October 12, 1975: Sunday

Up early to help Tim. Played mellow songs. “Leavin’ on a Jet Plane” for the Winter Overs. Then some good heavy things. Jan came down to visit. Tim doesn’t really like her. She has a face like Hot Lips Houlihan and a voice to match. She leaves the lingering essence of “Flau-en-tet” behind her when she goes. She and Tom were sitting together in the mess, so Tim razed him a little.

The Happy Hawaiian didn’t show up, so ol’ Raoul took over. Played album sides. Got a lot of requests, from Tim (Alice Cooper and the Beatles), from a mess cook (Tull), and one for Rick Wakeman and Genesis and Marshall Tucker and Grateful Dead. Had a blast, welcoming everyone to “Radio McMurdo, Capital of Antarctica.” Met Pat Somebody or Other, Pete’s roommate. He wandered in. He’s a Country freak.

An Army dude named Bob “Spider” is in charge of fixing up the station with new equipment. I played Close to the Edge for Sam and turned things over to him.

Met Donna, an enlisted woman. She’s short and fat, but has a face like Marylin Bath. (And hair and freckles.) There are some other enlisted women down here. First year for it. I just know that Marie will show up, but I don’t have 20 dollars.

Locked myself out of my room. Called the Chalet. Wouldn’t have done it if I’d known there was a conference. Seems, according to Bio-Mike, that someone got killed today.

That’s a sobering thought.

Mail, again. Got a package from home with my duffel bag - clothes bag in it. I can reuse the box. Also had all the papers up to September 12. No wedding announcement. A letter from home and Grandma. Gee, she likes to talk about all her friends illnesses.

I think I’ll enter the football contest, just for the heck of it, even though I am an employe’s son and it’ll be five weeks late. Send along a letter to the editor, too.

Going to write Grandma, if I can remember the address and start to work on the McCormick-Guy family tree.

Got another letter from Nancy. It was almost mushy. ‘Tis a very delicate problem. The letter deserves an answer. It was a good letter. But I don’t like to be in sticky wickets. When someone’s feelings are going to be hurt, I know a fairly painless extraction. But it’s not my style. Maybe I should just tell Deb, and it will go away.

Six mailings, four zip codes. Gee. But they still get to me.

Speaking of ol’ Deb, got another letter from her. Started off with “Hi, love.” I wish she’d quit doing that. She even got her own zip code wrong (it was Auburn’s). She was in a Mood for a Day. I hoped I helped her.

The monthly bulletin from church came down. Good old junk mail. Haven’t even met J.B. Choate.

One from Janet. Signed it Jan and no name on the return address. But I know her handwriting and her way of phrasing things. She wins a penguin.

And from Cathy. Said she and Toodles missed me. The last six weeks have all been worthwhile and there is peace in my soul.

Death affects different people in different ways. Some people die from it. (I’m sorry.) Jeff Rude was a nice, quiet scuba diver, for what I knew of him. Very dedicated. He happened to be driving 504 on very thin ice and did not get out when the trackmaster went in. It’s strange. Everyone knows, but no one will say, that Jeff is dead. So I’m still not positive.

John Oliver goes on like nothing happened. A little too much like nothing happened. Dan Watson relates his misfortune in the accident. I don’t know the seal person. They walked fifteen miles from Turtle Rock to McMurdo.

Sam and Emmett went out to mark the bad ice. A job has to be done. Pete is indiscreet. My main source of information. Crude enough to ask the wrong questions to get the right information.

I feel sorry for Bio-Mike and Dave. Bio-Mike would have been the one responsible three days ago. He’s upset because he is no longer responsible and can do nothing. I think he feels shut out and still feels a bit responsible. And Dave. I wish that he and I were friends for I feel he needs someone to talk to. (And I need the facts.) But I cannot intrude. He was defensive before about safety. And now he might get irate.

Me. I cannot be happy when misfortune happens to others. I feel guilty being happy about Cathy’s letter.