The World Book Encyclopedia, the World Trade Center and Old Glory

            I became infatuated with flags at an early age, predominately thanks to the salesman who came peddling the World Book Encyclopedia at our home when I was in elementary school.  My parents valued education, and like many suburban families in the 1970s, wanted to ensure their kids would have a better life than they did. The ticket for that was thought to be through education.  So, I found myself often leafing through the pages of one of the randomly chosen 22 volumes of the World Book Encyclopedia my parents had purchased for my brother and me. To my surprise, the world was quite fascinating.

            Volume 7 was for all things that started with “F”, including Flags. I was mesmerized by the pages containing the various colorful flags of the world, and by the time I entered high school I am sure I had most of the flags memorized. It was exciting to think about the culture that created each flag—from the typically tri-color and not very exotic European flags to the unusual sideways twin peaked and oddly shaped flag of Nepal to the stark green-outlined star on the red field of Morocco. Fun with Flags before Sheldon Cooper, if you will.

            My love flags meant that I always knew that when I owned a home it would have to have a flagpole out front.  I typically display the American flag above a carefully selected flag that could be historic, holiday oriented, in honor of my favorite football team, or simply my state flag. Once I had the flag pole in my front yard, I soon realized that observing flag etiquette is not always easy, particularly taking the United States flag down every night if it is not lit and visible. So, I broke down and added lights. 

            Like most Americans, on September 11, 2001, I lowered the American flag outside my home to half-mast. It stayed that way longer than usual, but after about a month it went back up to the top of the flag pole where it belongs. When I was young, the American flag always appeared to be different than the flags of other countries. Some were simple, some a bit hokey, and some beautiful. But the U.S. flag with its purposeful stars and stripes was always more grand, emotionless and enduring. That was true even after 911.

            The flag in my front yard was something I assumed others didn’t notice, but I didn’t care because it was important for me. Then one day I found out that this particular modest flag pole, and this particular flowing stars and stripes had a purpose greater than me. It was there for somebody else.

            My neighbor captained an elite South Florida-based search and rescue team which was assembled the day after 911 for a special mission and securely flown to New York to take part in rescue efforts under the World Trade Center Towers. Their work zone included the subway station and tunnels underneath the towers. He and many other heroes worked endless days and tirelessly. He later told me that they started the first day searching for survivors that they all knew would be there, and ended realizing they would only be able to recover bodies, or in most cases, pieces of bodies. But those are his stories to tell, not mine.

            Three months after 911 when Americans were just starting to recover from the enormous wound inflicted on this country, and commercial aviation was just beginning to restart across our nation’s airports, my neighbor finally came home, unceremoniously and without fanfare or attention. The next day he came down to see me, because he had something important he needed to let me know.

His flight, he said, arrived at Miami International Airport in the middle of night, about 2 a.m. as I recall. There were not many flights yet at this time, and it was the only of the three area airports that had opened. His wife met him at the mostly silent airport and drove them the 2 ½ hours north to our neighborhood and their home. He told me he was so tired, so numb, he could hardly talk on the entire drive home.  He was warn-out and physically exhausted, but more so, he was mentally exhausted, and anguished, and even—in a sense--wounded.  During his mission he and others didn’t have time to think about what they were doing, and it was best not to do so.  He made a point to tell me that the entire time he was working, that all of them were working on the recovery, he didn’t cry, didn’t get emotional. Each day he quietly did his job, ate, slept and started all over the next day. But now he was home and he was empty. He told me that he and his wife drove home from the airport that dark night and when he arrived in our rural neighborhood after the long drive it only got darker. You see, we live on dirt road with no street lights, and the clouds blocked the stars on that night. He leaned close to me and said, “It was pitch black when we turned on our street, and then a light started to come into focus. At first I didn’t know what it was but as we slowly moved forward I tried to see where the light was coming from, and as we got closer…it’s an American flag, your U.S. flag, bathed in light, but surrounded by darkness. We slowed the car down as we got closer, and just then, in that moment, it all came to me, and after months of remaining emotionless, in my car, in front of your house and your American flag, at 4 in the morning when the world slept around us, I broke down, cried, and everything that had happened over the last months just hit me like a brick in that moment. That flag stood there shining out of the darkness. It was beautiful, and I knew you had put that flag there for me, that I needed it to remind me we are bigger than even this horrible, horrible thing.”

