June 5: Eternal Repose, Endings and Beginnings, Basket Fairy Tale, Joshua Mehigan, "The Crossroads"

And once a year, in the winter, usually a day or two after Christmas, he [Ives] and Annie would visit their son's grave.  Standing in the cemetery before his son's marker out in Long Island, as the years went by, Ives did not for a moment envision a seventeen-year-old in eternal repose, but a man the age his son would have been...

I am particularly moved by this passage.  Ives imagining his son growing older, living out the promise of his young life.  Ives sees Robert as a seminarian, then as a parish priest.  Ives' memory of his child is not stunted, cut short by his senseless murder.  It somehow continues.  When Ives reaches old age, he imagines Robert as a middle-aged pastor, placing the Eucharist in his open mouth.

At the beginning of every summer, some person erects a little shrine on the side of the highway by our local Pizza Hut.  Plastic flowers in the shape of a cross.  It's obviously in memory of a person who died in a traffic accident near that spot.  It saddens me every time I drive by it, which is almost on a daily basis.  I imagine it to be the work of someone like Ives, who's lost a child, maybe right before high school graduation.  The little flower cross is a reminder, for me, of the fragility of life.  How it can change in a matter of seconds.  Happiness and promise transformed into grief and longing.

As you may notice, I'm in a little bit of a funk this evening.  I don't know why.  I think it's just this time of the year.  Last days of school.  Graduations.  Dance recitals.  There's something very final about the end of May and the first days of June.  Change is in the air like the scent of lilac bushes.

Right now, I'm sitting outside my daughter and son's dance studio, waiting for a rehearsal to end.  The evening is cool, moving slowly toward dusk.  It has been a long week, what with my health issues and leaky roof on my mind.  This morning, I found out my wife's great uncle passed away.  A lovely, kind gentleman who served during World War II and was married to the same beautiful woman for 70 years.  His wife died just before Christmas of this past year, and now he has gone to join her.  They both loved dancing, and that's what I think they are doing right now.  Swinging around the floor as Benny Goodman leads the heavenly band.

My kids are done with school today.  Next year, my daughter will be a high school freshman.  I saw her eight-grade yearbook this evening.  She was voted "Inspirational Artist" along with a boy I don't know.  That makes me very happy.  She is artistically gifted and well-liked by her classmates.

Endings and beginnings.

Once upon a time, a basket weaver named Eugene lived in a tiny village named Yon.  All day long, he sat on his front steps, weaving beautiful and intricate baskets that people traveled hundreds of miles to purchase.  But the humble weaver never charged much for his wares.

One day, the roof of Eugene's cottage collapsed because of heavy rains.  Eugene  needed to raise the funds to pay the local roofer many hundreds of dollars to re-thatch his roof.  So, he raised the prices of his baskets, asking three times as much.

When word got out that Eugene was charging more for his weavings, the citizens of Yon and beyond stopped buying his baskets.  Eugene never got his roof fixed and one night caught pneumonia and died a horrible death, coughing and coughing.

After Eugene's death, his baskets suddenly became very valuable.  Collectors all over the kingdom started paying hundreds of thousands of gold pieces for a single basket.  Eugene's cottage was refurbished and turned into a museum.

Moral of the story:  roofs cost way too much friggin' money.

The Crossroads

by:  Joshua Mehigan

This is the place it happened.  It was here.
You might not know it was unless you knew.
All day the cars blow past and disappear.
This is the place it happened.  It was here.
Look at the sparkling dust, the oily smear.
Look at the highway marker, still askew.
This is the place it happened.  It was here.
You might not know it was unless you knew.

Yup, I'm a little down tonight

June 4: Buried, CP and Roof, Joshua Mehigan, "At Home"

They buried his son on Christmas Eve morning, 1967, out in Long Island, his marker a simple Celtic cross.  The burial was covered by the press, despite efforts to maintain privacy.  A lot of important people came, few whom Ives knew.  Zoom-lensed cameras captured the scene, and in an unfortunate gaffe, they published a picture of Celeste, Robert's former girlfriend, who had fallen apart and kept her distance from the family until the funeral, being held in Ives' arms, and identified her as his daughter.

Ives suffers the very worst loss any parent can imagine.  No mother or father ever wants to bury a child.  It's not the way things are supposed to happen.  Children are supposed to carry on the family name, preserve memories.  Children are not supposed to become memories.

I chose this paragraph because it reminds me that, no matter how bad I think my life is, I really don't have it so bad.  I need that reminder today.

