May 1: Vacations in the Summer, Howell, Dance Competition, Vacation Fairy Tale

...[Ives] took his wife and daughter on vacations in the summer, but never very far, renting an inexpensive cabin at the far northern reaches of Lake George in Upstate New York.  He heard cicadas and the wind sweeping across the lake in the middle of the night, and felt depressed  because he had little sexual drive, and Annie, his beloved, had started to feel neglected and middle-aged...

Ives is not an adventurous soul, especially after the death of his son.  He travels to Europe early in his life with his wife and kids, but, in his middle age and suffering from profound grief, Ives can only manage short trips that only deepen his sadness.

I'm coming to you tonight from Howell, Michigan.  It is my yearly pilgrimage to this city for my daughter's dance competition.  I have been up since 4 a.m.  We drove all day.  When we got to the hotel, I took my son to the pool for an hour or so.  Then dinner and off to Howell High School for the first night of competition.

My daughter performed her tap solo this evening.  She received an Outstanding Medal.  She's happy and relieved that it's over.  She has group dances tomorrow and Sunday.  However, we will be able to do a little shopping tomorrow, since her performances aren't until later in the afternoon.  I will be spending a good portion of this weekend grading papers and poetry portfolios.  In fact, once I get the two posts done this evening, I have a pile of poem explications to mark up.

It's nice to get away, even if I had to bring work with me.  I love these dance weekends.  A time to leave my everyday worries at home for a few days, relax, and enjoy the company of my wife, daughter, and son.  I know I spend a good amount of time complaining about my shitty job and shitty bank account in my posts.  Little vacations like this one remind me that I have a lot for which to be thankful.

Once upon a time, a chicken farmer named Ken Tuckey decided to go on a vacation.  Ken rarely got away from his farm.  All day, every day, from dawn to dusk, he fed chickens, collected eggs, shoveled chicken crap, repaired coops, and chased hungry foxes out of his yard.

Ken packed up his wife and kids in a wagon, hitched up his mule, and headed off to Lake Enchantment for a few days.

While Ken and his family swam, picnicked, and roasted sausages over campfires, Ken's farm burned to the ground, and all his chickens died in the fire.

When he returned from his vacation and discovered what had happened, he decided to open a restaurant.

Moral of the story:  Ken Tuckey Fried Chicken is finger lickin' good.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

You know what I'm talking about

May 2: To the Fair, Howell, Fairy Tale Road Trip

"Everybody in!" called Mr. Arable.  He started the motor.  The ladies climbed in beside him.  Mr. Zuckerman and Lurvy and Fern and Avery rode in back, hanging onto the sideboards.  The truck began to move ahead.  The geese cheered.  The children answered their cheer, and away everybody went to the Fair.

This edition of Saint Marty comes to you from Howell, Michigan, home of a Holiday Inn Express and the WiFi I am currently using.  We are not going to the Fair, like the Arables and Zuckermans.  We are here for another dance competition.  My daughter and her friends will be competing all day tomorrow, with very few breaks.  Considering that my daughter is currently recovering from strep throat, I have a feeling it's going to be a really long day for her.


The trip was fairly uneventful.  No major catastrophes, unless you count my five-year-old son asking "Are we there yet?" every five minutes.  I'm not exaggerating.  It was a cold, rainy journey, and I am sad to report that Howell is not much warmer than the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  I was hoping to be surrounded by spring.  Flowers.  Green grass.  Sunshine.  The only hint of spring I encountered was the smell of manure wafting across the fields of corn stubble.  That's it.  The only evidence of the beginning of May.  Cow shit.

Once upon a time, an adjunct English professor/itinerant saint named Marty went on a long road trip with his family.  On the trip, he encountered rainstorms and fog and a lot of roadkill.  When he got to his destination, he was so tired that he ordered pizza and went to bed.

Moral of the story:  Jet's Pizza is pretty damn good.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Saint Marty cooked tonight!

May 1: In My Book Bag, John Green, "The Fault in Our Stars"

OK, let me lament a little bit more at the beginning of this post.