Of course there was nothing I could really say, but tears came down my face at that moment. Later he would share pictures and stories. But for this kid who grew up loving flags, I was reminded that things we do, whether we know it or not, impact the people around us. In this case, my flag, lit in the darkness, and inspired by my parents purchase of the World Book Encyclopedia some 26 years beforehand helped an American hero heal his wounds and return, we all hope, to normalcy.

 © 2019 Philip M. DiComo

The Star Spangled Banner

Francis Scott Key

Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Holding on to Tradition with Anisette Cookies for Christmas!

     Christmas day for our Italian-American family was for opening presents, and food, and family when I was growing up, but it was Christmas Eve that we always looked forward to the most. Christmas Eve at the DiComo house was a night-long celebration of food, family, friends, more food, more friends...just more!

     My dad always told people, when you're invited once, you're invited every year. My mom cooked, and cooked and cooked. There would be scungilli, stuffed calamari and pasta.  And wonderful desserts of course, but all desserts were secondary to struffola (small honey ball bites stacked high) and anisette cookies.  As family spreads out geographically, and we become absorbed by work...work...work, it becomes harder to keep traditions alive, but my daughter helps to keep the tradition of anisette cookies alive each Christmas, and here is a look at that tradition through my daughter's eyes, with help from grandma!  Manja, enjoy!

Italian American Tradition Through Food.

By Kara DiComo

What an Eleven Year Old Remembers

If you hold a memory that isn’t shared by others, does that make the memory no longer real?

As far as I can recall now, the peak of my athletic career occurred in 1976 at the age of 11. For me, football wasn’t just a sport. It was my passion. Growing up in South Florida in the mid-70s meant no home-town baseball team to get in the way of football.  It also meant three straight Super Bowls for the Miami Dolphins and the ultimate undefeated season. When we played pick-up football games on my street the rule was no team could be the Dolphins, because we all wanted to be the best team ever!  That was solved when I was 10 and the NFL announced that in 1976 two new teams would join the league—the Seattle Seahawks and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.  One day after school we picked sides and after that we had a regular match-up of Bucs and Seahawks on a near daily basis on our street—light-post to light-post, or end-zone to end-zone. Our games started the very day Sports Illustrated arrived in my mailbox with logos for these two new NFL teams on its cover. Our own little neighborhood rivalry that lasted for years.

My once-in-a-lifetime athletic moment occurred the same year that the Tampa Bay Bucs debuted with a dismal 0-14 record. It wasn’t in a neighborhood pick-up game but on the Miramar Optimist football field that was sandwiched between Henry D. Perry Middle School and the Florida Turnpike. The highway provided the sounds of speeding traffic in lieu of screaming fans, but the manicured grass field was pristine compared to my asphalt street lined with palm trees and cactus where each neighbor’s yard singularly added a new dimension to defensive scheming through its shrubbery, decoration or the placement of cars in the driveway. As the years quickly pass by me now the memory of that Saturday afternoon 40 plus years ago remains as clear and vivid as ever in my head. I can still smell the fresh cut grass, and feel the almost cool breeze I associate with football season as if it were yesterday. Yet, I can’t help but think that it was so long ago that maybe I am just remembering a dream, a vision, or a hope. Or perhaps I just made the whole think up? Maybe it wasn’t me at all?

So, it was a surprise to me when at a recent family gathering I had the occasion to see my “former” uncle. I say former because Richie is my aunt’s first husband, now long ago divorced. This of course makes him a ‘funerals and wedding relative’. You know, a relative you only see every four or five years on occasions that make you say, “Great to see you, sorry we only see each other....”  However, Richie was not just my new uncle when I was 11 years old; he was also my football coach.

At this particular family event, a celebration of his and my aunt’s granddaughter, we sat down at a picnic table, but instead of the usual small talk, Richie surprised me.

“You’re not going to believe this, but I had a dream about you the other night? I know you probably don’t remember any of this,” he continued. “When you were a kid I was your football coach.”

I shook my head slightly. “Of course I remembered, but you remember too?” I thought to myself.

