November 27: Beautiful and Familiar Glory, Christmas Essay, Elizabeth Alexander, "Butter," Off the Top of My Head

Ives was sitting beside Annie in his old neighborhood church on another Christmas Day looking up at the altar.  There were vases with dozens of orchids on either side of the chalice and pots of blossoms set out on the marble floors and against the columns, garlands of ivy strung along the gallery above.  In the choir stall they had installed the creche with its figures of the shepherds and kings and angels on high and the Holy Family inside the stable, the baby Jesus, the light of this world, at its center.  And they had covered the roof of the stable with evergreen boughs and someone had burned fragrant incense.  That morning as Ives first walked into the sanctuary again, hat in hand and with his wife by his side, he remembered that beautiful and familiar glory.

Ives seems to measure his life by Christmas memories.  The Christmas he first met his wife, Annie.  The Christmas Annie was pregnant with their first child.  The Christmas Ives experiences a mystical vision of God's goodness.  The Christmas their son, Robert, was killed on the steps of a church.  Christmas is a touchstone of family joy and sorrow for Ives.  Beautiful and familiar glory.

Christmas memories have been with me all day.  I've been working on my annual Christmas essay.  I made good progress.  By the time I go to bed tonight, I hope to have it pretty much completed.  I started at around 7:30 this morning, while my family was still sleeping off their Thanksgiving turkey.  The house was filled with Christmas lights and silence, except for the occasional snore or fart from a sleeping form.  I was able to really focus for an extended period of time.

This afternoon, I practiced with my band for our Christmas concert next weekend.  It's been over a year since we recorded the songs on our Christmas CD, so we had to reacquaint ourselves with the music.  Come up with some different arrangements.  Make a few adjustments.  It was a productive rehearsal.

Tonight, while my daughter and her friend (who's a boy) are watching Netflix, I will be working on my Christmas essay again.  Hopefully, putting the finishing touches on it.  My goal is to have it pretty much done by the time my wife gets home from work.

I am really thankful that I've had so much writing time today.  That it feels like I'm so close to completion.  I've been struggling with this essay for quite some time; I was almost at the point of abandoning the idea of having a new Christmas essay this year.

No fairy tale this evening.  Saint Marty's saving up his creativity reserves for tonight.

Butter

by:  Elizabeth Alexander

My mother loves butter more than I do,

more than anyone. She pulls chunks off

the stick and eats it plain, explaining

cream spun around into butter! Growing up

we ate turkey cutlets sauteed in lemon

and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles,

butter melting in small pools in the hearts

of Yorkshire puddings, butter better

than gravy staining white rice yellow,

butter glazing corn in slipping squares,

butter the lava in white volcanoes

of hominy grits, butter softening

in a white bowl to be creamed with white

sugar, butter disappearing into

whipped sweet potatoes, with pineapple,

butter melted and curdy to pour

over pancakes, butter licked off the plate

with warm Alaga syrup. When I picture

the good old days I am grinning greasy

with my brother, having watched the tiger

chase his tail and turn to butter. We are

Mumbo and Jumbo’s children despite   

historical revision, despite

our parent’s efforts, glowing from the inside

out, one hundred megawatts of butter.

Off the Top of My Head

November 18: Why Me, Darkness and Light, Two Haiku, Buson, Off the Top of My Head

But for all that, there hummed through his body a sorrow and loneliness that took him back to his son's death.  The very thought made him dig into his own skin, deep scratches further enflaming his condition of old:  cutting himself and bloody and restless turning all night, an impossible itchiness--"un picazon" he told Ramirez--hives ravaging his knee and arm joints, bumps formed under his arms.  He knew it was really bad when welts rose on his back and blotches appeared floating like large measle dots on his face, a depressing state, because he felt like a leper, not wanting to touch or be touched, and he would twist and turn and ask, "Why me?" and "Why is it going on and on?"

For decades, Ives tortures himself like this.  He can't let go of his sadness and grief.  If he tries to be happy, he feels guilty, and the guilt manifests as scratches and oozing sores on his body.  Every day is a punishment for Ives.  At night, one question swoops through the air above him like a fruit bat--"Why?"  Ives wants to understand the reason behind his son's death and his own unending sorrow.

