June 24: Raining, Maggie Smith, "Good Bones"

It is raining outside right now, has been for about an hour.  At first, it was a deluge, so thick I couldn't see the houses across the street from my window.  Now, it is light, flickering rain, as if the clouds are wet bathing suits hung on a line to dry.  Drip, drip . . . drip . . drip, drip . . .

If you have been reading this blog for the past couple months, you know that I have been struggling with the world.  There's been more rain than sun in my days.  Yet, I get reminders every day that there are "good bones" in my life (to borrow Maggie Smith's term).  A rabbit nibbling in my backyard when I get home.  My son, so smart and funny.  Ice cream on a warm evening.  My wife, mercurially beautiful.  A great poem.  My daughter, bright in kindness.

Saint Marty just needs to keep reminding himself of these good bones.

Good Bones

by:  Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I've shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I'll keep from my children.  The world is at least
fifty-percent terrible, and that's a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake.  Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children.  I am trying
to sell them the world.  Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones:  This place could be beautiful,
right?  You could make this place beautiful.

July 17: Another Story, Bedtime, Harry Potter

"Tell me another story!" begged Wilbur.

Charlotte tells Wilbur a story about her cousin who trapped a fish in her web.  Then she tells him a story about her cousin who was a balloonist.  Finally, Charlotte sings Wilbur a lullaby.


That pretty much describes my son's bedtime ritual.  A couple of books, a lullaby, some prayers.  Recently, I've been reading him I Love You, Stinky Face.  Tonight, however, we embarked upon Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.  I thought my son would last about two sentences.  He listened for close to 25 minutes.  Almost the entire first chapter.

He really got into it.  Of course, it helped that I did my best Richard Harris and Maggie Smith impersonations.  I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep it up.  My Alan Rickman is a little rusty, and I'm not sure if I'll be able to pull off Emma Watson.  But I will persevere as long as my son is interested.

I'm looking forward to rediscovering the Harry Potter books.  It's been a long time since I visited Hogwarts.  For instance, I completely forgot that the first chapter of the first book is almost entirely focused on Mr. Dursley, and the writing itself obviously targets a much younger audience than the later books in the series.

I hope my son wants to return to Privet Drive tomorrow night.  Bedtime was great this evening.  Plus, it's a lot more interesting than Stinky Face.

And Saint Marty has always wanted to be a Gryffindor.

Repeat after me:  I solemnly swear I am up to no good!