“I had a dream about what you did one game.” He almost hesitated, as if afraid that I wouldn’t remember. “I was running right along with you in the dream, although that’s not how it really happened,” Richie said. I suspect my jaw dropped a bit when I heard this.  “It was one of those plays. The other team was driving towards a touchdown. You played linebacker, remember? There was a pass play into the end zone, and you jumped the receiver’s route, picked off the pass.”

Coaches Richard and Felix. I am the strapping young man
in the back row, far right.

For a moment I was speechless. It isn’t a dream. I knew it. I remembered every second. I remember the running back going into motion, I remember reading the quarterback and seeing the running back go into the slot. I remember anticipating his route, jumping in front of him at the right moment. I even remember the feel of the cow hide hitting my hands as I grabbed the football out of the air. I remember running to get out of the end zone and thinking I wouldn’t get far, that I wasn’t fast enough. I remember after the first ten or so yards realizing everyone was chasing me. I remember knowing I had to run faster than I’ve ever run before, faster than I am capable of running. I remember the feeling of being pursued the length of the field, feeling like I was flying, and eventually crossing the goal line and the official signaling a touchdown. I remember so well.

Richie continued, “When you scored that touchdown in that moment you were the center of the universe. Everyone ran to you to celebrate. Do you remember what I said to you? After everyone congratulated you and celebrated, I pulled you aside and I told you ‘to always remember this moment, never forget what you just did. Most people never get to feel what you just felt in their entire lives, and it could be the last time you ever experience this in your life’. Do you remember I told you to never forget this?” 

“Yes,” I said. “I remember it all.” I am sure my teammates have long forgotten, just as I’ve forgotten most of the details of that Optimist league football season so long ago. I am sure the quarterback who threw that interception has no memory of it.  But for me the memory of that 100-yard interception return for a touchdown a lifetime ago and that special feeling I felt as an 11 year old is something I carried with me, and I guess I still do. I am apparently coachable after all because of so many moments in my childhood, I never forgot that single moment.

It means even more now, just to know that it is a memory that I share with someone else in this universe. It makes it real, and not just to me apparently. It makes it important, even if only for two people who see each other at weddings and funerals.

“You remember,” Richie said, looking down, “makes my day…makes my day.”

Me too.

EPILOGUE

When I was 11, we had red uniforms and one of the kids on the team was a Buckeyes fan, so the coaches improvised helmet stickers to recognize when a player had an outstanding play or performance. One of the stars below represented my 100 yard interception return for a touchdown! After seeing Richie, I pulled out an old photo album that I haven't looked at in years, and I was pleasantly surprised to find these. 

Pick An Airport, Any Airport, or Flying Ain't what it Used to Be!

            I was numb from head to toe. The day was just beginning and the sun was already on its way down. The Washington Monument sat stoically silhouetted in the orange brightness. A tiny speck, an airplane, fell out of site beyond the concrete tower.

Rush hour traffic was dwindling, and the tourists were all safe in the Marriott and the Hilton having dinner. The politicians were attending cocktail functions, shaking hands and smiling.

We sputtered our little 1977 Toyota across the Potomac and past this and that monument until we reached the Mall. I swerved into the first open parking space and sat there, hands on steering wheel, relieved and exhausted.

Karolyn felt the same, maybe worse. But we were finally here, together. We sat for just a moment, without saying a word. The back of the Capital building, covered with metal scaffolding, sat directly parallel to my rusty old hatchback.

The air was thick, sky graying. It should have been raining, but the gray, blah sky just sat there mocking us as the sun crept downward.

As I opened the hatchback I knew it was useless. I checked the cooler and glanced at the spoiled salad and fruit that I bought at Food Giant the night before. The cheese looked o.k., the wine could be saved for later.

This was a special occasion. I hadn't seen Karolyn in three months, and I hoped everything would be perfect.

But instead it was like a bad dream. How can things have been ruined so badly?

Just then Karolyn emerged from the car. I walked to her, kissed her and hugged her.

"I am really hungry," she said.

I was starving too, so we headed in the direction of the Old Post Office, trying not to think about the day that just passed us by.

It had all started about five in the morning with a phone call that abruptly woke me up.

"Hello, Phil?"

"Yeah, what's up," I said after pausing to think if she was right.

