May 12: "Covid," Mother's Day, "Mother's Day Shopping"

Pandemic Billy Collins . . . 

Covid

by: Billy Collins

Another long day

at home.

I set my phone

on Airplane Mode.

I know this is a strange poem to include in a Mother's Day post.  (For my international disciples, the United States sets aside the second Sunday of May as a day to celebrate mothers and motherhood.)  Yet, there's something in this poem that makes me think of my mom.

Even before the pandemic forced us all into isolation, my mother wasn't doing well.  If memory serves, she fell at home some months into COVID and ended up in the hospital.  From there, she was transferred to a long-term care facility.  So, I didn't see much of her near the end of her life.

It's hard for me to believe that she's been gone for almost three years.  In temperament and personality, I think I take after my mother more than my father.  She was open-minded and loving.  I rarely saw her get angry.  And she was quick to spot the ridiculous in life.  I once read her an Anne Sexton poem when I was an undergraduate, and she laughed her ass off.  (My mom was the first person who taught me that poetry can be funny.)

Every Mother's Day, I share a poem I wrote many years ago for my mom.  It ended up being the poem I read at her funeral:

Heart to Heart

by: Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants. Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast. My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest. Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems. Yes, I told
her. I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said. She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts. This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
me for Mother’s Day. Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm. They
will find a diner to have
coffee together. They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

I know most kids say this, but my mom was a hero, raising nine kids, helping my dad run his plumbing business, volunteering at church, advocating for parents with special needs children.  She did it all with grace and compassion.

Saint Marty wishes all the hero mothers reading this post a Happy Mother's Day.

Mother's Day Shopping

by: Martin Achatz

I stand in front

of the Mother's Day cards

the day before, feeling

like a hyena sniffing

a zebra carcass, knowing

all the good parts have

already been scavenged

by vulture sons for their moms.

May 14: "A Lesson from James Wright," Poem Occasions, "Hamilton"

Mary Oliver writes a poem about a poem . . . 

A Lesson from James Wright

by:  Mary Oliver

If James Wright

could put in his book of poems

a blank page

dedicated to "the Horse David

Who Ate One of My Poems," I am ready

to follow him along

the sweet path he cut

through the dryness

and suggest that you sit now

very quietly

in some lovely wild place, and listen

to the silence.

And I say this, too,

is a poem

Life sometimes gives you poem occasions.  A horse eating a piece of paper.  Silence in some lovely wild place.  Tapioca pudding made by your mother.  

Today was Mother's Day in the United States.  My Facebook feed was flooded by pictures of mothers:  living mothers, deceased mothers, mother figures, expectant mothers.  It was literally a mother-palooza on social media.

I'm not complaining.  All mothers deserve that kind of acknowledgement, respect, and love.  I lost my mother about a year-and-a-half ago, and I still miss her every day.  She was my biggest cheerleader and, sometimes, critic, when needed, always pushing me to be the best person I could be.  She gave me more poem occasions than I can count.

I tried to give my wife and family some unforgettable poem occasions this weekend.  We went to the Houdini Museum in Appleton, Wisconsin.  My son got to go to a trampoline park.  I bought my daughter some clothes.  My wife purchased a new pair of shoes.  We ate steak and sushi and Crumbl Cookies.

However, the biggest poem occasion happened just a little while ago.  We went to see Hamilton.  It's my daughter's favorite musical, and I think it was a dream come true for her.  She sent me a text just a little bit ago:  "most amazing weekend ever."

I have never made that much money in my life.  Haven't been able to take my family to Europe or Jamaica or Hawaii.  Or give my wife expensive jewelry.  Or send my daughter to an Ivy League university.  Or set aside college money for my son.  Life just hasn't allowed me to shower the most important people in my life with that kind of extravagance.

This Mother's Day, however, Saint Marty gave his family some experiences that could be poems.

May 8: Long White Spine, Mother's Day, "Heart to Heart"

Santiago's fish gets admired . . . 

That afternoon there was a party of tourists at the Terrace and looking down in the water among the empty beer cans and dead barracudas a woman saw a great long white spine with a huge tail at the end that lifted and swung with the tide while the east wind blew a heavy steady sea outside the entrance to the harbour.

Mother's Day.  We went to church in the morning.  Our son went with us.  Then, we drove to a couple cemeteries to place flowers on the graves of my wife's mother and grandmother, my mother, and my sister.  First Mother's Day since my mother died at the end of October.  It was tougher than I thought it would be.

Had lunch with our kids.  KFC.  Played some games.  I made loaded baked potatoes for dinner.  Then I led a poetry workshop.  My wife loved every minute of her day.

Saint Marty's koan for tonight:  never judge a day by the size of a fish's skeleton.

Heart to Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants. Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast. My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest. Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems. Yes, I told
her. I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said. She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts. This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
me for Mother’s Day. Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm. They
will find a diner to have
coffee together. They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

May 10: A Very Nice School, Mother's Day, Strong Women

Merton matriculates to Public School . . .

