Two years on and the scars from that night’s storm are still visible. Two blocks north of me, a house that was heavily damaged that night now stands vacant. A tree had fallen across the roof and driveway, damaging the house next door in the process. The next door house got fixed, but a few months after the storm, and the tarpaulins that had been placed temporarily over the damaged roof had broken down or blown away, leaving massive holes open to the elements. Only a couple months ago did a new, more secure looking tarp appear over that house. Elsewhere, the half-ground stump of the giant tree that crushed the sidewalk along 6th Street is still visible in the now otherwise bare yard of the old farmhouse at 31st Avenue. The city replaced the sidewalk shortly after the storm, and the street has been repaved, too. The white house at the corner, the back half of which had been almost flattened, has been completely repaired. If you look closely you can see that the bricks on the east side have been replaced, and the spot where the enormous oak tree stood is bare.

We were lucky that night: our house, and the houses of our neighbors were unharmed. They say it may have been a tornado that plowed through. I can’t say, but I was glad to get by unscathed. Still, two years on that storm is fresh in my memory.

First,spring is here officially, and so is Daylight Saving Time, which I love. I’ve been going in to work at half past five in the morning this week, and yesterday I was in class until after six o’clock at night. Still, though I had dinner out last night, I still made it home before dark. That makes me happy. The azaleas are just fading, but the jasmine is getting ready.

What also makes me happy is that we had the warmest winter I can ever remember. It was genuinely cold only a handful of days this year, and we barely ran the heater at home. Our electric bills were lower than ever.

We are in a Golden Age of University of Florida baseball. Last night was their first loss in something like nineteen games, and UF is the number one team in the country right now. But, sadly, it won’t last. Many of the team’s best players are seniors, or juniors who will be tempted to go pro. Next year’s team will look a lot different. Meanwhile, I have been doing my best to get to the ballpark for every game, but school work has made me miss a couple now.

I am looking forward to putting this writing project behind me so I can get back to the things I really care about.

I should say, of course, Happy New Year. I am sorry to 1.) make my first post in the new year occur more than three weeks into 2012, and, 2.) that my first post is about something as mundane as the weather, but when uses a bicycle for transportation as I do, the weather plays a much more prominent role than it might if one drove. That is to say, riding a bike in the cold sucks.

In other recreational news, I did something I never wanted to do: I joined a gym. Every time I go I think of this:

I am finding myself surprisingly motivated. I have gone three nights in a row this week, and even if I don’t go for hours at a time, I still go. I do a little treadmill, and an assortment of weight machines that are cleverly designed so that the bar cannot fall and crush your trachea. The last time I did any weight training was my freshman year of high school, and I recall that after four months of it I was significantly stronger. I am not trying to make myself look like the guy from the Old Spice commercials, but I would like to not make a loud grunting noise every time I bend down to tie my shoes.

Also, future me will be interested to know that the gym costs only $10 per month (which is much lower than other gyms, perhaps because it doesn’t have a pool), and I didn’t have to sign a year-long contract. Also, future me will be ashamed if he can’t run for more than ten minutes straight.

In the next couple days I will write about one more of the following topics: school, work, collecting classical music compact discs, a fancy new kitty that comes around my house, songs that sound stupid but actually convey a powerfully universal truth, and more. Also, probably how absurdly excited I am getting for baseball. But also how I spent my New Year’s, and how I ate homemade cinnamon ice cream and suck at Scrabble.

Scientists know what conditions birth tornadoes, and can use radar and other means to identify and track tornadoes. But even if tornado predictions were one hundred percent accurate, and even if meteorologists could give ample warning to people in the path of danger, they could still not explain the bizarre and almost unbelievable destruction wrought by tornadoes.

On NBC Nightly News this week, Brian Williams was standing atop debris in Joplin, Missouri. Behind him, a devastated landscape, with great heaps of splintered wood and twisted metal suggested the ruins of a home or business, and a mangled mass of automobiles lay piled one upon another. Williams turned to a small tree, standing erect, with some branches broken at the ends, and pointed out that it had no bark. It was, he said, as if someone had come by and sanded it smooth. Around him, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of other trees bore the same unbelievable mark of tornadic contact. Then BriWi held up a black plastic garbage can – the kind used by countless municipalities across America. It had been speared by a long, dull piece of wood, which remained partly lodged within the container.

I couldn’t understand this sort of destruction. I still cannot.

I have lived through hurricanes. I have seen homes shorn of roofing shingles. I have seen trees toppled and homes crushed. I have seen waters rise and flood low-lying areas. But I cannot comprehend a force of nature that leaves a tree standing naked with no bark. How fast must the wind blow to strip a tree bare? If I had a steel adze I doubt I could slice the bark off my live oak tree, and even if I could, it wouldn’t look so clean. Saw mills use enormous machines to accomplish the same feat. A wind that blows hard enough to do that ought to rip the tree from the earth itself.

Likewise, what force would be required to drive a board through a tough plastic trash can? We have all seen video of two-by-fours being fired through sheets of plywood. But in those tests the plywood is firmly fixed in some stationary position. The same machine that launches lumber at high speed would surely cause a plastic trash can to go flying before it could pierce its walls, right?

Any force of nature that can rip the asphalt clean off a road ought to be feared as well as fascinate.

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!

The cats’ water was still frozen at two o’clock in the afternoon.

Given all of the above, where do you think I ought to go this week on vacation?  How about Cleveland?  I’m looking forward to it.

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.

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.