Entry # 77: January 7, 2007

Mainz, Germany

A new year, a new beginning. Everyone welcomes a new year. It is a time to create good habits, end bad habits, see old friends, and kiss new ones. After an extended hiatus from writing, during which I packed my gear in Baghdad, flew back to Germany, partied like David Hasselhoff for a month, and then returned to my beloved Georgia for Christmas and New Year’s, I am about to attempt to regain a sense of normalcy in my life.

But before I bring normalcy to the forefront, I shall entertain you with the stories of the recent past. I arrived back in Germany on November 7, 2006. Many of y’all asked me what the first thing I did once I was back in Germany. Well, the first thing I did was step off the Boeing 737 and take a deep breath and fill my lungs with the crisp, cool, divine air that flowed between the slightly sloping green mountains filled with Riesling grapes in the vineyards surrounding Ramstein Airbase. To be succinct, it was nice to smell fresh air that did not reek of Joseph’s baby diapers after a helping of Gerber’s special blend of peas and carrots.

Many of you know that I am a lover of fine things. I am not a man of excess, though we all tend to do too much at times. Upon my arrival I was granted three bottles of Glenfiddich (apparently people know my favorite brand of 12 year old single-malt scotch) and a myriad number of Cuban cigars. The first night I was back, the excitement of the moment was almost too much. It was just comforting to be in a country where you were surrounded by good friends and yet, no one was trying to kill you. There is a certain sense of personal achievement that first night back. “I made it.” The words echo throughout the night. You look to your left and then to your right and exchange knowing glances with the comrades that were there with you and you toast the ones that should have been there with you. At once, you get a sense of relief and accomplishment. “I made it.”

I guess it is fairly different for Soldiers like me. By “like me”, I mean all single Germany-based Soldiers. You go to one hostile foreign land and return to a fairly benign friendly country that is not your own. You return “home“, and yet, for single Soldiers like myself, you are not yet really home. I cannot speak for my married Soldiers, for I cannot begin to understand their difficulties, but I will share my voice for the single ones. Let me begin by saying this. I love Germany. It is a fantastic country. But it is not my home and I think I speak for my single Soldiers when I say it is not their home either. The best night of 2006 for me occurred on December 14, 2006. My best night of 2006 was 50 weeks in the making. It was the day I truly came home.

My momma is the perfect Southern belle. She is all 8 fruits of the spirit (you church-going folk should know this and if you don’t, you’d better find out) and is very proud of me for reasons I don’t even know why. She concocted a fantastic coming home party for me that began with her, my Dad, my brother Matthew, and my lovely cousin Summer greeting me at the Atlanta airport as I ascended the escalator (my claim to fame with Summer from here to eternity is that I am the first person she met at the airport. Ever. And she had a sign that read “Welcome Home” and decorated it like I was Aerosmith in 1977. God bless you, Summer). The party was a “come on by and holla-at-us” ordeal. There were so many great friends there I can’t even name them all. But, dammit, I will try, for they deserve the mention. There was Eric, Kevin, Brad, and Caroline, four of the best friends I could ever have. The McWilliams, the Irwins, the Rumbles, the Dunbars, and the hilarious Hinesleys (Mrs. Pam, I am proud of you). I cannot forget my neighbors, Mrs. Wheelus and Mrs. Geib (I miss Mr. Hugh and Mr. Bill too). To the Fosters and the Sims and everyone else, all I can say is thank you. Those are the finest two words in my vocabulary that can describe everything y’all have done.

Then there was the time after the return. I was home in Georgia, the land of the sweetest peaches (both the ones that grow on trees and the ones that don’t). The Christmas of 2005 was the first year ever that I had spent away from my Mom and Dad. It was the worst one yet. Coming home again brought back the memories I had always remembered yet had not cherished as much as I should. It wasn’t so much seeing the presents lined up on the big leather chair that I enjoyed, but rather, seeing the excited “you might be able to vote but Santa still brought you something” looks my parents gave Matthew, Joseph, and me as we came rambling down the stairs at the leisurely hour of 9:30am. I shall always believe that the best gift of the day was the new luxurious green and navy bathrobe Matthew, Joseph, and I gave to my Dad to replace the well-worn pink and neon green shroud that revealed to everyone in attendance the authenticity of our surname.

To continue on with the Long’s version of the “Christmas Story”, we actually need to rewind a bit. In the Long family, there is a tradition. It is a tradition that has transcended generations. We have had recent losses (We lost my Papa in January of 2005. He was a great man and we should all aspire to be like him. Papa, your blue polyester jacket will hang forever in my hero hall of fame.) We also have welcomed some new faces. Sherry, Morgan, and Brook, three of my very lovely cousins, have exceeded all odds and found three different men to fall in love with them. God bless those three men. I hope they know what they got into.

