I’m in the midst of packing for the trip back to the Midwest. My half of the room is in shambles, but I’m making very good progress. Unfortunately for me, the progress might not be fast enough - I need to have everything I plan on bringing with me out of the way for the movers by the time they show up tomorrow. What remains is to organize what is going with me and what is staying into piles the movers can easily identify. I’d also like to test-pack my car to see how much room I’m dealing with. Looks like I’ll be up early this morning.

I went down to Lakeside (northeast of San Diego) this afternoon to visit a relative from my paternal grandmother’s side of the family. Jean has lived in the San Diego area since 1954, including exactly 40 years in Lemon Grove.

When my grandpa was in the Navy my grandmother took some vacation time from her job and came out to visit him for two weeks. She had been working for the telephone company back in Wisconsin, and instead of returning to her job at the end of the two weeks, she quit and married my grandpa.

Jean and her husband Red helped them get settled, and Jean organized a parcel post wedding shower for my grandmother. They got along well, and when Jean would come back to the Midwest for family reunions they would often spend time together talking about those early days in San Diego. Needless to say, I’m quite thankful to Jean for everything she did fifty years ago, because without her help, I might not be here today.

Jean also organized and published a genealogy of that side of the family. Entitled simply Duellman (the name of the family), her book traces the family line from Heinrig Duellman, who naturalized here in 1856, and his wife, Wilhelmina.

At the time she published the book (1980) there were 1430 direct blood descendants of that couple. When I arrived at Jean’s the number stood at 1551, and by the time I left I’d upped it to 1552 with information about a cousin Jean was not aware of. I’m the only one of my grandmother’s grandchildren she has met, and after we did the math we realized it had been over twenty two years since we had last seen one another. Of course, I don’t remember meeting her (I must have been about two at the time), but the bonds of family are pretty strong on the Duellman side, and we fell into good conversation right away.

Jean told me that the Wisconsin Historical Society had requested a copy of Duellman when it was published, and I intend to see if it is still in the archives when I move up to Madison.

She also told me that she had originally wanted to include causes of death in the book, but many family members either did not send the information or (especially in cases of cancer) did not want to have it published. I found that to be an interesting piece of information - I think society has changed enough that such information would probably be readily given today, especially when one considers the value that would have in determining family susceptibility to illness and disease. It’s a shame people thought differently back then, but diseases like cancer carried an entirely different stigma at the time.

As I was leaving Jean gave me a standing invitation to stay with her should I ever return to San Diego. I don’t know that I’ll be back this way any time soon, but it is nice to know that I’ll have a place to stay should I ever need it.

And now, to sleep. I’m going to have to be up around six if I’m going to be ready when the movers show up.

Sunday night was a time for reflection. My buddy Vinny and I sat down with a bunch of the new guys to watch a Marine Corps boot camp documentary. The documentary was filmed in San Diego roughly at the same time I was there. It follows the training of Platoons 1137 and 1141 from Charlie Company. I was in Platoon 1146 of Bravo Company, meaning I was just behind the recruits in the film. One of my other buddies from my deployment, Rivera (who I call Duncan because he’s about as big as NBA star Tim Duncan), was in 1141.

It was amusing to watch, both because of the intense memories from that period of my life and because I can remember how hard everything seemed at the time. Of course the filmmakers couldn’t show all the insane stuff that happened (it would give away the surprise to future recruits and I’m sure many watchdog organizations would have collective heart attacks), but the film was enough to send me on a stroll down memory lane.

A few days before I went to boot camp my buddy Arliss and I were watching Full Metal Jacket. I hadn’t seen the film before and Arliss felt it was necessary for anyone about to do what I had planned. I remember not being able to stop laughing at the antics of R. Lee Ermey as he whipped (literally) his rag-tag bunch of draftees into men about to go off to war in Southeast Asia. I’m sure it wasn’t meant to be funny, and what I went through certainly wasn’t funny to me at the time, but looking back on it all now I’m able to laugh because it’s a process necessary for every Marine to go through. My grandpa likely feels much the same way about his time in Navy boot camp 52 years ago. In fact, we swap stories occasionally, talking about how crazy our instructors were and the even crazier stuff they made us do. During boot camp I was even interviewed by a reporter for a newspaper from New Ulm, MN who happened to be visiting the depot. The text of the interview is still on-line and provides a look into my life at the recruit depot.
A lot of the guys from my platoon are probably in their last week of work or on leave and waiting to go home like I am. It’s strange to think that the thirty or so of us that graduated (out of an initial platoon of 88, I believe) are at the same crossroads together. And yet, just like in boot camp, we’re a team, forever bound by those thirteen weeks of insanity, sweat, and heartache.