She explained that she was at a stopover in Jacksonville, and would be coming into Baltimore/Washington International instead of National Airport.

I told her that was great because BWI is only five minutes from where I was staying. We mumbled something back and forth and then hung up.

Great, I thought as I clutched a big, soft pillow, I'll be able to sleep late.

An hour and a half later I was again awaken by Ma Bell's striking ring.

"Hello, Phil," she began hesitantly. "I am in Newark."

What the hell was she doing in New Jersey. Why the hell did the airline fly her past Washington National, over my apartment and past BWI?

"There's a mix up with the flights," she continued. "It's really chaotic."

She said she would have to sit around for a couple of hours in Newark until she can get on a flight to Dulles Airport in Virginia. All the other flights were full. The airport was jammed with people, the corridors were lined with limp passengers, waiting.

“I might be able to get on another flight, but for now I am stuck in Newark," she said.

If my plans had worked out we would be picnicking at the Mall or under the Washington Monument. I would tell her about all the places I would show her and she would be amazed at the capital city's beauty and mystique.

Instead, I was watching the Price is Right and she was sitting in the world's ugliest airport in New Jersey's dirtiest city.

I thought about getting in my car and heading north to pick her up, to save the day. But no, things would work out. She'll be here soon.

I knew it would take about an hour to get to Dulles even though I had no idea how to get there. After a few futile attempts to find out if she was on the plane as re-scheduled, I decided if I didn't leave now she would be stranded in another dingy airport. So I put my trust in the Beltway and my Japanese car.

My little Toyota had never gone so fast, and traffic was worse than I expected. As I crossed into Virginia, I thought what a wonderful city Washington is. Soon I could share it with Karolyn. Show her its finest qualities.

But where the hell was I going? I knew there was a road that linked with the Beltway that headed straight for Dulles. I just didn't know where it was or how to find it.

As I zig-zagged and weaved across the massive highway, I began to get anxious. Damn tourist almost cut me off. Wait there's a sign. It said something about Dulles Airport. Do I take the road? Is that the right one?

Oh, what the hell, I thought as I headed down the exit ramp into the swampy bowels of Virginia.

I had landed on a two lane highway. The maintenance road for Dulles, and the sole access road for a number of new subdivisions. It was getting late, I was in first gear, and I was pissed.

I finally arrived at the airport an hour after her flight was supposed to land. I pulled into short-term parking and looked for a spot. All I saw were hundreds of cars. Line after line of cars with no open spaces.

Finally, I parked at the end of the lot in a no parking zone which others had found before me.

I ran, faster than I have since high school gym class, towards the terminal. I headed for the baggage claim area. It was empty. The rotators weren't rotating and the baggage was all claimed.

I ran upstairs to the terminal, past two Hare Krishnas and through the metal detector. It was empty. No passengers, no workers, no Karolyn.

What the hell was going on?

An old lady wearing a hearing aide at the information booth paged her. The page echoed through the empty airport.

I ran back to the terminal and paused only when I got close to the peach clad Hare Krishnas. Please, please I thought, say something to me, give me a fucking flower, anything. And I'll knock you out with the mightiest blow your face will ever feel. But the bastards ignored me.

When I got to the terminal I noticed a door marked private. In the place where a nob should be was a combination lock. But the door was open, slightly.

I pushed it in and startled a couple of high school aged airline attendants.

"Listen assholes, my girlfriend was supposed to be on flight 106 from Newark. Was she on that flight or not?"

A polite young girl got up and checked for me. The others went back to their Doritos and Diet Coke.

"No she never got on the plane," said the girl.

"What, then where the hell is she?"

Maybe she got a flight to National Airport or BWI, I thought. It's the only possible solution. That or she's still in Newark.

"Can you page the other airports for her?" I asked demandingly.

She never did hear my page, and I didn't hear the one she placed for me at Dulles. Fortunately, the attendant she asked to page me was the same one the Dulles girl called to page her at National. Otherwise who knows what would have happened.

So about 20 frustrating minutes later I heard from Karolyn. "Where the hell are you?" I asked.

"National Airport, where are you?"

"Dulles, didn't you hear the... I've been looking for over an hour... I had to leave to get here.... are you o.k.?"

"Yes, I don't want to see another airport in my life. Please get me out of here. I didn't have time to call. They announced a flight to Washington and everybody ran. I am lucky I even got here."

