August 1: Piles of Ice Cream, Cloud Watching, John Voelker

Santiago does some cloud watching . . . 

He looked at the sky and saw the white cumulus built like friendly piles of ice cream and high above were the thin feathers of the cirrus against the high September sky.

"Light brisa," he said. "Better weather for me than for you, fish."

I remember cloud watching when I was a kid.  Finding polar bears and Darth Vader and Linda Blair from The Exorcist.  (Yes, I was an odd child.)  Everyone sees what they want to see in clouds.  Santiago sees good weather for himself, bad weather for the fish.  My son would probably see some Pokemon thing.  Cloud watching is like a natural Rorschach test.  If you're happy, you see hummingbirds and angels.  If you're sad or anxious, you see Dracula and Donald Trump.

It was a long day of work.  I got to my office a little before 8 a.m. and got home around 9 p.m.  I'm going on vacation later this week, so I'm trying to get ahead with reports and programs and funding requests.  It's the tedious but necessary part of my job at the library.  I didn't have a whole lot of time for cloud watching, that's for sure.

The final thing I did this evening was host an event by an author.  I wasn't sure how many people were going to show up.  I told myself that, if I had an audience of ten, I would mark it down as a success.  Over 30 individuals showed up.  Basically, I sold out Madison Square Garden.  (Of course, the program was about John Voelker and his book Anatomy of a Murder, so it had a built-in audience.  Many people who attended were old family friends of Voelker and had stories of when Otto Preminger and Jimmy Stewart came to town to make the film adaptation.)

I didn't do any cloud watching on the way home tonight, either.  I was too tired to engage in dreaming like that.  In fact, I find myself devoid of any kind of creative energy.  I loved listening to tonight's author speak of John Voelker's writing habits, which were influenced greatly by fishing seasons.  If the fish were biting, Voelker was casting flies, not scribbling at his desk.  

I suppose that fishing was a form of cloud watching for Voelker, prodding his imagination.  As I write this post, I'm seeing John Voelker in the clouds of my mind.  And Jimmy Stewart.  George C. Scott.  Duke Ellington.  Lee Remick.  

That's Saint Marty's blessing tonight.

May 31: Pinochle Game, President Obama, Hibakusha

In lieu of a pinochle game, I'll walk a step before bed.  No hesitation about gloves now; I swath myself in wool and down from head to foot, and step into the night.

It is evening, and Dillard is trying to relax, ready herself for a long winter's nap.  She spends her days in active writer mode, exploring Tinker Creek and its surroundings.  She catalogues and contemplates, meditates and composes.  And at night, she must slow down, put her busy brain to bed, so to speak.  So, she plays pinochle or goes for a walk in the brisk gloaming.

Night time is blog time for me.  After a day of medical clerking and professoring and fathering, I allow myself a few hours to pull inward, pretend that I have something profound to say.  These moments that I spend with my laptop are a form of therapy for me, like Dillard's evening walk.  I'm able to unburden myself of anything that is cluttering up my cranial space.

For example, yesterday I had a discussion about President Obama's recent visit to Hiroshima, Japan.  On one side of the discussion, I had people insisting that President Obama had apologized for the United States' bombing of the city.  On the other side of the discussion, I (who had watched the full video of Mr. Obama's remarks at the Hiroshima memorial) stood there, insisting that no apology had been offered.  For a few seconds, the exchange became a little heated.  It ended amicably, though, my final remark something like, "Watch the video."

I can only assume that the conversation was fueled by Sarah Palin's recent comments at a Donald Trump rally in which she, in her folksy, antichrist way, accused the President of the United States of "dissing" the veterans of World War II.  Once again, Palin opened her mouth and spewed untruths like Linda Blair after a dinner of pea soup.  And people pay attention for some reason.  I can only assume it's the same reason thousands show up for Donald Trump campaign rallies.  It's easier to get swept up in falsehoods rather than facts.

President Obama did not apologize for the bombing of Hiroshima.  He spoke about the terrible cost of war.  About humankind's need to embrace peace and diplomacy, or else face nuclear annihilation.  He used the survivors of the Hiroshima bombing as examples of the grace that can emerge from tragedy.  Rather than embrace hatred and anger, the hibakusha turned to love and understanding and moral responsibility.  That was President Obama's message. 

Love and understanding and moral responsibility.  That sounds like a message that a guy from Nazareth delivered over 2,000 years ago.  And that's what Sarah Palin is pissed off about.  Big conflicts begin when ignorance becomes the guiding principle.  I prefer to remain hopeful that the people of the United States will choose love and understanding over ignorance.  Or we may just end up with a President Trump.

There.  Saint Marty feels unburdened. 

July 7: Classic Saint Marty, Fear and Loathing and Saints, New Cartoon

Yes, I'm actually taking it easy today.  I went for a four mile run a little while ago, and that is the most energy I will expend for the rest of this Sunday.

I'm going to bring you another classic Saint Marty this afternoon.  This particular post ran on March 16, 2010.  It was one of the first posts I wrote, back when this blog was called Feasts and Famines.