I was sorting and packing old address books this weekend when I came across one I had during boot camp. In it are names of guys from that platoon I’ll never forget - Shawn James from Indianapolis, my closest friend and fellow scribe. Spencer Quiner, the quiet guy from Homer,Alaska who looked almost exactly like me. Billy Vorhies, the kind-hearted, tough-minded kid from Itasca, IL who reminded me so much of my cousin Teddy. I wonder what they’re up to, how their enlistments have treated them. Billy and I went to Infantry training together, but I haven’t seen him since. The last time I saw Shawn or Spencer was in March of 2003 as they left for their occupational training. Guys, if you find your names popping up in a Google search with a link to this site, drop me an e-mail. I’d love to hear how you and your families are doing.

I think about my drill instructors, SSgt McLaughlin, Sgt Maciel, and Sgt Brown. I haven’t seen SSgt M or Sgt Brown since 2003, but I recently ran into now-SSgt Maciel when I was down at the lake on base. We chatted briefly before returning to our respective runs.

It’s strange to be leaving it all behind. Sometimes I feel like “Red” in The Shawshank Redemption, wondering how I’ll adjust to life on the outside. I worry about being institutionalized, the lack of a steady paycheck, the uncertainty of no health insurance. I wonder what my place in the world will be like, if I’ll ever fit back into the society I left four years ago.

I’m ready for the past to be a bunch of memories, scattered on the beach of my consciousness like sea shells, but the future looms above me like an enormous wave I have to surf. In my experience you fall often when you surf, and you have to maintain a sharp look-out for sharks. However, standing here on the edge of the sand, I’ve got to say the water looks inviting.

I’m really happy to be leaving California.  Really happy.  The last few months have been extremely stressful, both in terms of my professional and personal lives.  The work schedule of the past two months was intense, with two field operations lumped on top of my out-processing responsibilities.

Combined with work was the application and admissions process for school next semester.   I would come back to my room in the barracks after work, already feeling defeated and worn down from the day, and I would sit down at my computer and plunk out some part of my application - my personal statement, my personal/extra-curricular activities history, my application itself - in an effort to turn in my Wisconsin two weeks early (as I would be in the field when the application was actually due).

I also had a commitment to my newspaper writing, something that I entered into eagerly and still enjoy.  As a result of my various diversions, this site has suffered.  The number of daily visitors has dropped by half, and it’s not the fault of the readership.  I’ve stepped away from the commitment I made here to attend to other things which were a higher priority (some to me, some to other individuals).

I’m not going away, at least as long as my cable Internet provider (I hope someone at Cox is reading this) doesn’t fail me.  In the past month I’ve had to call the company on two separate occasions because my connection has dropped completely.  Being an IT guy by trade, I can generally fix anything that is wrong on my end (nothing), but of course to get any kind of service on the other end I have to navigate through an annoying automated troubleshooting system, repeating “I WANT TO SPEAK TO A REPRESENTATIVE” countless times before, finally, I’m hot-routed to a customer “service” rep.

I can count how many times Cox’s rep has been helpful or able to provide me with service on the outstretched fingers of a clenched fist.  Tonight was such an occasion.  At about 8:30 I attempted to do some research for a few of the changes I’m planning for this site.  I begin to fret when, five minutes later, nothing has loaded in my browser.  I disconnect the modem to refresh the connection, but when it comes back on the link light is dead.

I call Cox.

The automated system begins the tired routine, asking me to verify that my modem is unable to connect, then telling me to do everything I have already done to attempt to connect to the service.  Not in the mood for tomfoolery, I continually request a representative until I am finally put on hold for the next available individual.

Travis, the rep, can’t help me.  We try refreshing everything, both on his end, and mine.  Travis informs me that he’s going to dispatch a tech to come look everything over, which I agree is a good idea.  After all, there just might be something wrong with Cox’s equipment in the server closet of the barracks.

Then Travis gives me the bad news - the tech won’t be here until sometime Saturday.  I inform him in no uncertain terms that I find the wait completely unacceptable, especially in light of my previous problem this month.  Travis informs me that this is, in fact, the third time I’ve had to call Cox in three months, and that if I call their billing department tomorrow I can request my service be prorated to absorb the lost time.

