The last semester and bit of history

This is my last semester at UNH.

It feels good to write that.

It, also, feels odd to write that.

Maybe it's time for a recap.

Last year at this time, I was sitting in Piazza Del Popolo, in Ascoli Piceno. I was totally confused, awestruck and drinking un caffe. I was sitting with my dear roommate Alex who, bless his soul, was not afraid, like I was, to walk in to anywhere and ask for a coffee or buy produce.

Oooh! I also bought grapes on my first day in Italy. They were green and had seeds. Funny story about that -- Alex and I walked into a grocery store and found the produce. We both picked out what we wanted, and as we were doing this we saw a local fellow being helped by the produce attendant. This was strange and new. After you selected and bagged up your produce, you took it to the produce fellow so that he could weight it and put a little price sticker on it. If Alex and I had not seen this local fellow do that we would have gotten to the cashier (who presumably spoke no English which complemented our "No Italian" status nicely) and would have been totally confused as to what we supposed to do, but didn't.

But it all worked out and I bought grapes.

Four years ago at this time, I was starting my first day at UNH. I remember that a week or so before classes started Tilly and I came up to campus and she showed me the buildings where my classes were. On the first day, I confidently strode across campus thinking, "Man, this is great. I'm not one of those confused freshman that have to ask someone where their building is."

Then a young lady asked me, "Excuse me, do you know where such-and-such-building is?"

I didn't know and answered, "Sorry, I don't. This is my first day too."

Hah! Take that stupid freshman Phil! Eat that awful, bitter Humble Pie! That's right. Every last bite of it!

Five years ago at this time, I was yelling at my freshmen through a bullhorn as a senior at Tech School. (The Williamson Free School of Mechanical Trades, for those of you who aren't familiar.)

I had them up on the platform ladder doing some dumb shit. I had thought all summer about what I would have them do.

I remember Oren in particular. A good-looking black kid from the Baltimore area. He tried to look like a thug, but he was too small and I could see the anxiety in his eyes.

When he got up on the ladder, I asked him what kind of music he listened to.

"Rap," he said.

"Who have you been listening to lately?"

"Lloyd Banks," he answered.

"Sing a little for me. Give me your favorite lines," I demanded.

He stammered out the chorus.

"OK. That's good enough," I told him. "But I know you've got a soft spot. You like Celine Dion? Because I do." I got up and handed him the lyrics to My Heart Will Go On.

"I know you remember this song. I know you took your girlfriend to see it, hoping that you would get some [action]." Oren took the lyrics and, now I can't remember exactly , but I might have let him get down and read them over before returning to the ladder to sing to a crowd of 20 kids.

When he got back atop the ladder, I said to him, "Go ahead. Sing to me. Make me feel pretty."

And Oren sang. He gave us what we wanted.

He was a real trooper that day. I really admired him for doing that. He could have been a real pooper and refused to do it. But he was a real man about it - he got up there and sang his heart out. And, indeed, I did feel prettier.

Seven years ago at this time, I was starting Tech School.

Man, oh man. I was a different person back then...

I had just finished an intense one-week Soccer Manager Training Program -- also known as the "I can play soccer, oh wait, I just tried to kick a ball and my foot hit the ground before it hit the ball, hmm, I think I'll cut my losses and be a manager instead" training program.

I was meeting my Seniors for the first time.

All the freshmen had to get up on the platform ladder and do something - tell a joke, answer a humiliating question, etc.

When it was my turn, Stinky looked at me and asked, "Gordon? Oh wait, you're Bunyon's roommate right?"

"Yeah," I answered.

"You can get down," Stinky told me as he and all the other senior and juniors laughed and laughed.

You see, Tony (a.k.a.; Bunyon- as in Paul Bunyon) was one of my seniors. This was a fairly odd arrangement having a freshman and a senior, from the same shop, rooming together. I might add that Williamson was structured in a para-military, highly-regimented fashion, and had fabled and horrific tales of hazing from the distant past.

Before I got down from the ladder I asked them, " You want to hear a joke anway?"

"Uh-oh. We've got ourselves an overachiever," Stinky said.

My joke flopped. I turned red. I slunk down from the ladder.

That's as far back as I care to remember. I have already tipped my hand too completely as to how wretchedly old I am.

More importantly, these events were much more influential to my development than high school was.

At this point in my life, looking forward and backward with equal fondness and contemplation, I wouldn't want to go back and do it any other way, nor would I want to tell Young Phil anything that Old Phil now knows.

Except, maybe, start winking at cute girls more often.