I have been in a quiet state of sorrow myself for the past three months.  I try not to let it overwhelm me.  It's difficult some days.  Driving to work in the morning this past week, I've been listening to a radio station that has been playing just Christmas music.  Bing Crosby.  The Carpenters.  Johnny Mathis.  Every morning, I've cried.  I'm not sure if it's the early hour, the music, or my tired state of mind.  By the time I get to the medical office, I'm a mess. I have to sit in my car for a few minutes just to pull myself together.

I don't think I'm as bad as Ives.  I don't brood or avoid happy occasions, and I haven't stopped participating in any of my normal activities.  In fact, I'm currently planning a Christmas concert to benefit a local homeless shelter.  I am able to function.  Yet, sometimes, when I'm alone, there's a sadness that descends upon me.  It's palpable, like putting on a wet bathing suit.

I know that grief is a process.  I simply can't wake up one morning and say, "Okay, I'm done with being sad.  Time to move on."  It just doesn't work that way.  And I'm getting better.  There are whole days where I don't experience that clinging sadness.  I am very thankful for days like that.  Other days are more challenging.  And I am thankful for days like that, too, because they remind me to cherish my blessings--my family, home, jobs.

You can't have light without darkness.  That's just the way the universe works.  The darkness defines the light.  Therefore, Saint Marty is thankful for the darkness.

Two Haiku

by:  Buson

     Calligraphy of geese
against the sky--
     the moon seals it.


     It cried three times,
the deer,
     then silence.

Off the Top of My Head

December 17: Christmas Dough, Christmas Concert, Christmas Prayer

"Just my Christmas dough.  For presents and all.  I haven't done any shopping at all yet."

That's Holden's sister, Phoebe, talking.  Holden has run out of spending money, and Phoebe is trying to give him her Christmas money.  She hasn't done any of her holiday shopping.  She only has eight dollars and eighty-five cents.

Funny thing, Phoebe has about as much money as I do this year to spend on Christmas.  I started my shopping this evening on Amazon.  I'm not a big fan of huge retailers, and I think Amazon is killing the independent booksellers.  However, when you're strapped for cash, you can't really beat Amazon and Walmart.  There's reasons why everything they sell is so cheap.  First, they don't pay their employees living wages.  Second, all their merchandise is made by seven-year-olds in sweatshops in China and Guam.  And, third, they're run by soulless millionaire and billionaire Republicans.

I started my Christmas shopping finally this evening.  I couldn't avoid it any longer.  My sister lives in Utah, so I have to plan a little ahead for her kids.  She has four boys and two girls.  Many years ago, I instituted the rule of buying only books for my nieces and nephews.  I got a little tired of the endless lists of gadgets and games and phones and computers and laptops.  Everyone knows now that Uncle Marty gives the written word for Christmas.

I went to my daughter's Christmas band concert tonight.  But it's not called a Christmas concert.  It's called a "Winter" concert, which is a load of crap.  Any concert in which I hear three different versions of  "Jolly Old Saint Nicholas" is a Christmas concert.  And the music filled me with the Christmas spirit enough to make me click onto Amazon when I got home.

Dear God,

I know that money and expensive presents aren't the reason for Christmas.  I know about sacrifice and humility and charity.  I know about giving unto the least of my brothers and sisters.  I learned all that stuff in religion class when I was a kid.

But there's so much that I can't do this year.  So much that I simply don't have the energy and spirit for.   I'm not dreaming of a white Christmas.  I'm not decking any halls.  I'm not singing with any choirs of angels.

And that's what I'm praying for tonight.  It's a Christmas prayer.  I want to experience a little joy this holiday season.  I'm not asking for a full-blown George Bailey moment.  I'll be satisfied with something simple, small.

A phone call from a friend.  A beautiful song on the radio.  A new job.  A multimillion-dollar lottery jackpot.

I'm not asking for much.

Your faithful servant,

Saint Marty

I don't really miss this...

December 14: Going to Puke, Sick Daughter, No New Anything

While I was walking up the stairs, though, all of a sudden I thought I was going to puke again.  Only I didn't.  I sat down for a second, and then I felt better...

Holden gets really sick at the end of Catcher.  He's been wandering around New York City in the middle of December, sitting in Central Park in the middle of the night, sleeping in bus terminals.  He can barely walk at the conclusion of the book.

