient Egypt to my schedule, and it is the first class I have ever taken in McCarty Hall.  It’s in an auditorium, and, in spite of the rain, it seemed nearly full.  I dropped the course about America in the 1970s.  I had reservations about the instructor, and it would require a goodly amount of writing, whereas the Egyptology class requires none.

On my bike ride home, after it had stopped raining, I encountered a small boy also on a bicycle.  He said, “What’s up, dude?  Want to race?”  He couldn’t have been more than eight years old.