I was already nearly too old for Ripley Court, being by now fourteen, but I had to pick up enough Latin to be able to make at least a presentable showing in a scholarship examination for some Public School.  As to the school where I should go, Uncle Ben made a more or less expert choice, in his capacity as retired headmaster of a prep school.  Since Father was poor, and an artist, there would be no thinking of one of the big schools like Harrow or Winchester--though Winchester was the one for which Uncle Ben had the greatest respect, having achieved his ambition of sending many of his pupils there with scholarships.  The reason was twofold:  not merely that Father could not be considered able to pay the bills (although, in fact, Pop was to pay them, from America) but the scholarship examinations would be altogether too hard for me.

The final choice was regarded by everyone as very suitable.  It as an obscure little school in the Midlands, and old foundation, with a kind of a little tradition of its own.  It had recently gone up slightly in its rating because of the work of its greatest headmaster, who was just about to retire--all of this was the kind of thing Uncle Ben knew and told me, and Aunt Maud confirmed it, saying:

"I am sure you will find Oakham a very nice school."

There's something very ominous in these three paragraphs.  Merton has not had a good track record when it comes to Public Schools.  The fact that the title of the next chapter of The Seven Storey Mountain is "The Harrowing of Hell" also does not bode well.  Although, when looking at the list of notable alumni from Oakham on Wikipedia, Thomas Merton is prominent, along with a couple bishops, famous mathematicians, and a British Ambassador to Peru.  So, Oakham is still going strong.

Today is Mother's Day.  I will not be able to see my mother in person, because of the pandemic.  She is in her late eighties, and, since I work in a medical setting, I don't even want to take the chance of spreading the virus to her.  Yet, Merton's Aunt Maud, who has the last work on Oakham in this passage, reminds me a lot of my mom. 

My mother always wanted what was best for me.  When I said I wanted to study English in college and become a writer, she said something like, "Well, why don't you go into computers.  There's a good future in that.  You can take all the English classes you want, too."  So, I became a Computer Science major, just like Merton followed Aunt Maud's advice and went to Oakham.

Strong women have always had a huge influence on my life.  I'm the youngest of nine kids.  I have three older brother, five sisters in between, and then I came along.  Thus, my sisters had a big hand in shaping me into who I am.  My mother had her hands full with so many kids.  So, my oldest sister pretty much taught me how to drive.  My middle sisters chauffeured me to play practices before I had my own driver's license.  They listened to my short stories and plays and poems.  Praised me, even though I'm pretty sure they thought I was a little odd.  I was.

And then I met my wife, who came from a family of very strong women.  All of these ladies (grandmother, great aunts, mother, sisters, cousins)  taught me so much about being a loving and supportive man, partner, and father to my wife and kids.  They have all been a part of my life for close to 30 years, and I don't know what I would do without them.

The mother of my children has had many struggles in her life with mental illness and addiction.  It has not been an easy road.  Our marriage and family have weathered some pretty turbulent storms.  Yet, through all of these difficult times, I think my kids have always known that they were loved and cherished by her.  That is really important.

So, on this day that celebrates motherhood, in all its shapes and forms, I give thanks for all of the strong females in my life, who have molded me and made me a better person.  They truly are heroes, each and every one.

Saint Marty loves them all.

May 12: Couldn't Sleep, Mother's Day, Long Goodbye

Nobody can sleep in the Hitchhiker's universe . . .

Trillian couldn't sleep.  She sat on a couch and stared at a small cage which contained her last and only links with Earth--two white mice that she had insisted Zaphod let her bring.  She had expected never to see the planet again, but she was disturbed by her negative reaction to the news of the planet's destruction.  It seemed remote and unreal and she could find no thoughts to think about it.  She watched the mice scurrying round the cage and running furiously in their little plastic treadwheels till they occupied her whole attention.  Suddenly she shook herself and went back on the bridge to watch over the tiny flashing lights and figures that charted the ship's progress through the void.  She wished she knew what it was she was trying not to think about.  

Zaphod couldn't sleep.  He also wished he knew what it was that he wouldn't let himself think about.  For as long as he could remember he'd suffered from a vague nagging feeling of being not all there.  Most of the time he was able to put this thought aside and not worry about it, but it had been reawakened by the sudden, inexplicable arrival of Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent.  Somehow it seemed to conform to a pattern that he couldn't see.

Ford could't sleep.  He also too excited about being back on the road again.  Fifteen years of virtual imprisonment were over, just as he was finally beginning to give up hope.  Knocking about with Zaphod for a bit promised to be a lot of fun, though there seemed to be something faintly odd about his  semicousin that he couldn't put his finger on.  The fact that he had become President of the Galaxy was frankly astonishing, as was the manner of leaving the post.  Was there a reason behind it?  There would be no point in asking Zaphod, he never appeared to have a reason for anything he did at all:  he had turned unfathomability into an art form.  He attacked everything in life with a mixture of extraordinary genius and naive  incompetence and it was often difficult to tell which was which.

Arthur slept:  he was terribly tired.

This afternoon, I'm the Arthur Dent in this passage.  I just woke up from a nap.  It has been quite an eventful weekend, with my daughter attending the prom last night.  I spent yesterday washing my car, running to the store for glitter hair and body spray (for my daughter, not myself), taking pictures, playing the pipe organ for Mass, attending the prom grand march, cleaning my house, and then waiting for my daughter to return from the prom.

