July 5, 2025: “His Stillness,” Family Members, “Pizza Party”

I have a confession:  my family (parents and siblings) never really went all out for Independence Day.  Generally, we didn’t go to parades.  I’m pretty sure my brothers blew up things with firecrackers, and I have memories of my sisters taking me to see some fireworks displays.  That’s about it.

But we did do barbecues.  Food was a thing that my family always did well.  Hotdogs.  Bratwurst.  Chicken.  Supplemented by watermelon and corn on the cob.  Some of my fondest memories are family meals, especially around holidays.

Sharon Olds writes about her father’s dignity . . . 

His Stillness

by: Sharon Olds

The doctor said to my father, "You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That's what I'm telling you now." My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes. I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out. He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man. The doctor said,
"There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you." My father said,
"Thank you." And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him. This was my father.
He had known he was mortal. I had feared they would have to
tie him down. I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept quiet to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still. I had not
known him. My father had dignity. At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.

We always swear we will be different than our parents.  Raise our kids differently.  Be more successful.  Retire earlier.  Travel more.  Some people don’t even want to look like their mothers or fathers.

Yet, when I look in the mirror these days, I see my mother’s and father’s faces.  No getting around heredity.  I think I look a lot more like my mom than my dad, and I inherited her calmer disposition, as well.  My dad could be a hothead.  My mom, on the other hand, was always cool and thoughtful.  (When she lost her temper, you really didn’t want to be around her.  I think I take after her in that respect, as well.)

Around holidays, I think a lot about family members who are no longer around to celebrate with us.  My faithful disciples know that, in the last ten years or so, I’ve lost quite a few people in my life—a best friend, brother, two sisters, and both my parents.  The kind of nostalgia I’m experiencing today is pretty normal, I would guess.  Big holidays conjure up big feelings.

I did attend a parade this morning with my wife and kids.  There was even an Elvis impersonator on a float.  Now, I know we were supposed to boycott parades this July 4th in protest of the Republican apocalypse happening in Washington, D.C.  Nothing about the United States at the moment makes me proud to be a citizen of this country.  Yet, I do celebrate the freedom I have today.  (This time next year, I may have a different opinion.  Check back in 2026.)

I know that our country is incredibly flawed.  We live on stolen land in a society built on the backs of African American slaves.  Not really a great way to start this grand experiment in democracy.  However, I’ve also believed that we can be better.  Do better.  And I’m holding onto that hope right now.  I celebrated today what we CAN be as a nation, not what we currently are.  

The fireworks scheduled for tonight were rained out, so, instead, I went to the laundromat to wash some clothes and work on a new poem.  It’s about nine o’clock at night right now and still raining intermittently, but that’s not stopping our neighbors from disturbing the peace with some bottle rockets, firecrackers, and mortars.  That doesn’t bother me, though.  They’re out there having a good time.  Celebrating the freedom that still exists in the United States.  For now.

Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight about ghosts based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

It’s the birthday of Jean Cocteau, surrealist poet and playwright.  In honor of his birthday, write a surrealist poem today.  One way to do this is to begin with a 5-minute automatic writing session.  Write as fast as you can without thinking logically or worrying about making sense.  When you are finished with your timed writing, read it over and highlight passages that interest you.  Using these passages as triggers, continue writing fast.  Once you’ve done this, shape this raw and strange material into a poem.

Pizza Party

by: Martin Achatz

What do ghosts like on their pizzas?

Does my friend, Helen, want just

cheese, unadorned, plain as yoga?

My brother, Kevin, he loves ham,

even though he claimed to be vegan

when he was alive.  Sally is always 

particular, doesn’t want anything 

besides pepperoni to surprise

her tongue with too much heat or salt.

Rose, my other sister, eats everything with

the abandon of a flock of seagulls.  Dad

is meat and potatoes, wants as much

pork and beef and bacon as possible

on his slices, as if he grew up in a Russian

gulag with only one bowl of cabbage

broth to fuel his daily labors in the fields.

