Musings & Thoughts for Friday, February 2, 2024, or: Groundhog Day Musings…and Chapter 13’s Scene Three Gets a Retouch

Late Morning, Friday, February 2, 2024, Madison, New Hampshire

Phil: You want a prediction about the weather, you’re asking the wrong Phil. I’ll give you a winter prediction: It’s gonna be cold, it’s gonna be grey, and it’s gonna last you for the rest of your life. ­-Phil Connors, Groundhog Day

Hi, everyone, and welcome to the Friday edition of A Certain Point of View, Too. Here in the United States it is Groundhog Day – supposedly, there’s a groundhog in Pennsylvania – Punxsutawney Phil – who can predict the weather. Specifically, per the myth, if Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow on February 2, winter will last six more weeks, thus delaying the coming of spring.

It’s a cute legend, and I’m also a fan of Harold Ramis’ 1993 romantic comedy/fantasy film Groundhog Day, but that’s all it is…an American myth along the lines of the existence of Paul Bunyan and his ox Babe. The fact is…meteorological spring begins on March 1, and astronomical spring, aka “traditional spring” begins on March 19, regardless of whether Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow or not.

Anyhow…

It’s a chilly late winter morning here in my corner of Madison. Currently, the temperature is 36°F (2°C) under cloudy skies. With humidity at 76% and the wind blowing from the east at 1 MPH (2 Km/H), it feels like 45°F (7° C). Today’s forecast calls for cloudy skies and a high of 42°(5°C). Tonight, we can expect partly cloudy skies and a low of 15°F (-9°C).

On Writing & Storytelling: Finessing Scene Three of Goodbye, Farewell, and Adios

Yesterday’s novel-writing session was somewhat successful, although it didn’t go quite as I expected it to. I got started between 1:45 and 2 PM (closer to 2, if we’re going to be candid about it, folks), with the intent of starting the next scene in “The One About Jim’s High School Graduation.” However, when I was re-reading Scene 3 to immerse myself in the time and place of my narrator/protagonist’s commencement ceremony (which, incidentally, is based on my own, since Jim and I are alumni of South Miami High School’s Class of ’83), I noticed that though the scene was all right for a slightly revised draft, it needed some improvement.

So, instead of pushing ahead to Scene Four – which is still not “fully formed” in my subconscious – and moving the story forward, I decided to do some editing and revising to Scene Three, which describes Jim and Mark’s arrival at the South Campus of what was then called Miami-Dade Community College – the venue for the Class of 1983’s graduation ceremony.

Yesterday, I posted an excerpt from the “revised second draft” of Chapter 13, Scene Three. So, for those of you who want a peek at the improved edition, here it is. If you like it, let me know in the Comments section below.

12:30 PM, Miami-Dade Community College, South Campus – Theodore R. Gibson Center

The sun was blazing in the sky, and the heat was unbearable. The noon weather report on WTMI (“South Florida’s Classical Music Station – 93.1 FM!” per one of its most repeated taglines), Mom’s favorite radio station, said the temperature in Miami was 95°F, but it felt like 110°F with the humidity. (So much for Weaver the Weatherman’s forecast, I thought wryly.) We had just parked in Parking Lot 9, the closest one to the Gibson Center, where we were supposed to graduate. I could see the building’s white walls and blue roof, but they seemed far away. I wished we had gotten here earlier, but Mom said we had to be considerate of the other members of our party – Mark’s mother Dale, and younger sister Leslie, who had followed us in Dale’s canary yellow 1979 Toyota Corolla. They’d been right behind us for much of the commute to Miami-Dade South but got separated when we entered the heavy traffic on Kendall Drive.

Mom was still sitting behind the wheel of her old white 1964 Buick, the one that she had owned since Dad died in Vietnam in 1966, a year after I was born. He was an Army helicopter pilot, and he was shot down near Dak To during a “routine” combat mission that only brought death and sorrow to American and Vietnamese combatants alike but didn’t bring the end of the war closer. I never got to know him, but my mother said he was brave and kind. She had kept his car as a reminder of him, and she had taken good care of it. She had tried to cheer me up during the drive from our house near South Miami High, but it didn’t help. I was too nervous, too restless, too eager. I was about to graduate from high school, and I had achieved something no one in our family had ever done before. I had won a full-ride scholarship to Harvard to study history. I had worked hard for this opportunity, and I didn’t want to waste it.

“Jim, honey, you’re going to do great,” Mom said, squeezing my hand. Her gray-green eyes shone with motherly pride, and the bright Florida sun made her red hair look even more fiery and beautiful than usual.  “I’m so proud of you. You’ve come so far, and you have such a bright future ahead of you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I replied, forcing a smile. “But I’m still scared. What if I can’t handle Harvard, or I get homesick, or I miss out on all the fun things here?”

“You won’t, sweetheart. You’re smart, confident, and handsome. You have nothing to worry about. Just enjoy this moment. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

“I know, Mom. I know. But I can’t help it. I’m nervous.”

“Hey, Jim, don’t sweat it, man,” Mark said, nudging me. “You’re not going to step on the heels of the kid in front of you, or trip on the dais, or look stupid when they take your picture with Dr. Burke and your diploma case. Just don’t stare too hard at Cindy Garcia’s ass during the procession, okay?  You’ve got this.” 

Alex Diaz-Granados, Reunion: Coda

Mark was sitting next to me, his curly brown hair and blue-grey eyes standing out in his gray suit and black tie. He looked personable, but also unhappy. His dad, Frank Prieto, had promised to be here, but he had ditched him at the last minute. He said he had an emergency, but Mark knew he was lying. He had seen him with a new girlfriend, some blonde tramp who was younger than Dale, his ex-wife. Mark despised his dad for that, for leaving him and his mom and sister for another woman. He despised him even more for missing his graduation.

“Hey, Jim, don’t sweat it, man,” Mark said, nudging me. “You’re not going to step on the heels of the kid in front of you, or trip on the dais, or look stupid when they take your picture with Dr. Burke and your diploma case. Just don’t stare too hard at Cindy Garcia’s ass during the procession, okay?  You’ve got this.”