On the Saturday before Christmas, the Long family gathers in an undisclosed location (it’s classified, sorry) and proceeds to barbeque in a distinctly Southern style. In recent years, it has began with my father awaking before the sun even sees the horizon over the Atlantic Ocean and then he starts the most basic of human accomplishments: the fire. Soon after, the Long men flow towards the flame. The whole day is mostly measured. It is measured in coals and questions. “How soon should we add more coals?” “How soon shall we put the meat to the flame?” “How soon should we turn the meat?“ How soon should we have the first Bloody Mary?”

I guess the best recent memories and the most markedly Southern ones begin with barbequing massive quantities of meat There is the previously mentioned fantastic Long family barbeque, where the gifts are merely a sideshow (as Christmas should be) compared to the company of loyal and fun family. My Dad, due to the overwhelming demand of Long Family Barbeque (our motto, For all you do, this Butt’s for you), has extended the cooking days to include other honorable men--and I use this term loosely--such as Conyers City Councilman Chris Bowen, former Rockdale County Commissioner Wayne Ingle, and whom my father refers to as his “token Democrat friend” and a great (non-partisan, albeit) American, Judge David Irwin. Those three men have enlightened me in ways I cannot describe here.

On December 22, 2006, there began a new chapter in the Long family barbequing legacy. It was the one I started. The sun was almost halfway through the cloudy Friday sky and rain had already dampened the parade along the holiday shopper lined streets of Turner Hill Mall Rd. and HWY 138. However, we would not be deterred. My youngest brother Joseph and I erected a tarp at around 9:30am and began a fire with traditional Long family means (still classified, but no gasoline). Soon after, my good friend Eric Moses joined us in the barbequing endeavor. We had just put coals under the pit and poured our first Bloody Marys when my Tiger Scout compadre, Brad Tanner, arrived. It was all she wrote from there.

Brad arrived. We had fun. We cooked and basted the meat in the incredibly flavored sauce devised by three generations of the Long Family. The barbeque is and was fantastic. That is not the question in doubt here. What makes the barbeque so great is the process it goes through and the people involved in that process. Later on that day, I had several dear old friends arrive. Rob Baker, who along with his Dad took me to my first ever University of Georgia football game, showed up. Latif Dharamsi drove three hours from Nashville after his Fall Medical School exams just to be with boyhood friends. Andrew Bray drove six hours through the boring stretch of I-75 in South Georgia just to experience authentic Long Family barbeque. “I would drive to the ends of the earth for some good Long barbeque,“ the infamous Andrew Michael Bray told me. He is a great American.

We are an American (distinctly Southern) family. The best meal of the year is always Christmas dinner. My Dad and Mom gladly spend more money on Christmas dinner than any other holiday dinner combined. With us three boys recently all of voting age, the times we will spend together will only dwindle in number. However, we still enjoy every Christmas as if it was our last. My favorite thing about my family is that even though we are so great at many things, we combine our best talents to make the perfect family meal. Matthew makes homemade mashed potatoes with chives and bacon, Joseph adds insight to the baking of the biscuits. My Mom bakes the most sublime green bean casserole and advises us on the rest. My Dad grills a beef tenderloin marinated with red wine and spices. My own addition is sautéed button mushrooms in a delightful mixture filled with spices. It is a labor of love at its finest and is the most pure American utopian familial experience.

The Saturday after Christmas, my Uncle James was gracious enough to invite my brothers and I for a bird hunt on his tract of land just south of Augusta, Georgia. My Uncle James is a Southern Gentleman of the most magnificent quality. Matthew (my middle brother) and I were the first two up to go after the birds. Those quail, pheasant, and chuckers knew they were in for a long day when Matthew and I strolled though the thorn patches and underbrush of the floodplain of the Savannah River. We took down birds on our first 10 shots. Matthew hit his first four, I hit my first six. It was a fantastic day just to be back in the great outdoors and swap stories. I cannot recall how many birds we ended up with, but I’m pretty sure we thinned out the coveys a bit.

I rang in the new year at another great friend’s residence. Kevin Jeselnik threw a little fiesta at his fantastic abode that stands in the shadows of the Atlanta skyline. For dinner, I cooked pheasant breast marinated in white wine and spices and quail with bourbon, bacon, and rosemary (the birds were quite fresh). It was a marvelous evening that culminated in me shooting a champagne cork at Kevin at the behest of his lovely girlfriend. It was a good time and my aim was true.

At times, I question my decision to join the Army and head to Germany and the lands beyond. Yet, every time I venture home I am reminded of why I did it. Sure the experiences and stories and accomplishments could fill a novel or two, but it each visit home reminds me of the great characteristics of my family, my friends, and the other notable folk who have molded me into the man I have become. I truly miss seeing, talking, and hanging out with the dearest people in my life on a daily, weekly, or even monthly basis. However, I am even more blessed to see how they have all flourished in my absence and grown as gentlemen and ladies of the future and matured as the leaders of the present. People today decry the state of the union. But to me, as long as folk like the ones I have mentioned above are alive and well, my State, and more generally, my region and my country will be alright.

That is a comforting thought.