Mother's Day today.  Went to church this morning.  Took my wife out to brunch with our kids.  My wife has to work this afternoon, so, tonight, we're planning on having a Mother's Day bonfire in our backyard.  (I bought a portable fire pit for my daughter to have friends over after the prom last night.  I've been wanting one of these for quite some time.  My daughter simply provided a reason for me to finally purchase one.)  We'll cook some s'mores and have some time together this evening before the start of another work week.

I am trying to gather my thoughts today.  Find some focus.  I'm not being very successful.  I have a writing project that I need to finish tonight.  Yet, I can barely string two sentences together for this post.  As a poet, I find this situation quite frustrating.  I keep stopping and starting.  Deleting and backspacing.  It's like I'm thinking in syllables instead of sentences or paragraphs.

I haven't been sleeping well recently.  I find myself worrying about a lot of things that are out of my control.  My daughter's future.  My son's transition to middle school next fall.  My wife's mental health.  My ability to pay bills this summer without teaching money coming in.  I could go on, but you get the idea.  Focused and unfocused anxiety.

I'm sitting at my mother's dining room table right now, listening to my mother speak to herself.  She has recently developed the habit of providing a running commentary of what's going through her mind.  Sometimes, it's about my father.  Other times, she becomes obsessed with going home, as in "When am I going to go home?  When is your father coming to get me?"  Yesterday, she spent two hours folding and unfolding a blanket in her lap, talking her way through the process:  "Fold this end over like this.  This corner to that corner.  Yes, that's right . . ."  It's as if her brain never rests, pinballs from one thought to another without ever coming to a rest.  I can almost hear the bells and pings going off in her head.

Today especially, I miss my mother.  I once heard Alzheimer's called "the long goodbye."  I've been saying goodbye to my mother for close to five or six years now.  My mother doesn't know it's Mother's Day.  Doesn't know why my kids gave her roses and a card.  Doesn't understand why we had cake after dinner, took pictures with her.

Saint Marty hopes that she knows that she's loved and honored today, tonight, tomorrow.  Always.

May 13: Something Special, Mother's Day, "Heart to Heart"

Three years ago, I wrote the poem below for a Mother's Day church service.  I wrote it, read it that Sunday, and then forgot about it.  A couple weeks ago, I was hunting around for a poem to read at an Open Mic.  Since Mother's Day was approaching, I was looking for anything that had to do with motherhood.  I found this poem.

We are having a barbecue this afternoon with my mother.  Hamburgers, corn on the cob, watermelon.  I don't think she really knows that it's Mother's Day.  I gave her a card and flowers.  My brother brought her a Whitman sampler.  She knows there's something special happening today, and that she's a part of it.

Perhaps that's enough.  She is a woman who raised nine children.  She's outlived two of those children and her husband of over 60 years.  I remember the night when I read from my MFA thesis.  It was late April, and the Upper Peninsula was in the grips of a late spring snowstorm.  Even though she'd had two knee replacements and ankle fusion, she braved the wind and ice and snow.  Sat in the front row and smiled the entire time.  My success was her success.

She has always been Saint Marty's biggest fan.

Heart to Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants.  Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast.  My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest.  Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems.  Yes, I told
Her.  I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said.  She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts.  This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
for me for Mother’s Day.  Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm.  They
will find a diner to have
coffee together.  They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

May 9: Dorianne Laux, "Mother's Day," My Mother Reading

Mother's Day

by:  Dorianne Laux

I passed through the narrow hills

of my mother's hips one cold morning

and never looked back, until now, clipping

her tough toenails, sitting on the bed's edge

combing out the tuft of hair at the crown

where it ratted up while she slept, her thumbs

locked into her fists, a gesture as old

as she is, her blanched knees fallen together

beneath a blue nightgown. The stroke

took whole pages of words, random years

torn from the calendar, the names of roses

leaning over her driveway: Cadenza,

Great Western, American Beauty. She can't

think, can't drink her morning tea, do her

crossword puzzle in ink. She's afraid

of everything, the sound of the front door

opening, light falling through the blinds—

pulls her legs up so the bright bars

won't touch her feet. I help her

with the buttons on her sweater. She looks

hard at me and says the word sleeve.

Exactly, I tell her and her face relaxes

for the first time in days. I lie down

next to her on the flowered sheets and tell her

a story about the day she was born, head

first into a hard world: the Great Depression,

shanties, Hoovervilles, railroads and unions.

I tell her about Amelia Earhart and she asks

Air? and points to the ceiling. Asks Heart?

and points to her chest. Yes, I say. I sing

Cole Porter songs. Brother, Can You Spare

a Dime? When I recite lines from Gone

with the Wind she sits up and says Potatoes!

and I say, Right again. I read her Sandburg,

some Frost, and she closes her eyes. I say yes,

yes, and tuck her in. It's summer. She's tired.

No one knows where she's been. 

_________________________

My mother used to read all the time.  She read everything, even gave Stephen King a try once or twice.  Up until a few years ago, she used to be a member of the book club that meets at my house every month.  She always finished the month's book, even if she didn't like it.

