May makes sultry overtures
When seasons creep to a start, the details betray the weather's sneaky intentions.
By DAVID KARP, Times Staff Writer
Published May 9, 2004
The calendar says it is spring, a time for baseball, for cool walks after work.
But step outside mid morning, after the night air has burned off. Listen.
The crickets are screaming from the trees. They are wailing: Summer is coming.
All week long, it has been whispering in our ears.
Seasons in Florida do not announce themselves. We do not have a first snowfall, a first bloom of spring. Here, seasons creep up on you.
Unwittingly, summer has already slipped under our door.
One morning last week, the temperature would dip, and a nice breeze would blow in. Then, it would bake. In the first week of May, it seemed the first thunderstorm of summer had arrived. Clouds blackened the sky, and lightning rumbled in the distance. But then the tempest blew away, as if to warn us of what was to come.
For weeks, customers have been asking Maria Castor, the chef and owner of Spain Restaurant, for her gazpacho.
She knows it is time.
Next week, she says. Next week, it will begin.
Another summer. Another burden to bear. Castor, 63, will wake up at 4:30 a.m. to select the best vegetables from the farmer's market on 30th Street. In the kitchen by 9 a.m., she will bend over to chop up the onions, the cucumbers, the tomatoes.
It is hot, again. And she has more cold soup to prepare.
In his carport, Zack Chapman has been oiling up his Waverunner, getting it ready for the water again. Finally, the bay is warm. He and his neighbor, Mark Burchell, pack up the cooler and gas up the beast.
Idle for months, the Waverunner slows on turns on its inaugural run. But they don't care. They're bare chested at the beach on a Friday. Summer has begun.
At the library at the University of South Florida, sliding glass doors open. Cold air rushes out. In the basement, it's so quiet, you can hear the air conditioning hum. Rows of books sit abandoned, until next fall.
One student - the only one - sits in the back, his hand on his forehead, reading a paperback. He contemplates summer school and catching up.
Downtown, men are taking off their blazers. They are choosing short-sleeve shirts.
Linda Dieguez, 38, spreads out a picnic blanket at Lykes Gaslight Square Park and sips peppermint tea. She takes off her shoes.
At home, she can sit on her deck and watch the shadows fall over her house. She'll sit there at twilight with her husband and cut his hair.
On Davis Islands, a couple reclines on lawn chairs. A jogger running by Peter O. Knight Airport gives up, exhausted, clutching his arms to his side.
At Picnic Island, Jennifer Coggins-Simoes sits in the playground and thinks of summers past. This was where she came not so long ago to skinny dip, to drink, to stay out until sunrise.
Now, she drags on a cigarette. Her son, Nicholas, runs around a jungle gym.
"Hey! Hey! Hey!" he asks his mommy, who will turn 20 in June.
"What is this ant?"
"What is this needle?"
"Is that crab dead?"
"It's hot as hell," she says. "As soon as I finish this cigarette, we're out of here."
The stretch of road that leads out of Picnic Island simmers in the sun. Sheets of heat are rising off the asphalt.
Lovebugs fly into the windshield, like little pop-up ads. They are announcing: Summer is coming.
[Last modified May 9, 2004, 01:39:25]
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