"I'll be there in 20 minutes," I assured her knowing it would take close to an hour.

I found the Dulles Expressway and sped towards D.C. I wasn't sure how to get to the airport, so I followed an airport taxi to the right exit. I got lost for a moment, but then found my way after losing only a few minutes.

I finally arrived at the airport at 6 p.m., seven hours after her flight was to originally land at National Airport. Karolyn was waiting impatiently, sitting on the curb in front of the busy terminal.

I pulled up, she got in, we kissed, sighed and felt much, much better for the moment. I think we both felt like we had jet lag.

We walked towards the mini-mall/tourist trap in the Old Post Office building in the misty sunlight.

A burly man in an oversized army green jacket walked towards us. Karolyn grabbed my hand and watched as he passed us.

"Who is that?" she said.

"The homeless," I said as I turned my head to watch the man urinate on a bush in the Mall, in the shadow of the Capital of the United States.

We walked faster, almost triumphant now. We climbed the steps up to the Old Post Office where we could fill our empty stomachs with any number of delights.

A bum was coming down the steps towards us, looking for handouts. He could have been the twin of our urinating friend. I reached deep into my pocket and, with a wide grin, handed him a fist-load of change. It slowly began to rain.

"I finally feel good," I said to Karolyn. "We're finally together, now we can relax and enjoy what's left of the day."

We had dinner to the sounds of cool jazz, and viewed the capital from the top of the Post Office Tower. Everything was going to be fine, but we would never forget this day.

A few days later, after showing Karolyn the Capital -- the monuments, the Metro, the people -- we left for Miami together. But this time we relied on my Toyota and I-95. It took longer, but it sure didn't seem like it.

           No wonder Peoples' Express went out of business.

© 1987 Philip M. DiComo

EPILOGUE

Washington, D.C., is a great city, and I was fortunate to intern on Capital Hill one summer when the country's political systems were in the midst of change in the mid-80s. Tip O'Neill was stepping down as speaker of the House of Representatives, Ronald Reagan had swept the nation, and Newt Gingrinch was dismantling the collaborative nature of two-party politics.  However, the charm of a non-industrial, service and government-based major U.S. city was everywhere in D.C., and I really loved it. When I was ready to return home to Florida after my internship, my girlfriend (now wife) had planned to fly up so I could show her around the nation's capital prior to driving home together.  What should have been a quick plane flight turned into an all day affair involving all three major area airports. Also, did you notice a number of references that would be impossible today? Such as the referenced landmark in the essay which is now a TRUMP licensed hotel, and no longer an historic and tourist attraction! Or the ability for a non-passenger to access the passenger terminal? Or actual Hare Krishna's at an airport? All true. Of course, we didn't have cell phones either.

What we call the present is given shape by an Accumulation of the Past.

Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

Every day moments accumulate in our lives, and we experience them with great feeling and passion, or even indifference. But they make up who we are and who we become as individuals and human beings. As the years accumulate, our memories and feelings about those memories tend to fade. Yet, everything we are today is given shape by each and every experience, so it is good to acknowledge the memories and life-moments that have brought us to today.

Freshman Reality...or, A Damn Joy!

             It was an embarrassing feeling. But I didn't dare ask for anyone's help. It's bad enough knowing that you're a freshman (better known at the University of Florida as 1UF), but admitting that you really do stick out like a snowstorm in Miami is downright shameful. So instead of admitting defeat I silently peddled my 10-speed down the winding sidewalks in search of some mystical sign that would lead me to the seemingly missing building.

It appeared that I was lost in a sea of graduate schools, and it was evident that I did not belong in the multitude of higher learners. Realizing class would start soon I began to feel uneasy. As people passed by me I held back from asking them the simple question, "Where am I?".

I soon found myself alone on a sidewalk, except for an elderly gentle­man who was walking towards me. I would stop and ask him. He was apparently a professor of some sort, and I logically reasoned that he would be thinking about something (something only elderly professors could think of) and could care less if I was 1UF, 2UF, or a psychotic killer (unless of course he was a psychology professor). So without hesitation--only with the fear that some snickering 2UF would spot me (sophomores are always smug and jeering because after two years they think they've finally learned the system)--I slowed my bike and profoundly stated, "Excuse me”. The slender man looked up from his thinking, surprised that someone or something had disturbed his train of thought.