My mother's eyesight started to fail several years ago due to macular degeneration.  Then, her hearing became a problem, as well.  Now, my mother doesn't read at all.  Her memory isn't great.  Sometimes, she doesn't know my kids when they're at her house.

This past Sunday, my sister gave my mother a set of headphones.  Then, my sister started playing an audio book for her.  Dan Brown's Angels & Demons.  My mother has read this book before, but she spent all day listening to it.  Laughed and leaned forward, as if she were watching it on television.

Saint Marty was so happy to see his mother reading again.

May 14: Mother's Day, Classic Saint Marty, "Heart to Heart"

Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers out there--mothers and aunts and sisters and neighbors and friends.  All the women who nurture and care for people.

My daughter danced this morning.  Pretty soon, we will be heading to Olive Garden for lunch--my wife's choice.  I have to say that she is the most patient and loving and understanding mother.  When I am ready to go medieval on my kids for something, she is the person who takes the chains and whips out of my hands.  Every day, she demonstrates how much she loves our children through small sacrifices.  She is amazing.

On this Mother's Day, I have an episode of Classic Saint Marty that aired about two years ago, when I was dealing with my daughter's first step toward independence . . .

May 14, 2015:  Vague Depression, Daughter's Trip, Little Princess

Although he had confided in his father about his decision regarding the seminary and it was hardly a secret in their household, Robert could not bring himself to tell his mother about his doubts, for the young man truly believed that one of his jobs in life was to seem independent.  So even though he suffered through many a bad day, even after talking it over with his father, when a vague depression came over him, as if he already knew about his true future, and wanted to rest his head upon his mother's lap, to feel her reassuring hand on his head, he kept his feeling bottled up inside--at least around her.

Robert Ives is a young man struggling with very adult issues for the first time in his life.  He is not going to college.  Or getting married.  Or starting a new job.  Robert has decided to devote his life to God.  He's terrified and confused, and, even though he craves his mother's attention, he can't bring himself to admit it.  He's growing up.

My daughter is going on a class trip tomorrow morning.  In sixth grade, it was a day trip to Mackinac Island.  Seventh grade, a couple of days at a survival camp.  This year, it's Great America.  Tomorrow, I will drop her off at 4:45 a.m., and she will climb on a bus and head off to Chicago.  Without me or my wife.  Wearing a tee-shirt that says "Class of '19."

Yes, I know I'm being melodramatic.  My daughter will be back in the bosom of her family around 3 a.m. on Saturday.  She will be crabby and tired, and she won't want to tell me about what she did over the past 24 hours.  She will get home, climb into bed, and proceed to sleep for the next 12 hours.  Maybe she'll get up to go to the bathroom.  I may slide a pizza under her bedroom door about noon.

My daughter is a good kid.  She studies hard, gets straight A's, and reads all the time.  On weekends, she goes to church on Saturday and Sunday (sometimes with a little grumbling, if not outright hostility).  And she's going to be a high school freshman next fall.  She's already talking about getting her driver's license.

Yes, I'm feeling a little nostalgic for the times my daughter would lean against my chest and let me be her daddy.  These days, when I wake her up in the morning, I have to announce to my wife, "I have released the Kraken." 

Saint Marty isn't ready for his little princess to turn into a prom queen.

Not this kind of prom queen

And a poem for Mother's Day . . . 

 Heart to Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants.  Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast.  My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest.  Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems.  Yes, I told
her.  I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said.  She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts.  This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
for me for Mother’s Day.  Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm.  They
will find a diner to have
coffee together.  They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

May 8: Mother's Day, Pasties, Classic Saint Marty

It is Mother's Day in the United States, the day set aside to celebrate--you guessed it--mothers. 

It has been a fairly laid-back day.  Quiet.  Church this morning.  After church, we went to place some flowers at my wife's mother's grave and my sister's grave.  Now, I'm watching Jurassic World with my wife and kids.  (My daughter gave my wife the entire Jurassic Park series for Mother's Day.)

Tonight, we will have a traditional Mother's Day dinner--pasties.  Well, it's traditional in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  If you don't know what a pasty is, I'm not sure I'll be able to explain it adequately.  First, let me say that a pasty (pronounced like "nasty") is not the nipple cover worn by strippers and pole dancers.  A pasty is a Cornish meat pie that miners used to eat.  Contained within its crust is usually meat and potato and rutabaga, sometimes onion and carrot, as well.  I have eaten some pasties where peas have been thrown into the mixture, although that's kind of a bastardization of the dish.

I have no idea why I have suddenly turned this post into a food blog.  Maybe I'm hungry.  All I do know is that, in a couple of hours, I will be eating a hot pasty made by the descendants of Cornish immigrants at my wife's church.  It will be delicious.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired in 2014, on a decidedly unhappy day in my life.  My brother had just died.  I was being kicked out of a job that I'd held for 14 years.  Fast forward to today.  I am on the verge of returning to the job that I left two years ago.  I lost my sister about a year after my brother.  I am still teaching, still living in the same two-bedroom/one-bathroom house, still worrying about bills.  Things change.  Things stay the same.