Mom?  She always eats after everyone

else, cobbling together her dinner

from turkey necks and sweet potato

skins.  Her pizza will be whatever

is left in the greasy boxes after the rest

of us are ready to nap or go for

a long, long walk.  That’s her now,

gliding around the table, asking

if everybody has had enough 

to eat, her ghostly stomach glowing

like a stove burner that’s just been 

used to fry up a skillet of scrambled eggs.

February 9: Mount Rushmore, Sharon Olds, "His Stillness"

Strange.  I have been looking for pictures of my dad on my cell phone.  I found one, taken at his 90th birthday party this summer.  That's it.

I'm not sure if that is my fault.  He was more than willing to pose for pictures.  Yet, out of over a thousand pictures, I found exactly one good picture of my father.  Maybe I just assumed he was always going to be there, like the Grand Canyon or Mount Rushmore.  Sort of permanent and immovable.

I was wrong.

A poem from Sharon Olds tonight about finding your father in yourself.

Saint Marty is still searching for his father on his phone.

His Stillness

by:  Sharon Olds

The doctor said to my father, "You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That's what I'm telling you now."  My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes.  I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out.  He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man.  The doctor said,
"There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you."  My father said,
"Thank you."  And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him.  This was my father.
He had known he was mortal.  I had feared they would have
to tie him down.  I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept silent to hear things,
the liquor a way to keep still.  I had not
known him.  My father had dignity.  At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.

July 29: Abideth Forever, Annual Evaluation, Sharon Olds, "His Stillness"

And now, he [Ives] thought, his boy was dead, and even if he were to rise, to be reincarnated in some other form, their lives would not be the same.  What was that little quotation from the New Testament that had once impressed him when he was a boy?  A quotation he'd at one time always taken to heart, from 1 John 2:17:  ". . . The world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever."  Was that so?  Or was it that the world, their life, the familiar, the comfortable would not ever occur again?

A tough passage.  Ives coming to terms with the death of his son.  Ives has no idea how to return to his life.  Everything has changed, and he starts questioning if he'll ever know a "normal" day.  He walks down the street and can't look people in the face.  He wears sunglasses all the time, so nobody can see the caverns of loss in his eyes.  Always a gentle and caring soul by nature, Ives now has to work to be gentle, to scrape up compassion from the wounded chambers of his heart.

Today, I had my annual evaluation at work.  It was good.  The one comment my supervisor made that stuck in my head was, "You're always so positive, no matter what."  I try not to bring my problems to work.  I don't talk about the hole in my kitchen ceiling or the shingles falling off my roof.  My car was out of commission for three weeks in June, and hardly anybody in the office knew that I was begging for rides from friends and family.

And, of course, there's my sister's illness.  I'm sure most of my coworkers know about her condition.  However, I don't speak about it much.  Part of being a professional is not letting problems affect job performance.  For the eight hours I'm at the medical office, I'm positive.  All the time.  At 4:30 in the afternoon, I'm exhausted.

I think it's because, like Ives, I have to work at being normal, and normal for me is happy, joking, compassionate, and kind, according to my supervisor.  It used to be easy, because, in general, I like almost everybody I meet.  It isn't easy any more.  It's a performance.  A part in a play.  A long and unending play.  And it's incredibly taxing.

I don't smile much at home right now.  In fact, I'm sort of cranky.  By the time I walk through my front door in the evening, I'm tired of being happy and positive.  I just want to be myself, and myself is sad and angry and tired and a little confused. 

My sister is going to have a third round of chemo this week.  Then the doctor is going to order an MRI.  Depending on the results of that test, my sister will either continue with the treatment, or she will come home to be kept comfortable.  That's the reality of my life at the moment.  My normal.

Saint Marty is positive tonight.  Positive he's going to go home and have some of his son's chocolate milk mixed with Bailey's Irish Cream.

His Stillness

by:  Sharon Olds

The doctor said to my father, "You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That's what I'm telling you now."  My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes.  I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out.  He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man.  The doctor said,
"There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you."  My father said,
"Thank you."  And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him.  This was my father.
He had known he was mortal.  I had feared they would have
to tie him down.  I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept silent to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still.  I had not
known him.  My father had dignity.  At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.

Which fish are you?