Saint Marty hopes you enjoy this rerun, titled...

March 12, 13, 14:  Fear and Loathing and Saints

Friday night, I finished my weekly household chores late. It was nearly 10 p.m. by the time the toilet and shower were scrubbed; tables, chairs, and shelves were dusted; and rugs were vacuumed. I sat down on the couch, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV for a little channel surfing.

I enjoy the time immediately post-cleaning because, for a few short hours, everything is in order and I feel like I've gained control of my life. It lasts until Saturday morning when my 17-month-old son wakes up and starts dragging toys out of toy bins and clothes out of laundry baskets. But, on Friday nights, I can sit and revel in the tracks left by the vacuum cleaner on the freshly vacuumed carpets and the heavy scent of lemon Pledge in the air.

I started flipping through the channels, not really expecting to find anything more satisfying than the deep blue water of my clean toilet bowl. I stopped on a station that featured a ten- or eleven-year-old girl in what seemed to be in the throws of demonic possession. She was pounding the kitchen table with her fists, screaming at her parents. The camera cut to the girl's siblings huddled on the stairs, listening to their sister's threats of violence and murder. A voice-over said something like, "As soon as Jamie returned home, she started hearing the voices and seeing the evil spirits again." I stopped and continued to watch, thinking it was some news program that was going to show a ritual exorcism.

The girl's behavior was absolutely terrifying, and the mother and father just sat and listened to her rant and growl. At one point, the youngest sibling, who couldn't have been more than seven or eight, became so upset and scared that she started pulling her own hair out in clumps. The mother held the little girl and rocked her, crying and saying, "Please don't hurt yourself like that."

I waited for a priest or minister to enter the scene and start unpacking Bibles and holy water and crucifixes. It turns out, however, that I had stumbled upon 20/20, and the story was on young children with schizophrenia. Now, little Linda Blairs puking pea soup I can handle; children with mental illnesses, that's something totally different.

You see, when my wife was diagnosed with bipolar, I did a lot of reading about the disease. I read memoirs and textbooks and Websites. I pored over pamphlets given to us by doctors. I suppose it was my way of trying to gain a little control over a situation in which I felt helpless, like running the vacuum cleaner over a bed of hot coals so I wouldn't burn my feet. Futile, but a least I was doing something.

One of the things that frightened me the most was the question about relatives. All of the psychiatrists and therapists, all of the literature, pointed to the genetic link. Beth had an uncle and great aunt with bipolar. Therefore, she was probably suffering from the same disease. It runs in the family, like red hair or being a fan of Michael Bolton.

Ever since that time, I've watched my daughter, who, at nine, resembles my wife's childhood photographs so much it's hard to tell them apart. I've read stories and articles about children with bipolar, about the wild moods, the depressions and manias. One little boy I read about was so tired of being unstable that he wrote his parents a suicide note when he was eight. Eight years old. Instead of playing Pokemon and watching Harry Potter movies, he was jumping out of second story bedroom windows.

I watch my daughter for signs that the helix of her DNA has shifted. When she pulls her hair because she can't play a chord for her piano lesson correctly, when she throws herself on the floor screaming because she doesn't want to take a bath, when she sits in her closet to give herself time to control her anger, I wonder if I'm witnessing normal, nine-year-old hormones or symptoms of something more serious. I have learned to deal with and accept my wife's illness. I don't know if I could do the same for my daughter.

I often wonder how the parents of saints managed their children's holiness. I'm here to tell you that if my daughter told me she was talking to the Virgin Mary, holding an actual conversation with a glowing woman in blue robes, I'd have that child in the ER within the hour. As I watched 20/20, I thought that schizophrenia in a child could easily disguise itself as saintliness or demonic possession. As a father, I wouldn't want any of those options for a child of mine.

At the end of 20/20, one of the children became so dangerous to herself and her family that her parents had to commit her to a long-term treatment facility. I watched the mother cling to her daughter, weeping, saying over and over, "Mommy will call you. Mommy will call you." She wouldn't let go.

I wish I could stop being on the look-out all the time with my daughter. I wish I could somehow lock my fear in a safe and hide it far under my bed, among the dust bunnies and shoe boxes full of my daughter's kindergarten paintings. I wish I could look into her eyes and not wonder if I'll ever see a stranger looking back at me. I wish and hope I never have to let go.

Confessions of Saint Marty

May 15: Seesaw, Kids, Daughter's Drama

I passed by this playground and stopped and watched a couple of very tiny kids on a seesaw.  One of them was sort of fat, and I put my hand on the skinny kid's end, to sort of even up the weight, but you could tell they didn't want me around, so I let them alone.

Holden learns a very important lesson about kids in the above passage:  they generally resent help from older people.  Even though Holden is a teenager, to the seesaw kids, he's the equivalent of a school principal or truant officer (do they eve have truant officers anymore?).  Kids want to be independent, until they can't get their little worlds to balance on the seesaw.