May 8, 2014:  Worst Day, Waves of Sadness, Walking Out

Wilbur couldn't believe what was happening to him when Lurvy caught him and forced the medicine down his throat.  This was certainly the worst day of his life.  He didn't know whether he could endure the awful loneliness any more.

Wilbur has just arrived at the Zuckerman farm.  He misses Fern.  None of the other animals in the barn are being particularly friendly to him.  Lurvy has just forced "sulphur" and molasses down his throat.  His young life has reached a pretty low point.

This evening, I understand Wilbur's state of mind.  It was my last day of work at the medical office.  All day long, coworkers kept saying how much they were going to miss me.  In between, I had family and friends calling me about my brother.  Every time someone said "I'm so sorry" on the phone, I'd start crying.  I was hoping to be stoic and strong, like a Viking or something.  Instead, I was Shirley MacLaine at the end of Terms of Endearment, coming unglued.

As I was walking out of the medical office at the end of the day, I looked back at what has been my desk for the past 14 years.  It was like I'd been erased.  Depressing.  So, to bolster my spirits, I came to my office at the university and boxed up the rest of my belongings for the big move to the new English Department in July.  That was a mistake, too.  The fact that I can fit 17 or 18 years of my life into five small boxes was pretty depressing, too.

So, I'm crapping out all over the place tonight.

When Saint Marty gets home tonight, he's going to have a very big drink.  And he ain't talking about chocolate milk.

Saint Marty this afternoon

May 4: Out of the Woods, Spring Rituals, Owning Up

Coming out of the woods, I heard loud shots; they reverberated ominously in the damp air.  But when I walked up the road, I saw what it was, and the dread quality of the whole afternoon vanished at once.  It was a couple of garbage trucks, huge trash compacters humped like armadillos, and they were making their engines backfire to impress my neighbors' pretty daughters, high school girls who had just been let off the school bus.  The long-haired girls strayed into giggling clumps at the corner of the road; the garbage trucks sped away gloriously, as if they had been the Tarleton twins on thoroughbreds cantering away from the gates of Tara.  In the distance a white vapor was rising from the waters of Carvin's Cove and catching in trailing tufts in the mountain's sides.  I stood on my own porch, exhilarated, unwilling to go indoors.

It is springtime at Tinker Creek.  Dillard comes upon this little spectacle as she emerges from the forest after a hike.  Everything is greening up, becoming lush and fecund.  The sap is flowing.  The garbage guys are showing off for these teenage girls.  Sort of like a peacock spreading its feathers or a silverback gorilla pounding its chest.  It's a way to draw attention, display masculinity.  It's a spring thing, I think, built into male DNA.  And Dillard finds this spring ritual exhilarating.

I participated in a couple spring rituals this evening.  First, I went to my office at the university and cleaned up my desk from an entire academic year's worth of clutter.  Piles of papers and books.  Empty Diet Coke cans.  I indexed and filed my classroom materials into 3-ring binders.  And I threw out a lot of stuff.

Second, I went Mother's Day shopping with my daughter.  We had exactly one hour to make our purchases.  We went to Walmart.  We crossed the highway to Target.  Success.  Not only did we find cards and presents, but also found a really cool Star Wars shirt for my daughter.  And we got some popcorn, too.

Third, I made some amends this evening.  I sent an e-mail to a colleague/friend.  For most of the school year, I neglected to fulfill some promises I had made.  It has been weighing on my mind a lot.  So, tonight, I apologized to my friend.  I hope that my e-mail is received with the spirit in which it was sent:  sincerity and goodwill.  It is always good to own up to the mistakes you make, I think.  It's good for the soul.  Keeps you grounded and honest.

Spring rituals.  Some of them are cleansing; some, a little painful.  It's all about rebirth and growth.  Letting go and owning up.

Saint Marty did a little of all of that tonight.

By the way--Happy Star Wars Day!

May 7: Fiding Happiness, Pablo Neruda, "Ode to Sadness"

When I pick up my daughter this evening from her dance studio, I will take her shopping for Mother's Day.  We will buy cards for mother and grandma and aunts.  We'll pick up some good chocolates.  Maybe a DVD or a book.  I have no plan.

At the end of this rather solemn day, I'm all about finding some happiness.  I want to find something that will make my wife smile this Sunday.  I want to drive sadness into the shadows tonight.  Banish it.  I've had enough of its company.

Saint Marty is taking his cue from Neruda tonight.

Ode to Sadness

by:  Pablo Neruda

Sadness, scarab
with seven crippled feet,
spiderweb egg,
scramble-brained rat,
bitch's skeleton:
No entry here.
Don't come in.
Go away.
Go back
south with your umbrella,
go back
north with your serpent's teeth.
A poet lives here.
No sadness may
cross this threshold.
Through these windows
comes the breath of the world,
fresh red roses,
flags embroidered with
the victories of the people.
No.
No entry.
Flap
your bat's wings,
I will trample the feathers
that fall from your mantle,
I will sweep the bits and pieces
of your carcass to
the four corners of the wind,
I will wring your neck,
I will stitch your eyelids shut,
I will sew your shroud,
sadness, and bury your rodent bones
beneath the springtime of an apple tree.