"Yes?” he squirted.

 I could feel my throat babble, "could you direct... err... tell me where Matherly Hall is...?"

"That's it right over there," he pointed.

"Thank you," and I sped off toward the undoubtedly old building which I had past several times in my search. As I locked my bike near the aged building I began to feel at ease.

It wasn't until some confusion arose in my mind over the location of my classroom in the newly discovered Matherly Hall that I began to feel a touch of nervousness. There is nothing like being lost in a university of approximately 33,000 students while simultaneously being 600 miles away from the people you love the most. The anxiety, the emotional turmoil, physical and mental stress, and even trivial matters which somehow can cause great embarrassment, all seem to heighten when you're lost. I suppose this bombardment must be from realizing that you're alone, even to the point of loneliness. Yet you are surrounded by the largest number of peers you'll ever be with at the same time or place.

The University of Florida campus, circa 1982. 

My nervousness was not now attributed to the fear of being known as the lost 1UF, but that I would walk into my English class late and miss some trite, yet necessary information. More importantly, I was afraid of being embarrassed. The silent stares coming from my classmates could be worse than isolation.

It was then that I spotted an apparently lost and seemingly distraught individual. I immediately knew that she, like myself, was a lost freshman. Knowing that being lost with someone else is much more comfortable than by oneself I marched diligently towards the young lady. Soon, I thought, I will not be alone, and I confidently continued forward, though

Me, circa 1982-83.

I had no idea what I would say. I only thought to myself. Why should I be embarrassed about being a 1UF? I should use it to my advantage. After all, practically everyone at the university is, or has been, a college freshman.

Before I could say anything the girl looked up and asked with frustrated exhaustion for the directions to room number three. Though I, naturally, couldn't give them to her I suggested that we look for the room together. She agreed, after all (I thought) would Cyclops peripheral vision be better than the gleaming eyes of an NFL quarterback?

We quickly found the room, which appeared dull and muggy from age, and silently entered. We could be comfortable now because no matter what we were (1UF, 2UF,etc.) we all had something in common; the fact that we chose or were assigned this section of English 1101. The concession was little, yet it was there. There was no longer any need to feel embarrassed or nervous. Seconds after we had entered our instructor clambered in. His statements were, at times profound, some were even frightening.

The reality of life at the University of Florida had begun. There will be those who affect my life, whether good, bad or indifferent. And at times I may feel embarrassed, proud, homesick, or any number of emotions. Life depends on how it is applied by the possessor. Mistakes will give birth to experience, and out of experience will grow maturity. In a few years I will undoubtedly be able to spot what is evidently a bewildered 1UF, and remember. But that's getting ahead of myself, for now I will learn, have fun, ask questions, and hopefully develop and grow.

© 1982 Philip M. DiComo

EPILOGUE

I was excited and anxious to be lucky enough to be in Harry Crews' freshman writing class my second semester and UF.  I knew the infamous southern writer likely was only teaching freshman because he was required by the English Department. I was told not to be upset when I get my first grades back because he doesn't give anyone higher than a 'D' on his first paper, and most don't even do that well.  So, once I got the first assignment I aggravated over what to write. I literally stared at my typewriter for days.  The evening before the paper was due I just started writing about my actual experience when I was going to my first writing class with Crews at the helm. I wasn't happy with it, but I at least had a paper to turn in. Now, I look back and see "Freshman Reality" is a bit overwritten, but not bad for someone who just turned 18. Turns out, though, this little paper is the proudest moment of my college career, and my greatest memory (of many great memories) from my days at the University of Florida. When Harry Crews stumbled into our class room with his wife-beater shirt, unshaven face and unkempt hair on the day our papers were to be returned, he slowly doled out the Ds and Fs while lecturing everyone about how we should already know grammar and the English language, and it wasn't his job to teach us basics that we should already know. I feared getting my paper and braced for it when he threw it on my desk in that musty classroom in the basement of Matherly Hall. Along with the grade, was a note scribbled on the top that I cherished so much that I thought that I must not be reading his writing correctly.

My first paper and the grade from Harry Crews!

