May 25: Patient Sort of Fire, Ann Patchett, "Commonwealth"

Billy Pilgrim was on fire, having stood too close to the glowing stove.  The hem of his little coat was burning.  tt was a quiet, patient sort of fire--like the burning of punk.

Billy wondered if there was a telephone somewhere.  He wanted to call his mother, to tell her he was alive and well.

Billy is literally burning up, and he doesn't even realize it.  He's too preoccupied with the idea of letting his mother know that he isn't dead.  Meanwhile, the flames are slowly eating away his overcoat.

I think that's always the case.  When some significant life event happens, most people are completely unaware of it.  Tonight, I hosted the monthly meeting of my book club.  This month's selection was Ann Patchett's Commonwealth, which is all about major life events and their disastrous aftermaths.  Two families destroyed with a kiss.  I love this book.

Book Club is always one of my favorite nights of the month.  I get to sit around with some of my favorite people in the whole world, talking about good literature (in Fannie Flagg months, mediocre literature).  And everybody brings food.  Tonight, it was pesto ravioli, a great salad, vegetables and dip, and banana bread bottom cheesecake.  So good.

One of the things I appreciate the most about these gatherings are the conversations that occur.  Yes, we talk about themes and characters and symbolism.  But we also talk about how the month's book intersects with our own lives.  For example, tonight we spent a lot of time talking about childhood and parenting and dysfunction and forgiveness.  Those are the kind of conversations I love the most.

So, I am tired.  I am also full.  Satisfied.  It was a great time.

Saint Marty is thankful this evening for his book club friends.

May 5: Epitomize, Family, Dysfunction

Ives and Annie seemed to epitomize, with their well-behaved children, a wondrous example of what a family should be like, especially in that neighborhood, where many of the kids were rough and got into trouble.  In a London Fog overcoat, with his pipe in hand, Ives would lead his little family along the streets, toward the park, ever pleased by the attention that passersby seemed to pay them.

From the outside, the Ives family looks pretty ideal.  Beautiful wife.  Successful husband.  Pious son.  Smart daughter.  They go to church together on Sundays and host Christmas parties every year for neighborhood friends.  At night, when Robert and Caroline are asleep, Ives and his wife listen to jazz recordings or retire to their bedroom for a night of quiet passion.  Perfect.


Of course, we all know there's no such thing as a perfect family.  Robert gets murdered coming out of church while Caroline is huffing glue or paint at a strange boy's apartment.  Ives sinks into a depression that lasts years.  And Annie is left to move forward in life without the help of her beloved husband.  Perfection is a myth.  It only exists in Renaissance paintings and Archie comic books.

I love my brothers and sisters and mother and father.  My parents raised nine kids during the turbulent 1970s.  They didn't lose a single child to drugs or alcohol or violence.  From the outside, our family looked pretty Brady Bunch-like.  The only problems were whether Jan felt like Marcia got all the attention or Greg saved up enough money to buy groovy decorations for his attic room.

Of course, appearances are not always accurate.  One of my brothers got his girlfriend pregnant and ended up a married, teenaged father.  We've had brushes with addictions and bankruptcy.  Bad marriages.  Divorces.  More addictions.  Dysfunction is pervasive on many levels. 

That doesn't make my family horrible.  We aren't the Al and Peg Bundy clan.  We're just a work in progress.  We argue.  Sometimes we don't talk to each other for days or weeks.  Yet, in the end, we have each others' backs.  My family hasn't always agreed with the life choices I've made.  But, in the end, we sit down every Thanksgiving together and are grateful for each other.

That's what a real family does.

And Saint Marty has a wonderful family that drives him absolutely crazy.

Love and marriage, baby...

December 10: "Carol" Dip Monday, Mental Health, Dysfunction

I come from a family that's really good at guilt and anger and depression.  The Holy Trinity of family dysfunction.  Of course, this time of year simply magnifies these problems.  We are expected to be together and behave like the Waltons.  Unfortunately, Christmas morning at my parents' house is more like celebrating with the Bunkers.  Lots of inappropriate comments, lots of whispering and eye rolling, and lots of overeating.  Throw in some depression and other mental health issues, and that's the yuletide season at the Saint Marty homestead.

Of course, my family is no different than any other family.  There's no such thing as a functional family.  There are simply levels of dysfunction.  Even the Ingalls on Little House on the Prairie had to deal with drug addiction and racism and class conflict.  If I were to rate my family, I'd place us somewhere between the Bundy clan and the Ewing clan.  Of course, that doesn't mean I hate my siblings or parents.  I love them, with all their faults.  I'm pretty sure they feel the same way about me.  (I have been the three-headed stepchild for a long time.  The lone Democrat in a family of Republicans.  A poet and musician and teacher.  I might as well wear a sign at family gatherings that reads, "Try not to talk about me until I leave the room.")

I have a particular sibling who is struggling at the moment with some severe depression and anxiety issues.  She's been struggling for quite some time.  Over a year.  If I try to talk to her about mental illness, she simply shuts down.  I can see a physical change in her body, as if she's a rose that's folding into itself to avoid a frost.  In the past, she's always been the person in charge.  The sensible one.  The one with all the answers.  Now, she puts everyone on edge.  At family dinners, she slams dishes and snatches plates.  She hollers if the fork is set on the wrong side of the plate.

Christmas and New Year's Eve for this sibling is going to be a challenge.  On New Year's Eve last year, she was practically in tears because the "crowds" of family/friends in the house made her anxious.  She's even worse this year.  If she makes it to January 1 without major medication, it will be a miracle.

My questions for Carol dip Monday is pretty simple:

Will my sibling get help for her mental illness problems soon?

And the answer from the great book of Dickens is:

Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart, that he would have pledged the unconscious company in return, and thanked them in an inaudible speech, if the Ghost had given him time...

That's a pretty good answer.  If my sibling would be "gay and light of heart," we all would have a Huxtable Christmas.

Sing with Saint Marty:  "Joy to the world, Prozac has come..."

It's all in the family