This morning, I went to my doctor.  Working in a cardiology office, I frequently write and type the abbreviation "CP."  It means "chest pain."  Chest pain can be caused by a lot of things.  Congestive heart failure.  Acid reflux.  Heart attack.  Lung cancer.  COPD.  I see them all, every day.  Well, for the past six or seven days. I have been experiencing CP.  Initially, I though it was acid reflux because I have suffered from that in the past.  So, I cut back on my Diet Mountain Dew intake and tried to avoid spicy foods.  It didn't help.

So, I made an appointment to see a medical professional this morning.  Actually, I didn't have much of a choice.  As soon as I described my symptoms to the nurse on the phone, she said, "Ah, you need to come in right away."  Within forty-five minutes, I was sitting in an exam room.

After I spoke with the nurse practitioner, she ordered an EKG.  The EKG turned out fine.  Now I'm going to be scheduled for a stress test.  In the meantime, she gave me a prescription to treat acid reflux.  I'm hoping that does the trick.  I'm not quite reassured.  Yet.

That was the morning.  This afternoon, I found out that I somehow have to have the roof of my house replaced.  A contractor came to my home to give me an estimate on replacing the ceiling in my kitchen.  Said contractor will not touch the ceiling until the roof has been dealt with.  That means somehow getting a loan, which means going further into debt, which means another monthly payment, which means I need to sell one of my organs to try to raise funds.

I have not had a great day.  However, my wife and children are healthy and happy.  I have to keep reminding myself that things could be much worse.

So, the roofer is coming out tomorrow morning to give us an estimate.  The stress test will be sometime early next week.  If the medicine doesn't alleviate the chest pressure, I have to go back to the doctor so more tests can be run.

Saint Marty already hates the summer, and it hasn't even really begun.

At Home

by:  Joshua Mehigan

...very few are able to tell exactly what their houses cost... THOREAU

This is my lawn.  I planted it, I grew it,
and I work hard ensuring it's attractive.
I keep it clear of every type of pest.
I rake it and I mow it.  I see to it
that no stray dogs stray here.  It keeps me active.
God sends the sunshine, and I do the rest.

That is my fence, where I go to lean to eavesdrop.
Outside of my own thoughts, I hear the quiet
of many smaller creatures barely moving.
In the fall, sometimes I can hear the leaves drop.
My land is mine.  I have worked hard to buy it.
It's the one thing I can always be improving.

In it, I find it's easier to find
the natural boundary of my heart and mind.

I'm not convinced...yet...

June 3: Peace Corps, Daughter's Graduation, Joshua Mehigan, "On the Way to Church School"

For her part, in the spirit of the times and not wanting the life of her mother, Caroline [Ives' daughter] thought she should see some thing of the world and signed up for the Peace Corps, which sent her off to Nepal.  One of Ives' happier times took place during a four-month period before she left for the Peace Corps, when she came to work at the agency, in the "international" division (one executive and a clerk).  Regarding his smart daughter with great pride every time he ran into her, which was daily, he would eavesdrop on her speaking her Italian or French or Spanish on the phone. . . . And he loved the fact that Mannis had come into his office one day to say, "Nice job you did raising your daughter, Ives."  He'd gotten so used to riding the subway with her in the mornings and seeing her on a regular basis that when she gave notice he fell into a deep funk again.

Ives and Caroline have a few months of father-daughter bonding before she heads out into the world after her college graduation.  Ives loves his time with her, takes immense satisfaction in her accomplishments.  She's successful, smart, and pretty.  Everything that a father would wish for his little girl.

This evening, I went to my daughter's eighth grade graduation.  She looked beautiful in her dress, hair curled by her cousin.  She didn't want to go, complained about clothes shopping, and sulked a good deal about the whole event.  Once she got to the school, however, my daughter changed her demeanor.  She was smiling, waving at us from the gym floor. 

The chorus sang (my daughter's in the chorus).  The band played (my daughter's in the band).  There were speeches and a slide show (my daughter hated her slide).  And then the principal started announcing the awards.  History.  Science.  Language Arts.  Math.  Science.  Band.  Chorus.  My daughter was given the Art Award.  I was so proud of her.  When her name was announced, I looked over at her.  She gave us a big smile and then stood up to collect her certificate.

It was a really lovely evening.  I couldn't stop thinking to myself, "I can't believe this is my baby girl."  She's a gorgeous young lady.  Now she wants to be a gorgeous young lady with an iPhone.