Now, I wrote much worse papers that semester, but for a writer like Harry Crews to put that on a paper I wrote, it meant everything to a lost freshman. Still does.  I found out over the course of that semester that Harry was having a hard time fighting his alcoholism at that time.  He missed more classes than not. However, we met as a class on Tuesdays, and in lieu of a second class that week he required students to meet with him in his

My desk, Broward Hall 2nd Floor East, UF 1982-83.

office in the English Department in GPA (now apparently Turlington Hall, but always GPA to me) to discuss that week's paper.  At my designated first meeting, Harry said to me, "What are you doing here?"  I was a bit miffed, and told him I was here for my required meeting. He told me I didn't need to meet with him, but well, I was there, and I was a willing audience, so for the entire semester instead of reviewing my papers we would talk, and he would pull articles and magazines and books out of his file cabinets for me to read.  I didn't realize it at the time, but handfuls of graduate students were holding court with Harry Crews at Lillian's Music Store (actually a bar) on many Gainesville nights in order to accumulate knowledge, feel his aura and gain his favor, and I was an audience of one with Harry nearly every week the entire semester. I heard great stories from Harry, including one about an Emmett Kelly, Jr. screenplay he was writing, too much alcohol, and an English professor who I had the prior semester (and really despised), who Harry had punched out for a seemingly pretty good reason from my viewpoint (which made me very happy), forcing him to submit his resignation to the university, which was summarily denied. 

Great Harry Crews Biography:

What we call the present is given shape by an Accumulation of the Past.

Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

Every day moments accumulate in our lives, and we experience them with great feeling and passion, or even indifference. But they make up who we are and who we become as individuals and human beings. As the years accumulate, our memories and feelings about those memories tend to fade. Yet, everything we are today is given shape by each and every experience, so it is good to acknowledge the memories and life-moments that have brought us to today.

So there had been an accident.

It's never easy going to work the day after you've fired someone.  Especially if you've liked the person.  Even more so when you know you could be home with your wife and new baby.

Me and my daughter, 1997.

So this morning I reluctantly went to work. The morning drive in was softened because my wife dropped me off at work. It’s always nice to be able to share the morning ride with her.  Sometimes, these rare occasions present our only opportunity to talk for any length of time without all kinds of interruptions. It was especially nice this morning because our beautiful little baby was with us, and I was able to spend a few extra moments with her.

So this morning started with a hug from my wife, a kiss on my baby’s beautiful forehead, and then a management meeting in the board room.  It looked like it would be a long, awkward day ahead, and there’s nothing more frustrating than knowing the entire first half of the day would be spent in meetings.

So I settled in, not even time for a cup of coffee, to talk about audit reports, equipment problems and fund-raising needs.  “Is that rain?” someone said as the sound of a violent storm rattled the roof. Twenty-minutes later, a page pulled me out of the meeting.  I had an urgent phone call, there’s an emergency. There was some confusion, the call wasn’t coming through.  Then my wife, on the phone, her voice shaking through the crackle of the cellular phone.  And my day had just begun.

The day hadn't gone much better for Sean Newell.  Maybe nothing is more frustrating than driving in a thunderstorm, on a two-lane highway, and being stuck behind a semi-truck going 35 miles per hour.  “Ridiculous.  What could this guy be thinking?  Why is he going so slow?  Why am I stuck beyond this guy?  You can't see around him.  You can't get past him?!  The damn rain keeps coming, only getting worse.  Geeze, let's move already. Come on.  It's early, so much to do.”  

After following a slow moving truck for a while in the early morning, you get tired of just following.  If he wasn't there you could go so much faster, get there so much sooner. “Maybe he’ll turn off.  But, no. There’s nothing you can do.  Wait, there's an opening.  Who does this guy think he is going so slow.  Here's my chance.  I’ll... pass... him... NOW!”

“Here we go.  Across the thick double yellow lines, press on the gas...faster...faster.  Soon I'll blow past this guy and I'll be on my way--outta here!  Oh no Where that car come from?  Oh shit.  I am in its lane, heading right for me.  I can't get back. Where the hell did it come from.  Why didn’t I see it.  It’s too late.”

So there had been an accident.  My wife was on the phone in a panic.  Come quick, the car is totaled she quivered.

