The partial denture he had found inside his little impresario's coat, incidentally, was in his cufflinks box in his dresser drawer. Billy had a wonderful collection of cufflinks. It was the custom of the family to give him cufflinks every Father's Day. He was wearing Father's Day cufflinks now. They had cost over one hundred dollars. They were made out of ancient Roman coins. He had one pair of cufflinks upstairs which were little roulette wheels that really worked. He had another pair which had a real thermometer in one and a real compass in the other.
Reading this little passage, I often wonder if Billy started this cufflinks collection, if he was that obsessive about it. Having lived with Billy Pilgrim on a daily basis for close to ten months now, I can venture a guess that he really doesn't obsess about much of anything. Maybe Kilgore Trout and his books, but that's about it. Billy's cufflinks collection probably started with one pair given to him on Father's Day one year, and the next year, another pair. And so on. That's how most traditions begin--by accident.
I have been writing about Saint Marty's Day for almost six or seven years now. It started out as a passing reference and blossomed into trees and carols and tapioca pudding. It's easier for me to talk about Saint Marty's Day than a birthday. I suppose it's because I was raised to not make a big fuss about myself. Humility rather than pride. I'm not sure if that's a family thing or a Catholic thing.
However, I think humility is an important quality to possess. A lot of writers that I know exhibit very little of it. When you are a poet, there's a certain amount of self-promotion that is necessary. Poets don't become household names, so the only way to publish and sell books is to become a little like Dolly Parton. Flaunt what you got. Make your own Dollywood.
I've never been a good Dolly Parton. I prefer not to be the certain of attention at any event. I've worked hard to overcome this inclination, but it doesn't come easy. Yesterday, I ran into an old high school friend. I hadn't seen her since the summer after we graduated. The first words out of her mouth, after we hugged each other, were, "Wow, Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula." I quickly shrugged the comment off with a laugh and eye roll, and tried to switch the subject. "So," I said, "what have you been doing with your life?" Bait and switch.
I will talk about myself, if pressed hard enough. I'll talk about my poems and my life. That's why I write this blog. However, I prefer to focus on Kurt Vonnegut and Billy Pilgrim and Dolly Parton and cufflinks. I learn more about myself by doing this. Staring at the lint in my bellybutton and writing about its texture and shape and smell is not my bailiwick. Finding myself in Vonnegut, however, is.
Thus, I turn to Billy Pilgrim this evening. In exactly one week, it will be Saint Marty's Day. It's time to buy those last-minute cufflinks and trim the tree. Soon, the holiday will be upon us, in all its tapioca glory.
Saint Marty's Day. As Johnny Marty croons, "It's the most wonderful time of the yeeeeeaaaarrrr!"