My daughter is sick today.  I think she has the same thing my son had yesterday.  She's been lying in bed all day with a bucket.  She hasn't thrown up at all.  She's too darn stubborn to do that, even though she would feel so much better if she did.  My son, yesterday after he vomited, ate his lunch and a few white fudge-covered Oreos.  My daughter, in contrast, prefers to remain nauseous.  What can I say?  She's a teenager.

I have no new poem or new cartoon for you guys tonight.  I have not been lazy today.  On the contrary, I've been quite busy.  I took my son to a Christmas party this morning so he could sit on Santa's lap and ask for gifts I can't afford to buy him.  Then this afternoon, I worked on my house again with my sister-in-law.  We cleaned bookshelves, moved furniture, talked about converting the attic into a bedroom for my daughter.  And then, after I finished at home, I had to go to mass this evening and play the pipe organ,

I'm beat, and I don't really have anything to show for it.  My house looks great, and I have a bag of candy bars my son got from Santa.  I need to work on my Christmas poem, and I need to write out my Christmas cards.  I also need to take a picture of my kids in their Christmas outfits tomorrow.

Oh, yeah, my kids have a Christmas program at church in the morning.  And then a birthday party for my daughter, and then a Christmas concert in the evening.

No wonder Saint Marty has no new anything this evening.

My son wants world peace and a Nintendo 3DS (whatever the hell that is)

December 4: Charles Dickens, Mixed Up, a Wednesday Prayer

...Her goddam hat blows off and he catches it, and then they go upstairs and sit down and start talking about Charles Dickens.  He's both their favorite author and all.  He's carrying this copy of  Oliver Twist and so's she.  I could've puked...

It's the time of year to talk about Charles Dickens.  After all, the guy practically invented Christmas as we know it today.  If it weren't for Scrooge and company, we probably wouldn't have the Grinch or George Bailey or Ralphie.  Snow and Christmas trees and presents and Santa Claus and small children with disabilities.  Nothing says Christmas like a dying child singing a carol.  Or a huge family, living in a shabby house, celebrating the holiday with a two-pound goose and an ounce of gin punch.

Yes, I'm feeling very Christmasy tonight.  I'm sitting on my couch, watching an SNL Yuletide special.  Tomorrow is my daughter's thirteenth birthday.  I'm going to her Christmas concert tomorrow night.  Lots of fa-la-la-la-la-laing and decking the halling.

I got a little mixed up yesterday.  Today is Wednesday.  Usually, I write about one of my many worries on Wednesdays.  Well, I got ahead of myself, and I wrote about worries on Tuesday.  This mistake may not seem like such a big deal, but I'm all messed up this evening.  I'm a creature of habit, and I want to talk about worries right now.

For instance, I want to talk about the crappy weather.  It's been snowing all day.  Now, it's raining, and they just cancelled school tomorrow for my daughter.  That probably means that her holiday concert is cancelled, as well.  If the university cancels classes tomorrow, I'm screwed.  I'm supposed to give my final exam tomorrow afternoon.  As I sit here, watching TV, the schools are falling like holly berries in a wind storm.  One by one they're dropping.

Well, I don't control the weather.  I don't control school closings.  I don't control anything.  I'm just going to say a little prayer that things turn out for the best.

Dear God,

 I'm not enjoying this weather.  It's messing things up.  I had plans.  I had my life figured out.  Final exam tomorrow in class.  Concert tomorrow night.  Birthday sleepover for my daughter Friday night.  I don't like it when You change things on me.

I know, I know.  You've got a plan.  You've always got a plan.  I just wish You'd share it with me every once in a while.  You don't have to show me everything.  I don't need to know what's going to happen in Syria or Pakistan.  You don't need to show me what's going to happen in the Middle East.  I'd like a little peak at 2014.   Stuff like jobs and money and family.  But I'll settle for a glimpse at tomorrow.

But that's not going to happen.  It's all about trust.  I have to trust You.  I haven't had good success with that recently.  Trust isn't something I'm really good at.

My prayer is for trust.  Help me to feel Your touch in my life.  And don't screw up my final exam tomorrow afternoon.

Thanks.

Your loving child,

Saint Marty

C'mon, God, give me a break