Saint Marty got her earrings instead.  Nice ones.

On the Way to Church School

by:  Joshua Mehigan

The girls and boys
that stammer by
at one o'clock
stretch half a block.
Clouds follow them,
also, the steeple.

The tallest and others
waiting to see
what the tallest will do
tie parkas of blue,
yellow, or red
around their waists.

Already lost,
one boy had tied
a parka of red
around his head.
That boy now lies
shoved on the grass.

Ms. Bell, who ably
shepherds them
and Mrs. Stack,
in the way-back,
coolly chide
but do not holler.

The smallest pause
with giant eyes.
The sidewalk glints
at the innocents
so like people
only smaller.

So proud of my little girl

June 2: Inherited the Earth, a Contract, Joshua Mehigan, "Heard at the Men's Mission"

On another day, while heading downtown to get in a little shopping and to meet his friend Father Tom, he [Ives] could not help but wonder how life could go so badly for some, and so splendidly for others.  "Who inherited the earth?" had become a question he often asked himself; who deserved to prosper, who deserved to suffer?  On the train coming down he had counted seven beggars, who came in through the cars asking for money, one of them, a large black man, his lumberjack shirt open, with purple splotches all over his body, black-and-blue marks on his arms, and with a piece of filthy catheter jammed into his stomach just above his navel.  Ives gave something to every single one of them.

Ives never turns his back on the needs of others.  He teaches art classes and provides art supplies at local community centers.  He provides financial backing for his best friend's restaurant.  Every once in a while, he'll bring home free comic books from his advertising agency for neighborhood kids.  And, even though he's grief-stricken and angry, he writes letters to his son's killer in prison, sends him care packages, and helps him get paroled.

I like to think I'm a giving person.  When I hear of someone in need, I try to provide some kind of assistance (emotional or physical or financial).  However, I don't think I'm an Ives.  For instance, tonight I'm attending a meeting of contingent professors at the university where I teach.  We will be discussing the new contract proposal for full- and part-time faculty.  I find myself, at this moment, feeling very uncharitable.

You see, the new contract provides an alright package for full-time professors.  I have already received an e-mail from a full-timer, expressing satisfaction and urging ratification.  There's only one problem:  it's a pretty shitty contract for contingents.  Ives spends a good deal of his later life contemplating the question "Who inherited the earth?"  He wonders who deserves to prosper and who deserves to suffer.  Well, I know who will be inheriting the earth with this contract.

Perhaps I sound a little angry.  Maybe I am.  I try to remain positive in most situations.  Look for the best in everyone and everything.  The full-time professors at the university are simply thinking and acting in their own best interests.  I understand that.  It's human nature.  They are trying to maintain their jobs and lifestyles.  That's fine.

Sometimes, though, I wish everyone had a vision more universal, less myopic.  Poverty and hunger shouldn't exist in the United States.  Children shouldn't go to bed hungry, and the ill and infirm shouldn't be denied treatment because they lack little plastic insurance cards.  There's enough wealth for everyone to be happy and healthy and productive.

Yet, at an institution of higher learning, educated people bicker over who deserves a bigger piece of the pie.  I am not a communist or a socialist.  I don't believe in violent overthrow of political and academic regimes.  I just want to be able to teach and earn enough money to feed my family, pay my mortgage, go to the doctor if necessary, and simply be happy.

Saint Marty doesn't think that's asking too much.

Heard at the Men's Mission

by:  Joshua Mehigan

How many sons-of-bitches no one loves,
with long coats on in June and beards like nests--
guys no one touches without latex gloves,
squirming with lice, themselves a bunch of pests,
their cheeks and noses pocked like grapefruit rind--
fellas with permanent shits and yellowish eyes
who, if they came to in the flowers to find
Raphael there, could not be otherwise--

have had to sit there listening to some twat
behind a plywood podium in the chapel
in a loose doorman suit the color of snot,
stock-still except his lips and Adam's apple,
telling them how much Jesus loves the poor
before they got their bread and piece of floor?

Can't argue with Mandela...

June 1: Temper Tantrums, "Ives" Dip, Joshua Mehigan, "The Chemist"

It has been an evening of temper tantrums.

My wife took my daughter to the dance studio this evening, so my son and I had a guys' night.  Well, actually, I watched the evening news while my son played with some neighbor kids down the street.  When it was time for my son to come inside to take his bath, he threw a screaming tantrum.  The kind only six-year-olds can throw.  Struggling for words adequate enough to communicate the depth of his anger and frustration and disappointment.  It went on for almost 45 minutes.