Last night, my daughter's world wasn't balancing.  She was practicing a speech she had to give today for her Language Arts class, and it wasn't going well.  The unpoppable bubbles she was trying to create were popping, and her life was coming to an end.  It was a two-hour drama, and, at times during this crisis, I was screamed at, walked away from, and glared down.  I wanted to help her, but every time I put my hand on her end of the seesaw, she went all Linda Blair on me.  Eventually, she accepted my assistance, but only after her universe had imploded a little.

This morning, my daughter trooped off to school with all the equipment for her speech.  At around 10:30 a.m., she got up in front of her classmates and delivered her talk.  I glanced at my watch at around 10:00 a.m. and said a little prayer for her.  I've been worried all day long about her unpoppable bubble.  I have no idea whether it popped or not.

I guess that's what parents do--to protect their bubbles, keep them from popping.  Balance out the seesaw whether the kids like it or not.

Saint Marty always hated seesaws when he was little.

Protect it.  Always.

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?

March 12, 13, 14: Fear and Loathing and Saints

Friday night, I finished my weekly household chores late. It was nearly 10 p.m. by the time the toilet and shower were scrubbed; tables, chairs, and shelves were dusted; and rugs were vacuumed. I sat down on the couch, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV for a little channel surfing.

I enjoy the time immediately post-cleaning because, for a few short hours, everything is in order and I feel like I've gained control of my life. It lasts until Saturday morning when my 17-month-old son wakes up and starts dragging toys out of toy bins and clothes out of laundry baskets. But, on Friday nights, I can sit and revel in the tracks left by the vacuum cleaner on the freshly vacuumed carpets and the heavy scent of lemon Pledge in the air.

I started flipping through the channels, not really expecting to find anything more satisfying than the deep blue water of my clean toilet bowl. I stopped on a station that featured a ten- or eleven-year-old girl in what seemed to be in the throws of demonic possession. She was pounding the kitchen table with her fists, screaming at her parents. The camera cut to the girl's siblings huddled on the stairs, listening to their sister's threats of violence and murder. A voice-over said something like, "As soon as Jamie returned home, she started hearing the voices and seeing the evil spirits again." I stopped and continued to watch, thinking it was some news program that was going to show a ritual exorcism.

The girl's behavior was absolutely terrifying, and the mother and father just sat and listened to her rant and growl. At one point, the youngest sibling, who couldn't have been more than seven or eight, became so upset and scared that she started pulling her own hair out in clumps. The mother held the little girl and rocked her, crying and saying, "Please don't hurt yourself like that."

I waited for a priest or minister to enter the scene and start unpacking Bibles and holy water and crucifixes. It turns out, however, that I had stumbled upon 20/20, and the story was on young children with schizophrenia. Now, little Linda Blairs puking pea soup I can handle; children with mental illnesses, that's something totally different.

You see, when my wife was diagnosed with bipolar, I did a lot of reading about the disease. I read memoirs and textbooks and Websites. I pored over pamphlets given to us by doctors. I suppose it was my way of trying to gain a little control over a situation in which I felt helpless, like running the vacuum cleaner over a bed of hot coals so I wouldn't burn my feet. Futile, but a least I was doing something.

One of the things that frightened me the most was the question about relatives. All of the psychiatrists and therapists, all of the literature, pointed to the genetic link. Beth had an uncle and great aunt with bipolar. Therefore, she was probably suffering from the same disease. It runs in the family, like red hair or being a fan of Michael Bolton.

Ever since that time, I've watched my daughter, who, at nine, resembles my wife's childhood photographs so much it's hard to tell them apart. I've read stories and articles about children with bipolar, about the wild moods, the depressions and manias. One little boy I read about was so tired of being unstable that he wrote his parents a suicide note when he was eight. Eight years old. Instead of playing Pokemon and watching Harry Potter movies, he was jumping out of second story bedroom windows.

I watch my daughter for signs that the helix of her DNA has shifted. When she pulls her hair because she can't play a chord for her piano lesson correctly, when she throws herself on the floor screaming because she doesn't want to take a bath, when she sits in her closet to give herself time to control her anger, I wonder if I'm witnessing normal, nine-year-old hormones or symptoms of something more serious. I have learned to deal with and accept my wife's illness. I don't know if I could do the same for my daughter.

I often wonder how the parents of saints managed their children's holiness. I'm here to tell you that if my daughter told me she was talking to the Virgin Mary, holding an actual conversation with a glowing woman in blue robes, I'd have that child in the ER within the hour. As I watched 20/20, I thought that schizophrenia in a child could easily disguise itself as saintliness or demonic possession. As a father, I wouldn't want any of those options for a child of mine.

At the end of 20/20, one of the children became so dangerous to herself and her family that her parents had to commit her to a long-term treatment facility. I watched the mother cling to her daughter, weeping, saying over and over, "Mommy will call you. Mommy will call you." She wouldn't let go.

I wish I could stop being on the look-out all the time with my daughter. I wish I could somehow lock my fear in a safe and hide it far under my bed, among the dust bunnies and shoe boxes full of my daughter's kindergarten paintings. I wish I could look into her eyes and not wonder if I'll ever see a stranger looking back at me. I wish and hope I never have to let go.