I thank Travis for his suggestion, but inform him I’d rather have someone come fix the service I’m paying for already.  When Travis says it’s very unlikely that I’ll see someone before Saturday (but he’ll put me in the standby line, just in case!) I request to speak to the manager.  Surely a manager can do something.

The wait on hold for the supervisor takes 25 minutes.  By the time Manager Brad announces his presence on the line I’m fuming.  No service for nearly an hour.  Waiting until Saturday for the cable company to fix their problem.  Quite the way to run the business.

I tell Manager Brad all my problems.  The polar ice caps are melting, the North Koreans have The Bomb, and oh, my Internet service is down.  I don’t need help with fixing the air pollution in LA, but I could use a little help connecting to the Web.  You know, Brad, in case any of the schools I applied to send me important emails or I decide I want to update my blog for once in a blue moon.

Brad says that, as a mighty manager for Cox, he can’t do anything.  But he can make sure I’m on standby.  I tell him that I’m already on standby.
Brad: Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, sir?

Me: Well, Brad, have you been able to do anything for me so far?

Brad:  Umm…no…

Me:  Then it would seem pretty pointless for me to expect you to be able to do anything else, right?

Brad:  Well…

Me:  It seems to me, Brad, that the usefulness of this conversation has expired.

Brad:  Well, sir, if you feel that way I’d like to thank yo-

Me: *click*

I’m not proud of giving Manager Brad a little verbal abuse, but it seems to me that Travis is getting the short end of the stick.  The stress of the last two months is slowly ebbing, but little things seem to be continually working their way under my skin and annoying me like the cake crumbs inside the rhinoceros’ skin.

I’m slowly working my way back here.  Two posts this week, two last week, hopefully one this weekend.  I have interesting things going on - packing up belongings, burning CDs for the long drive back, reading Zamyatin - things you might like to read about.

Things I’m going to start writing about again (again).

Let it rain
I need rain to disguise the tears in my eyes
Yeah, You know I’m a man, I ain’t got no pride,
Til it rains, I’m gonna stay inside,
Let it rain, Let it rain
Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…
Oh how I wish that it would rain…

-The Temptations “I Wish It Would Rain”

This weekend saw the first rainfall in the area that I can remember since early spring. I’ve been unhappy with the weather for some time now, especially knowing that friends and family back in the Midwest have been enjoying the glories of autumn. Now that the yearly shift from the dry to rainy season is slowly approaching I’m starting to feel a bit better.

I was talking with some friends this weekend about Seasonal Affective Disorder. Growing up in the Midwest I’d always assumed that SAD was something that happened to people who struggled to deal with the decreased amount of sunlight during the winter months. I had friends in my high school class who fought the effects of SAD every year, starting almost regularly with the shift to longer nights in October and bottoming out in December and January, right in time for the holidays.

My favorite seasons have traditionally been autumn and winter. I thrive in the cool (and cold) air, relishing the revitalizing sharpness in the air. I always would feel low around the holidays myself, but I knew it wasn’t SAD that made me feel that way, and unlike my friends who seemed to emerge from some inner refuge at the end of the winter, I always felt a bit of a downturn in my spirits when the snow melted off and the buds on the trees began to bloom.

Living in California has given me an insight to their annual torment. I’ve never been so excited to see rain as I was Friday evening, at least not so in recent memory. Overexposure to the sun apparently isn’t my cup of tea. With overcast days a luxury in Southern California during the summer months, I realized with the recent precipitation how much I’ve missed actual weather. Of course we have hotter days, or windier days, at times, but there aren’t the noticeable differences in climate that are one of the great joys of living in the Midwest.

I wouldn’t characterize my battle against the bland weather of Southern California as a personal fight with seasonal depression. After spending an entire summer in the Iraqi desert I know I can handle the harshest, most diametrically opposed environment possible given my disposition. But at the same time, I can’t help but wonder if my frame of mind hasn’t been in some way altered all summer long because of my thirst for something other than day after day of glaring sunshine.

In 16 days this will be a moot point. I will be leaving Southern California for good and returning to a Midwest already in the last throes of autumn, the sunlight will fade, and perhaps I’ll have some rain on my parade. What a pleasant welcome home that would be.