I ran out the door, my heart pounding.  I grabbed the keys to the work van and jumped in and sped off.  My wife was about five miles from pulling up into our safe driveway.  Instead, she had to swerve to miss Sean Newell, who was driving his Saturn on the wrong side of a two-lane road, as he tried to pass a semi-truck in a thunderstorm simply because it was going too slow for him.  His Saturn sideswiped our Jeep and pushed it off the road.  Karolyn tried to miss him, and in so doing saved both their lives by avoiding a head-on collision.  Then the Jeep careened off the wet roads and smashed into two tall, old Florida slash pines.  The pines cut a two-foot indentation into the passenger side of the Jeep—from the front tire to the back tire.  The greatest depth of the indentation was at the rear passenger seat, where the car crinkled inward, pushing the plastic car seat towards the center of the car. The entire expanse of windows on the passenger side was missing, smashed into the car, mimicking the rain outside with shards of glass which cut into my wife’s legs, hands and arms.  The car seat saved my baby’s life.  The baby seat's sun bonnet deflected most of the glass away from the precious three week old little girl.  The sun-shade which blocked the sun from the baby’s eyes had been stuck onto the nearby window with suction cups.  Now it laid on the floor of the back seat, cradling most of the glass from the rear window. Glass which could have destroyed a little baby’s life.

My wife, Karolyn, had done everything right. Her lights were on.  So were her seat belts.  The baby was secure, facing the rear of the car in her safety seat.  And Karolyn had lowered her speed on the slick road. In a matter of seconds, a car had been heading on a collision course right for her.  Then, she slowed some more, and swerved.  In a split second she realized that the car was totaled. In another split second she realized that there were no sounds from the baby she had given life too just a few short weeks before, had carefully taken home, cared for and loved. She jumped out of the crippled vehicle, reached for the rear door, but it didn't budge.  The passenger side doors were pinned—no wrapped around—the two otherwise majestic pines.  The baby was silent, but Karolyn's heartbeat grew louder.  Sean tried to explain that he had had no choice, the truck was just going too slow.  Finally.  Karolyn ran to the back of the car and pried open the hatchback.  As the hatch was pulled open, a cry rang out from within the car. Karolyn jumped in, and managed to pull our precious little girl out of the plastic shell which had not cracked.  The rain continued to pour down, and the little baby continued to cry.  The day had begun and ended all at once.

Coming home to my daughter!

The Jeep is gone.  Karolyn and Kara are ok.

Quick reaction avoided a head on collision.

The car seat held up and did its job.

The rear axle which broke off and plowed into the gas tank stopped just short enough to avoid puncturing the tank and creating a fire, or worse, an explosion.

And tomorrow, I’ll leave my brave wife and beautiful child, go back to work and sit in a meeting.

(c) 1997 Philip M. DiComo

EPILOGUE

     It was difficult to explain to those who were asking exactly what had happened the day of the accident, so at midnight on the Friday night after the accident I wrote the above explanation and emailed it out to friends and family. I had forgotten all about this writing, until my daughter graduated from college and my mom pulled out the email with these words to share with my daughter to remind her she will do great things. I think my mom is right, and I am glad she saved my email which I had lost (probably with the last days of earthlink!). 

     What I didn't include in the story is that when I arrived at the accident scene our Jeep didn't look all that bad from the road, but as I walked around it and saw a pine tree in the middle of our car where my daughter's car seat should have been, my faced turned red. I looked up and saw a police officer in the near distance push a young man into the back of his police cruiser. He ran over to me and said that my family was ok, and that they were at the hospital just to be sure. He then told me when I walked around the car my face had changed so dramatically that when I looked over towards them he thought I would come over and try to kill the kid who caused the accident. He didn't put him into the cruiser because he was being arrested, but for his own protection.  At that moment, I hadn't even realized he was the one who caused the accident. Probably a good thing. 

What we call the present is given shape by an Accumulation of the Past.

Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

Every day moments accumulate in our lives, and we experience them with great feeling and passion, or even indifference. But they make up who we are and who we become as individuals and human beings. As the years accumulate, our memories and feelings about those memories tend to fade. Yet, everything we are today is given shape by each and every experience, so it is good to acknowledge the memories and life-moments that have brought us to today.