In the Merry Month of July

... From my home I started. Wisconsin-- sweet Wisconsin. A bounteous land known for football, beer, festivals, motorcycles, fishing, and serial killers. Why anybody would ever leave, I still don't know.

But, I opted to. So I packed off and headed to California. It oddly enough doesn't seem like that big of a jump. California has Orange County Choppers, Wisconsin has a little upstart called Harley Davidson; California is getting better at dairy production-- an art form that was perfected back home. Microbreweries are popping up all over Cali. Beer? Yeah, we Cheeseheads have heard of it. So ultimately, it seemed to me that everything that had ever been perfected in Wisconsin sooner or later headed to the Golden Coast. Why should yours truly be the exception?

That being said, I'm writing this as a recording of my struggles. I can only hope that some of you will appreciate that. You should know that I did not have enough time to get to a computer and blog nonstop this past week, so some of the next few days is going to be by memory.

I left the Dairyland on a day so hot in July that thinking about it should cure any homesickness for the foreseeable future. All the ladies begged me, "Please don't go, you're so sexy." At least that's what happened as best I can remember it. With a wink to said lasses and a tearful goodbye to my folks and family, I took off. I also need to give a nod to my friend PBo, who organized a smokeful goodbye the previous night at the local cigar bar and watering hole.

The oddest thing about my leaving was that so many old friends came out of nowhere. One friend was passing through while on vacation from his post in Connecticut. I ran into others with whom I had attended grade school, and still others that I hadn't seen in a number of years. The odds of seeing all of these people, from so many different places, in such a short time are fairly staggering.

Part of my drive to experience new things, to do things like move to California on an educated lark, is because I don't feel like I can help it. I need to struggle, to indulge in what Teddy called "the strenuous life". I feel made for it; like it's in my fiber. That said, every lunatic in the history of man has claimed that their actions are because God, or the Devil, or Dan Rather drove them to act against their better will. I can't make that claim. This is my decision, the consequences will be mine to deal with. Still, I look back on the dwindling last days that I had spent back home and I can know that I'm blessed. And I can only hope that the chance encounters were maybe, against my typically cynical approach to life itself, not only a reminder that I am blessed, but a blessing on the journey to come.