March 27: The Cloisters, God's Love Numbers Thirty-Seven and Thirty-Eight, Poetic Fairy Tale

"Well," [Annie Ives'] son said cheerfully, "I'm going up to the Cloisters in a little bit to check out the choir.  They've got something going on with All Souls' Day, would you like to come with me?"

Robert, Ives' son, loves music.  He sings in the church choir, plays in a jazz band with friends, and buys his parents Thelonius Monk and Gregorian chant records for Christmas.  Annie, Ives' wife, accompanies Robert on a trip to hear choristers "singing in Latin about the transformations of the soul and other such autumnal subjects..."  Robert looks over at Annie, and Annie remembers his gaze after he is killed.  To her, the look said, "I will always be with you, Mama, from this day onward."

Yesterday afternoon, I attended my daughter's chorus concert with my wife.  It was all Broadway tunes, a lot from musicals in which I've actually performed.  Annie.  Sweet Charity.  The Music Man.  It was a really good concert, even if some of the solos made me die a little inside.  There was my daughter, on the top riser, looking at me every once in a while, smiling at my pained expressions.  That's God's love number thirty-seven.

Today, the sun came out.  After a couple days of snow and wind, it was a relief to see blue sky.  Plus, even though the temperature didn't get above 15 degrees, the snow melted.  I didn't have to shovel my driveway when I got home.  I was able to eat a leisurely dinner, watch a rerun of The Big Bang Theory, and relax.  That's God's love number thirty-eight.

This weekend, I have to work on a poem for Easter Sunday.  I've been kicking around a few ideas.  It's difficult to write poems with religious subject matter.  I'm not a big fan of Helen Steiner Rice, and I certainly don't want to write like her.  That's the challenge I face.

Once upon a time, a humble bard named Sheldon lived in a distant kingdom.  One day, he was ordered by King Leonard to write a poem for the Royal Golden Jubilee.  Leonard warned Sheldon, "Make it good or lose your head."

Sheldon worked day and night, week after week, to produce a poem that would save him from the executioner's axe.  As the Golden Jubilee approached, he still didn't have anything to show the king.  One night, before he fell asleep, Sheldon looked out his window and saw a shooting star.  Sheldon made a wish:  "Please give me a poem for King Leonard."

The next morning, when Sheldon woke up, he immediately went to his desk.  He picked up a quill and parchment.  Without hesitation, he sat and wrote the poem.

On the day of the Golden Jubilee, Sheldon stood before the royal court, unrolled his parchment, recited his poem:

Leonard is golden and great.
He looks good in a crown that's ornate.
Although covered in warts,
he's hung like a horse.
That's why he croaks and neighs when he mates.

Sheldon waited expectantly for King Leonard's response.

King Leonard sat on his throne, staring at Sheldon for several moments.  Then, he turned to his guards and said, "Take him outside and cut off his head."

Moral of the story:  Don't use slant rhyme in a limerick.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Helen can pull that hat off.  I can't.

August 8: Heat of the Day, Back Home, Dog Days Fairy Tale

After the heat of the day, the evening came as a welcome relief to all.  The Ferris wheel was lighted now.  It went round and round in the sky and seemed twice as high as by day.  There were lights on the midway, and you could hear the crackle of the gambling machines and the music of the merry-go-round and the voice of the man in the beano booth calling numbers.

Fairs always come in the dog days of summer, when July is a memory and insects saw the air all day in the heat.  People crowd the Fair grounds to ride the rides, eat the greasy food, and see the livestock.  There's something a little magical in the above paragraph.  It conjures up something extraordinary and ordinary at the same time.  The carnival lights.  Smells of hay and manure.  Elephant ears dusted with powdered sugar. 

This dog day of summer was spent traveling.  We took our time.  Stopped when we wanted to stop.  My nephew and son spent almost 40 minutes wandering in the woods by a rest area. At the end, we took a thirty minute Dairy Queen break, sitting near the shores of Lake Superior in the early evening, eating a banana cream pie Blizzard.

I am back home now, settling back into my everyday life.  I've unpacked.  Tomorrow, it's McDonald's for breakfast and playing the pipe organ for church in the afternoon.  The Lawrence Welk Show in the evening.  I won't go further than that.  It will just depress me.

The dog days don't last long.  Soon, the leaves are going to start changing colors.  Darkness will come earlier and earlier.  In a couple of weeks, my fall schedule kicks in.  Teaching.  Students.  Meetings.  Less family time.  More work time.  Another season of change.  And you all know how much I love change.

Once upon a time, a pig herder named Sheldon lived in the Emerald Forest.  In late summer, Sheldon brought all of his pigs to the Emerald County Fair, where he sold them to a butcher named Frank.  Frank took the pigs home and made sausages out of all of them, even the pretty sow named Ezmerelda who could balance a ball on her snout.

When the Fair ended, Sheldon went back to his cottage in the Emerald Forest and started a new job as a contingent instructor in the Livestock Department at Ye Olde University.  Sheldon didn't have medical insurance or benefits.  Half way through his first semester of teaching, he started having hallucinations and high fevers.

Sheldon went to the local leech man Travis.  After Travis bled Sheldon a few times, he gave the former pig herder the bad news:  Sheldon had mad pig disease, probably contracted by becoming a little too close with Ezmerelda, if you know what I mean.

Sheldon slowly lost all his hair and spent the rest of his life running through the Emerald Forest naked, singing the theme song to Gilligan's Island.  He died bald and sun-burned.

Moral of the story:  use sunscreen all the time.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

A three hour tour...a three hour tour...