Anybody want a piece of happiness?

May 12: Stood Quietly, Mother's Day Make-Up, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

The children grabbed each other by the hand and danced off in the direction of the merry-go-round, toward the wonderful music and the wonderful adventure and the wonderful excitement, into the wonderful midway where there would be no parents to guard them and guide them, and where they could be happy and free and do as they pleased.  Mrs. Arable stood quietly and watched them go.  Then she sighed.  The she blew her nose.

It's a pretty typical scene.  A mother watches her children skip off joyfully to a place where they are free to taste their independence for the first time.  It's a difficult letting go for Mrs. Arable.  It's an adventure for Fern and Avery.


Yes, I am a day late with this Mother's Day post, and I am sorry for that.  I spent all day yesterday working on the poem for my brother's funeral, and time simply got away from me.  So, I wish all the mothers reading this belated Mother's Day wishes.

I have a Classic Saint Marty from a Mother's Day a couple of years ago.

May 13, 2012:  Mother's Day, New Poem, "Her Mother's Voice"

I'm stepping away from Scrooge and Charles Dickens today, in honor of Mother's Day.  I am going to share a poem I wrote for this morning's church worship service.  This poem is NOT the poem I wrote for the mother/daughter dinner earlier this week.  I will give you that poem tomorrow afternoon.

My wife and daughter sang a duet for special music this morning, as well.  They sang "I Was There to Hear Your Borning Cry."  It's a sweet little hymn, almost a lullaby.  I tried to incorporate a portion of the hymn's title into the poem, to tie them both together.  I'm not sure if it was successful.  Plus, I started crying in the middle of reading the poem.  I was a mess.  But my wife and daughter sang beautifully.

If you're wondering what I did for my wife this maternal 24 hours, I will tell you.  This morning, I gave her a card.  After church, I took her out to lunch.  Subway.  Nothing fancy, but we ate together as a family.  Now, she's taking a nap before dinner.

Currently, I'm at my parents' house for a Mother's Day barbecue.  Hot dogs.  Bratwurst.  Pound cake for dessert.

Saint Marty needs to go.  The dogs are on the grill.

Her Mother's Voice

My wife, Beth, doesn't remember
Her mother's voice, how it rose
When her mother lifted diaphragm
In laugh, how it fell near the end
When breathing was hard as birth.
At night, Beth wonders if she'd recognize
Her mother's voice in a recording,
If it would be familiar as Doris Day
Crooning "Que Sera Sera,"
John Lennon gliding through "Imagine." 
Or would it be scratchy, distant
As a wax cylinder.  Jelly Roll Morton
Grinding out "Fat Meat and Greens."
When she was five, Beth sang with her mother
In church.  She doesn't remember the song.
What she does remember:  her mother's fingers
On the guitar strings, stained glass
Light on her mother's face.  Beth remembers
Feeling like she was riding a bike
For the first time by herself,
Her mother receding, growing smaller, smaller.
She remembers this clearly, the way
She remembers the morning in the hospital
When she heard our daughter's borning cry.

Confessions of Saint Marty

September 1: Poetry Headaches, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

I have been working all day on my new poem.  I've made some progress, but I'm still not ready to send it out into the world yet.  Sorry, folks.

However, I do have a Classic Saint Marty to share today.  This episode first aired on May 8, 2011.  It was Mother's Day, and I wrote a poem that I read at a church service.  I won't give anything away.

Let's just say it wasn't one of Saint Marty's proudest moments.

May 8:  Mother's Day, Poem, Weeping

It is Mother's Day in the United States.  Aside from Christmas, more people got to church on this day than on any other Sunday in the calendar year.  I guess kids feel obligated to make their moms happy, even if it means having to rise early, dress up, and attend a worship service.  Anything for mom.  I also imagine this day is the biggest for people going to Sunday brunch at restaurants, as well.  One or two days out of the year, we all fulfill our sonly or daughterly obligations.  Tomorrow we can all go back to being our normal, self-centered selves.

At church today, I read my new poem.  I wrote it last night because I wasn't happy with one of my old poems I was going to use.  It didn't seem quite right to me.  So, after Lawrence Welk was over last night, I sat down and wrote the poem at the end of this post.  It took me about an hour-and-a-half.  Of course, I'd been thinking about the poem most of the day.  I had it pretty much all planned out.  That's why it didn't take me too long.

When I read my poem this morning, my one goal was not to cry when I read it.  I practiced it five or six times without getting too emotional.  I thought I was free and clear.  Then the pastor decided to play a video that got the entire congregation and the choir weeping.  I could feel the tears sitting in my throat like a fist afterward.  I knew I was sunk.  I got to the last three lines of the poem, and I choked up, started to cry.  After about 15 or 20 seconds, I was able to finish.  Then I had to sit down and play Schubert's "Ave Maria."  Holy crap, I think every Kleenex box in the place was empty.  My friend who was singing the song lost composure about half-way through.  Everybody was sobbing.

