March 10: Dam, Darrell Bourque, "Lincoln in New Orleans, 1831"

I came home to a wall of slush and ice in my driveway.  My wife had already moved a good portion of it, but there was literally a dam of heavy, wet snow to clear.  As I swore, cursed, and grunted with my shovel, I kept asking myself, "Why do I love this place?"  It almost made me wish for an eternal winter.  No more snow, just enough cold to keep things from melting.

Well, I'm tired, sore, and hungry.  Ready for bed.  I'm done for the day.

Another night, another poem.

Saint Marty has to go make his daughter some Ramen noodles now.

Lincoln in New Orleans, 1831

by: Darrell Bourque

When he arrived that year he had to walk
a mile or so on flatboats to reach the shore.
He had poled and floated here, watched hawks
circling overhead on lazy afternoons, still bore

the scar he’d gotten years before when he chased
and fought off seven fugitive slaves who tried to rob him
and his measly crew near Baton Rouge. He pasted

some home remedy on the gash and then stemmed
the blood with some cloth he had on board. It lasted
all his life, this scar over his right eye but it hemmed

in nothing. What really lasted was the chatter and talk
around Maspero’s Exchange where one mulatto girl more
was trotted and pinched, undressed while buyers gawked
and ciphered for the lowest price they could get for her.

December 27: A Christmas Fairy Tale and Stuff

This morning, I spent a couple of hours of quality time with my son.  We watched Curious George and Peg + Cat.  Breakfast was Ramen noodles and toast.  (OK, I said quality time, not quality food.)  We had a great time together.

Most days, I see my son for a total of two hours, right before bedtime.  That means he's usually cranky and in need of a bath.  He's usually not too happy to see me because I'm the bad guy.  I'm the one who drags him away from Minecraft or the iPad to scrape off the layer of sweat and dirt he's acquired over the past nine or ten hours.  He doesn't like baths, and he's very good at verbalizing this dislike.  And then, after I've tortured him in the bathtub for five or ten minutes, I drag him, kicking and biting and screaming, into his bedroom.

I much prefer giving him junk food in the morning and being a cool daddy who can tell him really good stories, like...

Once upon a time, and of all good times of the year, on Christmas Eve, a magician named Marlin was working late at the palace.  Marlin always worked long hours.  He left his cottage at four o'clock in the morning and didn't usually return until well after sunset.  He rarely saw his children, and his bloodhound bit him every time he walked through the front door.  The bloodhound was really stupid.

Marlin was a magician of the Third Order of Merlin.  That means he wasn't considered a very important magician at the royal court.  Usually, Marlin spent his days changing any boys who seemed interested in the king's daughters into frogs.  The princesses were very beautiful, so the palace was plagued with amphibians who went around croaking, "Kiissss meee, kisssss meee."  It wasn't exciting work, but it paid Marlin's mortgage.

This Christmas Eve, Marlin was wrapping up a few last-minute spells before heading home.  He had a knight with a hangnail to cure and a possessed toilet to exorcise.

Marlin sighed.  "I wish, just once," he thought, "I could have a really important spell to cast."

Just them, the king's adviser appeared.  "The king orders you to cast the annual White Christmas spell."

"But," Marlin said, "that spell is usually done by Gary, the court magician.  He's much better at it than I am."

"Gary called in sick," the king's adviser replied.  "There no other magician on call.  It's up to you to save Christmas."

"OK," Marlin said.  "I'll do my best."

The adviser went away.  Marlin took out his wand, thought for a moment, and then sang, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas."  He waved his wand.  "Just like the ones I used to know," he sang.  He cast the spell.

That night, every young boy in the kingdom was transformed into a frog.  On Christmas morning, the king summoned Marlin to the palace and ordered him to reverse his White Christmas spell.

"I don't know how," Marlin said.  "I didn't get past eighth grade in wizarding school."

"What am I supposed to do with all these frogs?" the king demanded.

"I have an idea," Marlin said.

And that is how the tradition of the royal Christmas frog leg feast started.

Moral of the story:  Frogs taste just like chicken.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

White or dark meat?

August 29: A Powerful Speaker, Parliament, Ann Romney

"Let me hear another sound from you," said Scrooge, "and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation.  You're quite a powerful speaker, Sir," he added, turning to his nephew.  "I wonder you don't go into Parliament."

Scrooge is obviously talking to Fred, his nephew, who has just made an impassioned defense of Christmas.  Scrooge is impressed with Fred's speaking abilities, and he pays Fred this small compliment, even though he disagrees with Fred's point of view.  Scrooge recognizes good rhetoric when he hears it.  It just takes four ghosts and a near-death experience to change his mind about the holiday.

Last night, I was flipping through the local TV channels.  Practically every station was broadcasting from the Republican National Convention.  If you are a constant reader of this blog, you will know my particular take on politics in the United States.  I can sum it up with four words:  Republicans bad, Democrats good.  The world "liberal" is not a bad thing.  It calls to mind generosity and charity of heart.  When I go to a friend's house for dinner, I hope my friend is liberal with the wine and steak.  Liberality is a good character trait.

So TV last night was just an exercise in frustration for me.  I tried to zip past most of the channels carrying news coverage of the goings-on in Tampa, but I did stop and listen to Ann Romney speaking.  From the couple minutes I watched, I gathered that Ann was trying to convince me that Mitt is just an "ordinary" family guy, like my dad or grandpa.  Sure, Mitt is ordinary, if ordinary means living the life of a millionaire since the day you were born.  I don't know about you, but I don't have elevators in my house to move my cars around.  I think that the only time Mitt Romney worries about working class people is when working class people are cutting his lawns for minimum wage (or less).

Ann Romney might be a "powerful" speaker, but she's not going to convince me that her husband knows what it's like to worry about paying his bills.  Ann seems like a nice lady, but she should stick to riding horses.  Leave the fate of ordinary people to someone who's eaten Ramen noodles for dinner once or twice.

That's just the way Saint Marty sees it.

Ann stands by her millionaire