During the course of his tantrum, my son screamed, "I wish you were dead" and "You are a dumb craphead" and "I wish you didn't live here anymore."  That's just the greatest hits.  He managed to make me feel inadequate, depressed, and homicidal all at the same time.

In the end, after I had read him a book and said prayers with him, he asked me to stay with him, "because I'm afraid, daddy."  I climbed into bed, and my son held out the tiny clamshell of his hand to me.  I reached out and took his fingers in mine.  He fell asleep.

I know my son was tired.  He's in the last week of school, full of the squirrelly start-of-summer energy that infects all kids this time of year.  I'm trying not to take his patricidal comments personally.  I'm sure, when he's in therapy in about 20 years, he'll have to work through the guilt of being Satan's spawn tonight.

I love my son.  I wanted to bury him up to his neck in my backyard this evening.  My Ives dip question this evening is this:

Will my son look up to me when he gets older?

And the answer from Oscar Hijuelos is:

...The boy looked just like Robert [Ives' son], and Ives could see him crawling around the floor of their old apartment on Fiftieth Street and exploring the low ornaments, glowing like majestic stars above him, heavy-lidded eyes wide.

Well, that's Ives remembering his son, long after his son's death.  It's a father still grieving for the loss of his beautiful child.  Maybe I asked the wrong question tonight.  Maybe I should have asked, "Will I always look up to my son?"  The answer is "yes."

I have decided to feature Joshua Mehigan again as Poet of the Week.  The catastrophes of last week sort of got in the way.

Saint Marty isn't going to let anything get in the way of poetry this time.

The Chemist

by:  Joshua Mehigan

The chemist watched his daughter's Christmas play.
He saw her wise-man mustache come unstuck,
worm up and down, and down and off.  He saw
her one line lost to coughing:  "Gifts we bring Thee!"
And at his smile, and in his eyes, he showed
no changes.  As he watched the rest, which starred
another person's daughter and a doll
embezzled from the church's Food and Toy Drop,
he marked with pleasure the attempt to conjure
the spirit of a moment special to them,
the pails of dry ice hidden by poinsettias,
and slowly, toward the flock, the low fog rolling.

Speaking of Satan's spawn...

May 30: Face of Tragedy, Bad News, Joshua Mehigan, "The News," New Cartoon

With so much correspondence to answer, on many an evening, when she might have otherwise been studying, she [Annie Ives] sat in their living room, at their secretary, chain-smoking Chesterfields, sipping wine, and listening to music as she composed her responses.  That she did not know what to say in the face of tragedy greatly vexed her.  She would write sympathetic notes of response in her impeccable script and enclose an illustrated prayer card that her husband had made up in the office.  Christ giving his blessing.  Finishing with her signature, she handed each to Ives, as he sat by his drawing board, so that he could sign the notes too.  She was not certain that he read each one over, but had often watched his face sadden when, as if wincing, he would sign his name.

The year following her son's death, Annie spends her time answering all the letters of sympathy the family receives.  People whose loved ones have died in tragic circumstances.  A woman who lost her husband in a fire.  Parents whose son shot himself.  A mother with a two-year-old who drowned in a backyard pool.  Tragedy keeps paying visits to the Ives family.

Tragedy is never far away.  This week, floods in Texas that have killed dozens of people.  I met with a friend whose son died of a drug overdose last fall.  My sister who had her parathyroid removed at U of M hospital this week is a good example.  Last year at this time, she had just broken her wrist.  Two or three months later, she would have surgery on that wrist.  Two or three months beyond that, back surgery.  Infections.  Sepsis.  Hospital stay after hospital stay.  Then, for four months, flat on her back in a nursing home, unable to eat or move.

Last night, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself.  After about the third hour of vacuuming and pulling down soggy pieces of my kitchen ceiling, I stopped for a couple moments to get a drink of water.  I was hot.  Itchy from all the dust and insulation.  My nose was running.  I stood by the refrigerator and said aloud, "What have I done wrong, God?  What's my problem?"

Of course, I know that's a pointless question.  Tragedy is not some kind of divine lesson.  Tragedy is simply tragedy.  The product of a world that the human race has abused and taken for granted.  The people who died in the Texas floods or my sister or my friend weren't being punished.   Tragedy doesn't have to make sense.  It exists.  Period.