I guess talking, thinking, singing, writing about mothers does this to people.  I think it has something to do with mothers' selfless love.  It's a love that goes on and on, through childhood, through adulthood, and beyond.  It's the kind of love I think God has for each and every one of us.  That's what Mother's Day is really about.

Saint Marty wishes all mothers a blessed, peaceful day.

For Mother's Day at Mitchell U.M.C.

I was 18 the first time I saw
My mother cry.  Arthritis invaded
Her spine, stiffened her vertebrae
Until, on that morning, she couldn't
Cough or lift a coffee cup without
Feeling whipped, scourged.
She'd given birth to nine children,
Her youngest daughter with Down's,
A baby the doctors told her to forget,
Put in an institution, walk away,
Erase, like a hurricane after waters recede.
But Mother brought my sister
Home, began the hard work of mothering.
Feeding,  Diapers.  Teaching.  Colors.
Letters.  Numbers.  Watched my sister
Laugh, walk, speak, do all the things
Doctors said she would never do.
My sister flourished like an orchid
In the hothouse of my mother's love,
Became exotic and beautiful, healthy.
If my mother cried when the doctors
Used the words "mongoloid," "retarded,"
She never said.  If she cried
When my sister took her first impossible
Step, she never said.  If she cried
When my sister first called her "mommy,"
She never said.  The day I saw my mother
Cry, she felt helpless, old, reduced.
Like Mary, she realized she couldn't
Carry every cross for her baby. 
Ave, Mother, Ave.

Confessions of Saint Marty

May 8: Mother's Day, Poem, Weeping

Mother's Love

It is Mother's Day in the United States.  Aside from Christmas, more people got to church on this day than on any other Sunday in the calendar year.  I guess kids feel obligated to make their moms happy, even if it means having to rise early, dress up, and attend a worship service.  Anything for mom.  I also imagine this day is the biggest for people going to Sunday brunch at restaurants, as well.  One or two days out of the year, we all fulfill our sonly or daughterly obligations.  Tomorrow we can all go back to being our normal, self-centered selves.

At church today, I read my new poem.  I wrote it last night because I wasn't happy with one of my old poems I was going to use.  It didn't seem quite right to me.  So, after Lawrence Welk was over last night, I sat down and wrote the poem at the end of this post.  It took me about an hour-and-a-half.  Of course, I'd been thinking about the poem most of the day.  I had it pretty much all planned out.  That's why it didn't take me too long.

When I read my poem this morning, my one goal was not to cry when I read it.  I practiced it five or six times without getting too emotional.  I thought I was free and clear.  Then the pastor decided to play a video that got the entire congregation and the choir weeping.  I could feel the tears sitting in my throat like a fist afterward.  I knew I was sunk.  I got to the last three lines of the poem, and I choked up, started to cry.  After about 15 or 20 seconds, I was able to finish.  Then I had to sit down and play Schubert's "Ave Maria."  Holy crap, I think every Kleenex box in the place was empty.  My friend who was singing the song lost composure about half-way through.  Everybody was sobbing.

I guess talking, thinking, singing, writing about mothers does this to people.  I think it has something to do with mothers' selfless love.  It's a love that goes on and on, through childhood, through adulthood, and beyond.  It's the kind of love I think God has for each and every one of us.  That's what Mother's Day is really about.

Saint Marty wishes all mothers a blessed, peaceful day.

For Mother's Day at Mitchell U.M.C.

I was 18 the first time I saw
My mother cry.  Arthritis invaded
Her spine, stiffened her vertebrae
Until, on that morning, she couldn't
Cough or lift a coffee cup without
Feeling whipped, scourged.
She'd given birth to nine children,
Her youngest daughter with Down's,
A baby the doctors told her to forget,
Put in an institution, walk away,
Erase, like a hurricane after waters recede.
But Mother brought my sister
Home, began the hard work of mothering.
Feeding,  Diapers.  Teaching.  Colors.
Letters.  Numbers.  Watched my sister
Laugh, walk, speak, do all the things
Doctors said she would never do.
My sister flourished like an orchid
In the hothouse of my mother's love,
Became exotic and beautiful, healthy.
If my mother cried when the doctors
Used the words "mongoloid," "retarded,"
She never said.  If she cried
When my sister took her first impossible
Step, she never said.  If she cried
When my sister first called her "mommy,"
She never said.  The day I saw my mother
Cry, she felt helpless, old, reduced.
Like Mary, she realized she couldn't
Carry every cross for her baby. 
Ave, Mother, Ave.

May 7: Quick and Easy, Nice and Quiet

Pretty much, the title of this post describes my day.  It seems to have have gone by pretty fast.  Nothing stressful has happened.  I haven't gotten into any disagreements with anyone, and I got to take a nice, quiet nap this afternoon.  What more could a person ask for on a Saturday?

Tomorrow is Mother's Day, and I'm reading one of my poems at church and playing Schubert's "Ave Maria."  I was going to write a new poem today about motherhood, but you're going to have to wait for that until tomorrow.  Once I get my son in his crib tonight, I plan to wrap some presents for my wife and mother.  Then I'm going to try to write the poem.