I just spent almost an hour boxing up the belongings in my university office in preparation for my move to another office in a brand new building.  I have to say that I'm kind of tired of putting my life in boxes.  I did it all morning yesterday, and now I've done it again this evening.

So much of my life seems to be changing, and not for the better.  At least, I don't see any light at the end of this tunnel yet.  This weekend, I'm venturing into the lower peninsula of Michigan for another dance competition with my daughter.  And when I get back, it's my last week of work at the medical office.  It's going to be a rough few days.

In my book bag tonight, I'm carrying John Green's The Fault in Our Stars.  I have not begun reading it.  It's my trip book.  I have avoided this book for a while, despite glowing recommendations from people whose opinion I usually respect.  I don't know why I've been balking at reading this novel.  I guess I don't like being told I "have" to read anything.  That's why I never finished Moby Dick.

Anyway, my next post will be coming from bustling Howell, Michigan, which is very close to Ann Arbor, home of the University of Michigan.  It's going to be a long day of driving tomorrow, and my son is a little impatient as a passenger.

Pray for Saint Marty.

This is your life, Saint Marty

May 4: I Could Have Danced All Night...

I have spent a good portion of the day in a dark auditorium in Howell, Michigan, watching the Cathy Roe Ultimate Dance Competition.  My daughter did very well.  On her solo tap number, she received a gold medal.  (Actually, it's called an "Outstanding Champion" medal this year.  Perhaps Cathy Roe decided to avoid categories that were easily identified as first, second, and third.  Sort of like when you have preschoolers play team sports but don't keep score so that everyone wins.  It's a load of crap, if you ask me.)  My daughter was one of only two dancers from her studio who received a gold/Outstanding Champion rating.  If you can't tell, I'm a little proud of her.

We went to dinner at the Olive Garden tonight.  My sister ordered steamed mussels as an appetizer.  The few that I ate were a little gritty.  My chicken Alfredo pizza was pretty damn good, though.  I still have two pieces left in the fridge.  I figure they'll be be my midnight, 1 a.m., or 2 a.m. snack.  Either that or I'll eat them for breakfast.

The hotel is teeming with dancers from the competition.  At the pool tonight, there were packs of bikini-clad girls (and one gay boy) hanging out in the hot tub.  Unfortunately, the fit the stereotype of teenaged dancer perfectly.  Catty.  Stuck-up.  Lettuce-leaf skinny.  I was more than happy when the pool closed for the night.

Tomorrow is a day of relaxation.  We're taking my daughter to an outlet mall.  Aside from that, more pool time is in my future (with fewer stuck-up teenagers).

Saint Marty is not setting his alarm for tomorrow morning.  He's going to stay in bed as long as his son will let him.  He's hoping for 5 a.m.

Silver, Gold, Platinum--let's keep it simple

May 2: Saint Marty on the Road

For the next four days, I will be abandoning the usual format of Saint Marty.  I will be taking a road trip, Friday through Monday.  Therefore, I will be posting only once each day.  I will also be leaving Holden and company behind, as well.  Basically, I will be writing a travelogue.  Expect descriptions of snow and flooding and pestilence, although we are avoiding Flint this time.

The reason for the trip is dance.  We are traveling to Howell, Michigan. for the Cathy Roe Dance Competition.  No, I'm not breaking out my Village People headgear to Y-M-C-A downstate.  My daughter is competing.  I will simply be driving and spending way too much money.

Tomorrow will be one of the highlights of the weekend.  I will be meeting my best friend in Roscommon for lunch.  When I called him this evening to confirm, he told me it was 78 degrees today in his neck of the woods (to quote Al Roker).  After I got off the phone with my friend, I added a pair of shorts to my suitcase.  At the moment in my little section of the Upper Peninsula, we are experiencing ice and snow and freezing rain.  To the west, a winter storm warning is in place.  Flood warnings pretty much cover the entire U.P., too.  Pretty much, it's Armageddon above the Mackinac Bridge at the moment.

My daughter just got back from a school trip to Appleton, Wisconsin.  She's tired and cranky.  She just screamed something like, "Stop it!  Stop talking to me!  I'm not going to do this anymore!"  I'm ready to strangle her.