That doesn't mean that those affected by tragedy don't question the universe, get angry at God, drown in waves of grief.  There's a certain amount of baggage involved in all difficult circumstances.  What ifs.  What if my sister hadn't broken her wrist?  What if the people in Texas had decided to go to Disneyland last week?  That is sometimes, I think, the most difficult part of tragedy, because it is an attempt to assign blame or reason.

Tragedy has a way of happening, no matter how much you try to control life.  Grace resides in how you deal with any tragedy that befalls you.  Annie Ives tries to console other grieving human beings.  My friend tries to educate her students about mental illness.  Once my sister has recuperated, returns home, perhaps she will go back to work as a nurse, helping other people struggling with limiting health problems.

Saint Marty thinks grace is God's response to tragedy.

The News

by:  Joshua Mehigan

What happened to today?  Where did it go?
The raindrops dot the window and roll down.
One taps the glass, another, three at a time,
warping the view of black tree limbs and sky.
Long hush, quick crescendo.  Wind leans on the sash.
Behind me in the shadows sleep two cars.
Nearby, like something small deposited
tenderly, by a big wind on the bed,
my wife sleeps deeply through the afternoon.
The sky is gray.  What color is the sky?
Rhinoceros?  Volcanic dune?  Moon dust?
Breast of mourning dove?  Gray butterfly?
Blank newsprint.  There's no news, no news at all,
and will be none,
until, at long last, in the other room,
one light comes on, and then another one.

Confessions of Saint Marty

May 26: Waiting, Crappy Day, Poet of the Week, Joshue Mehigan, "The Professor"

Then they [Ives and his son, Robert] were silent.  They walked up a stretch of the block, across the way from the projects, a nerve-racking experience, even with a guard in a booth, because people were always getting held up, sometimes stabbed on that street.  They had reached Broadway when Robert added:  "You know, sometimes I think about what it would be like to be dead.  All I know is that He [Jesus] will be waiting.  It scared me for a long time, but you know what, Pop?  It doesn't anymore."

Of course, this little exchange between Ives and his son foreshadows Robert's fate.  In about twenty or so pages, Robert will be murdered, and Ives will be thrust into a world of grief and anger.  The rest of the novel hinges upon Ives' acceptance of what Robert says in the above paragraph.  It takes Ives over thirty years to accept the fate of his son.


Back at work after the Memorial Day weekend.  It was a crappy day.  Busy beyond belief.  I barely had time to sit down at my desk before the phone started ringing.  And it rang all day long.  It was three days' accumulation of patients' anxieties.  Lapsed prescriptions.  Chest pain.  Shortness of breath.  I even had someone call and ask me why they hadn't received a phone call yesterday from a nurse.  "Because it was a holiday," I said, hopefully not sounding incredulous.

Yes, most people are like Ives.  Plagued with worry and doubt.  I count myself among that crowd.  I haven't reached a point in my life where I can just let go and let God.  In fact, I kind of despise that expression.  It sounds too much like resignation to a shitty situation.  I think, as human beings, it's our duty to try to make the world a better place.  I work hard so that I can provide for my wife and kids.  It's not that I don't trust God.  I think God expects us to try to make ourselves--and our lives--the best that they can be.

I just came from the gym.  While I was running on the treadmill, my office mate (who'd just finished an exercise class) came over to talk to me about the new faculty contract proposal at the university.  After discussing it for a few minutes, we both looked at each other and said, "I'm voting 'no.'"  I simply can't accept it.  I'm not ready to put this one in God's hands yet.  I want to see if my vote will make a difference in a shitty work situation

I do have a new Poet of the Week.  His name is Joshua Mehigan, and his most recent collection, Accepting the Disaster, sort of fits right in to my discussion this evening.

The only thing Saint Marty will accept tonight is a $100 bill or a pizza.

The Professor

by:  Joshua Mehigan

I get there early and I find a chair.
I squeeze my plastic cup of wine.  I nod.
I maladroitly eat a pretzel rod
and second an opinion I don't share.
I think:  Whatever else I am, I'm there.
Afterwards, I escape across the quad
into fresh air, alone again, thank god.
Nobody cares.  They're quite right not to care.

I can't go home.  Even my family
is thoroughly contemptuous of me.
I look bad.  I'm exactly how I look.
These days I never read, but no one does,
and, anyhow, I proved how smart I was.
Everything I know is from a book.

That's a lot of acceptance