That's pretty much what I have to report today.  At church, my fountain pen, the one I've been using for the last eight or nine years, broke a little bit.  It is now being glued.  Hopefully, it will be fine tonight, ready to be used.  I panicked a little bit when I noticed the break, couldn't find the pieces of it.  However, a little Super Glue fixes a lot of problems.

Went for a run today.  It was in the 50s most of the morning and afternoon.  The run was good, but I am really out-of-shape.  I need to work a little harder.  The doctor's appointment went alright.  My doctor did not sing the "Hey, Fatty, You Need to Lose Some Weight" song.  However, I could tell it was right on the tip of his tongue.  If the examination had gone on much longer, he would have broken out the tap shoes and cane.  Thank God it was a quick and, relatively, painless check-up.  No DRE.  (For those of you who don't know what that is, it's where the doctor slips on a rubber glove, lubes it up, and tells you to bend over and touch your toes.  When my doctor tells me to do that, I usually ask him for a box of chocolates and a dozen roses afterward.)

Saint Marty hopes all of you had a quick and easy, nice and quiet kind of day, as well.

Schubert and Mary, A Love Story

May 12: Saint Epiphanius of Salamis

Reviewing the last couple of blogs I've written, I realize that I have been focusing a great deal on my penchant for jealousy and sarcasm. I'm really not that shallow of a person, although my recent reflections would lead you to believe otherwise. Therefore, today, I am not going to blog about a writer who has talent, fame , and wealth (deserved or undeserved). I am not going to write about a friend, acquaintance, or coworker who has received some sort of positive recognition (deserved or undeserved).

So, I guess that just about does it for this blog. Enjoy the pretty picture....Just kidding.

Traditionally, in the Catholic Church, the month of May is dedicated to honoring the Virgin Mary. Now, is it a coincidence that the secular celebration of motherhood comes during the same month that Catholics celebrate Mary, the mother of Jesus? I don't know. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Beats me. Epiphanius of Salamis, today's patron, was an early proponent of "devotion to Mary." A fourth-century monk in Palestine, he focused many of his writings on Christ's mother. While not all Christian denominations place as much emphasis on the figure of Mary in the Jesus narrative and the practice of faith, everyone has a soft spot for mothers (unless you happen to be a child of Joan Crawford.)

My pastor friend tells me that traditionally, besides Christmas and Easter, Mother's Day is the Sunday when church attendance is at its highest during the year. That means that on the second Sunday of every May, kids drag their asses out of bed, take showers, dress up, and take dear old mommy to mass or a worship service. It might be out of guilt. It might be because moms refuse to do their laundry or babysit the grandkids if their children don't sit in the pews and act like doting sons and daughters for an hour or so. Whatever the reason, the sanctuary is full of mothers wearing corsages and kids wearing bored and/or angry expressions.

My wife and I don't have that problem yet with our children. Our son is only 18-months-old and has to go anywhere we have the strength to carry him. (He was 10 pounds, 7 ounces when he was born. He emerged from the womb ready for kindergarten.) Our daughter is nine-years-old and still enjoys going to Sunday school and church. So the struggle to appear to be a normal, Ozzie-and-Harriet kind of family unit is not that difficult. Like all parents and children, we set aside all the dysfunction (mental illness, addictions, alcoholism, affiliation with the Republican Party) and polish ourselves up until we sparkle like Carol Brady's kitchen.

And actually, this year, my wife and I didn't have too much to fake. Things have been going well for us, and, aside from a few bumps in the road, our daughter is a great kid. I write these previous comments a little nervously because I'm the kind of person who's always waiting for the other shoe to drop. If nothing bad has happened for a while, I start looking over my shoulder for the rabid chimpanzee that's about to attack and chew off my face. (When Oprah interviewed the woman to whom this actually happened, I had nightmares for a week. I'm not trying to make a joke here. It's just the way my mind works.) Every teacher who has taught my daughter has told us what a polite, bright, smart child she is. Aside from occasional bouts of temper fueled by lack of sleep, my daughter hardly ever gives us problems. (For you parents of teenagers, let me assure you: I have heard the horror stories, and I am trying to stock my parental bomb shelter with as many positive memories of my daughter as possible. As a coworker frequently reminds me: "Teenagers suck.")

So, after church this Sunday, when we got home, my daughter gave my wife a card she made in school.

My daughter has never known her mother without mental illness. She has been a part of my wife's manias and addictions and depressions. When my wife and I separated for a year, my daughter continued to love her mother unconditionally. One Saturday during this time, my daughter waited over eight hours for my wife to come for a visit. When my wife finally appeared, I was furious. But my daughter just threw herself at my wife and wouldn't let go.

My daughter just seems to understand the nature of my wife's disease, knows what to expect. She accepts my wife the way a mother accepts her newborn child: seeing only beauty and perfection.

On this Mother's Day, in the month of Mary, this is what my daughter's card said:

Happy Mother's Day!

to: Mommy

from: Celeste

The flower on the windowsill

reminds me of you

weather you're healthy or ill

I love what you do!

Sometimes you are strict

and I love that about you!

Sometimes you are nice

and I love that too!

but the thing that I love most

Is that you

are you!