Saint Marty doesn't want to spend nine hours trapped in a car with this creature.

Anybody know the number of a good exorcist?

May 3: Road Trip, Howell, Dance

Tomorrow morning, I and my family will be taking off for exotic Howell, Michigan, for a weekend of intense dance competition.  When I say intense, I mean intense.  These young girls and their teachers take this stuff very seriously.

I am not looking forward to the drive or the cost of the gas or the cost of the hotel.  I am also not very fond of the greasy fast food that will be wreaking havoc on my digestive system all weekend long.  I am looking forward to the look of joy on my daughter's face as she dances.  I'm looking forward to swimming in the hotel pool.  I'm looking forward to seeing one of my best friends on the way down to the competition.  In the end, it all balances itself out.

This post will be my last until tomorrow night in Howell.  I will be very tired, probably ready to kill my children.  I know, however, it will be a good weekend, if I can set aside my concerns over finances.

Saint Marty will see you in Howell.

The Griswolds are hitting the road

May 12: Road Trip, New Poem, Remote Blogging

I'm going on a road trip with my family this weekend.  My daughter has a dance competition in Howell, Michigan, which, as far as I can tell, is a little way from Ann Arbor.  It's going to be around an eight hour drive with a ten-year-old girl and a two-and-a-half-year-old boy.  It's going to be a really long weekend.  My sister is coming to watch my son while we take our daughter to the dance competition.  However, my son likes to run.  He's like a charged ion.  He doesn't sit still.  This trip is going to be quite a test for him.

What I'm going to try to do for blogging is take a laptop with me.  I would bet the hotel will have WiFi access.  Therefore, the next time you hear from me, I will probably be in Howell, Michigan.  That's my plan, anyway.  If it doesn't work out, you may not hear from me until Sunday or Monday.  Keep checking the site, though.  I'm sure I'll be able to blog tomorrow.

I have a brand new poem for today.  I wrote a poem for Mother's Day this past weekend.  I guess you could call this one a Father's Day poem, even though Father's Day isn't for another month.  I'm just planning ahead, in case I get asked to read another poem at church for that occasion.

Tonight, I have to take my daughter to ballet class, go grocery shopping, and pack my clothes for the trip.  I have way too many things to try to remember.  It kind of sucks.  I like travelling, but I hate the details of travel.  I always plan and plan, and I always forget something important.  In fact, I just went downstairs to pick up a prescription that almost slipped my mind.  I will be a happy camper when I'm safely camped back at home on Sunday night.

Saint Marty on a pilgrimage to Howell, Michigan.  God help us.

Rules of Fatherhood

When I first heard my daughter's heart
Ten years ago in the doctor's office,
I had no clue how to care for a girl,
Those unwritten rules new fathers
Must learn over time.  Make your girl
Sit frog-legged in the bathtub
To allow warm water to flow
Into areas of her body where skin
Turns raw, pink or red as grapefruit,
In the privacy of diaper or panty.
When she turns three or four,
Teach her to wipe front-to-back,
Not back-to-front, to avoid kidney,
Bladder infections.  Comb her hair
As soon as she's done bathing.
Slide the teeth through and through,
To remove all tangles, then braid.
Start simple, one ponytail at the back
Of her head.  Work to French braids,
Beautiful as sweet, curled loaves
In bakeries at Christmas.  Never
Utter the name of the boy she likes
When she's five or seven or ten.
Just watch them play together.
Notice how he always insists
She climb the steps of the slide
Before him, his neck craned upward,
Cheeks flushed, as she goes higher and higher.
Invite said boy to her tenth birthday
Party, watch him squirm when you sit
Beside him and say, "What are your
Plans for the future, son?"
Even though you don't believe
In guns, buy one to hold
In your lap when she goes
On her first date.  When he arrives,
Stare at him, the way a lion stares
At a wounded water buffalo.
All these rules I've learned
Since that day the doctor waved
Her wand over my wife, pulled
From the top hat of my wife's belly
That sound:  crickets singing
On a summer night, Love me, love me, love me.

My daughter, with attitude