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1. What is your lineage? Where are your ancestors from? My mother’s parents were both Irish immigrants (I think the story is my grandmother was Irish but lived in Scotland, or something along those lines). My father’s parents were both born in this country, second or third generation from Italy (my grandmother) and Germany (my grandfather), respectively. Recently, my father and his sister traced the family tree back a number of years and generations, but I don’t remember much of what they discovered. I’m reasonably certain the name “Coppersmith” was Americanized somewhere along the way, and that no one in the family ever actually made copper pots.

2. Of those countries, which would you most like to visit? Of the three, probably Ireland most of all.

3. Which would you least like to visit? Why? Germany, maybe, of the three — although if someone said we’re sending you an all-expense-paid trip to Germany for a couple of weeks, I certainly wouldn’t turn them down.

4. Do you do anything during the year to celebrate or recognize your heritage? I once got a little drunk with friends on St. Patrick’s Day. That’s about it.

I’ll never forget the fan letter we got when I was writing Spec Spidey, from the kid who asked, “Dear Marvel: Does Peter David write Spider-Man’s jokes, or are they ad libs?”

Personally, it’s the writers who keep bringing me back to comic books. I can name a handful of writers artists — Glenn Fabry (warning, evil pop-ups), Jill Thompson, Dave Gibbons, Dave McKean, Alex Ross, et cetera — but it’s usually because of the writers they’ve worked with more than anything else.

So I have to go back, and the idea that I would turn in my keys today with the last little bit of rent I owe has pretty much gone out the window. That’s all right, I guess. I need to call the rental office anyway to find out exactly how much I owe them. I know it’s only around $3, but last night I couldn’t find the sheet of paper they had given me with my reduced rates for June and July. I need to mop up the rest of the water, toss the sodden newspapers, and take with me the last few cleaning items I left sitting in the kitchen. Then I can give them my keys and forwarding address, and hope that the apartment is clean enough to meet whatever exacting standards they bring to it when I’m gone.

If it’s not…well, I think I’m beyond the point of actually being able to do anything about it. Over the weekend, my mother did more work cleaning the place than I probably would have done on my own, and short of hiring a cleaning service to come in and give it one final scrub, there’s not much else I can do. It’s not as if I broke or damaged anything while I was there. They clean and repaint the apartments between tenants anyway. So I’m not worried so much as I am just eager to put this all behind me, to be finished and done and fully in my new apartment.

Today I’m going to work through lunch, go get the oil changed in my car at one o’clock, and then swing by the old apartment after five with some extra towels. Of course, that’s all assuming that my boss doesn’t call me with some emergency. Right now, he and his wife are in transit, returning from two weeks in Japan, and while he’s not due in State College until 11:30 tonight, it’s been a rare day when he hasn’t called. He was in Indianapolis before this trip, and before that, I took a couple of days vacation around the 4th of July. So I really haven’t had to see him too much this month. It’s going to be tough getting used to having him around all the time again.

I think, in truth, that’s what’s causing this stress. Not the apartment, not the rushing back and forth to get the oil changed or the rent payed, and not the staff meeting I’ve already said I’m not going to today. No, what’s causing this stress is the knowledge that at best I really only have twenty-four hours of freedom left.