April 1: Easter, Fairly Exhausted, Church Musician

Happy Easter night to all my disciples.

I hope everyone has had a blessed day, full of love and good food.  Chocolate, too.  Lots of chocolate. 

I am fairly exhausted.  I was at church for the Easter Vigil Mass for almost three hours.  Got home around midnight.  Got things ready for the Easter Bunny to show up.  Went to bed around 1 a.m.  Up at 5:30 to play the Easter Sunrise Service at my wife's church.  Then an 11 a.m. service. 

On top of all that, I've been struggling with some stomach issues today, as well.  I think the stress of the weekend is catching up with me.  That's the life of church musicians, though.  Along with all the graces of the Christian holy days, there's a ton of anxiety, as well.  Sleeplessness.  And practice and practice and practice.

Not a whole lot of churchgoers realize this.  The best music is the kind that seems both beautiful and effortless.  Here's a little behind the scenes:  church music isn't effortless.  It's a lot of work.  Wonderful work, but lots of it.

So, exhaustion has struck.  I'm brain dead.  Empty. 

This afternoon, I read a blog post about how to gain readership for your blog.  One of the pieces of advice was (and I'm paraphrasing here), "Don't always talk about yourself.  Make it about your readers."

Don't really know how to do that tonight.  If you are a church musician reading this post, I hope you get some much needed rest tonight.  If you are a churchgoer, thank a church musician for this weekend.  If you aren't a churchgoer, none of this really matters.  I hope you had a good weekend with your godless existence.  (That was a joke, by the way.  Some of the most spiritual people I know aren't members of any church or religion.)

So, I am ready for bed.

Saint Marty might be sleeping in tomorrow.

September 5: Beetle Grubs, Labor Day, Sleeping In

Now also in the valley night a skunk emerged from his underground burrow to hunt pale beetle grubs in the dark.  A great horned owl folded his wings and dropped from the sky, and the two met on the bloodied surface of earth.  Spreading over a distance, the air from that spot thinned frail sweetness, a tinctured wind that bespoke real creatures and real encounters at the edge . . . events, events.  Over my head black hunting beetles crawled up into the high limbs of trees, killing more caterpillars and pupae than they would eat.

It's a good, coming-of-autumn passage.  As I read it, I can almost smell the leaves mulching on the ground.  There's a skunk, an owl, beetles and blood.  Add a girl with a camera running around in a panic, and it could be a scene from The Blair Witch Project.  Dillard is always aware of the changes wrought by the seasons.

It is Labor Day in the United States.  The unofficial end of summer fun and return to the schedules that rule most of our lives:  algebra and band practice and Sunday school and grading and dance lessons.  Throw in some snow storms and arctic blasts, and that's life in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for the next nine months.

I slept in this morning until well past ten o'clock.  I haven't done that in . . . Actually, I can't remember the last time I did that.  When I go to bed at night, I always set an alarm.  Not last night.  It was strange to wake up to sunlight filtering through my bedroom curtains. 

And I didn't even jump out of bed to confront the day.  I climbed out from under the covers, had a bowl of cereal, and watched the movie Little Miss Sunshine with my daughter.  She'd never seen it before.  I didn't get dressed until after noon.  I felt lazy.  I haven't felt lazy in a long time, either.

This weekend, as a matter of fact the whole summer, seems to have flown by.  I'm not sad about that.  My favorite season of the year is autumn.  I love the colors, the holidays.  Halloween and Thanksgiving.  My kids are obviously not excited to return to the school bus tomorrow morning, but they're ready for a change, also, I think. 

Tonight, I will help my wife get my son to bed earlier than he's been to bed in three months.  Tomorrow, after my kids are safely on their way to school, I will help my wife make some chocolate chip cookies for my son and oatmeal butterscotch cookies for my daughter.  That's our first-day-of-school ritual.

Time is flying for Saint Marty.  Pretty soon, he'll be playing Christmas songs in his car.  Actually, he's been doing that since March.

September 4: Gene Wilder, Willy Wonka, Classic Saint Marty

I'm sitting in my living room, watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory with my wife and daughter.  As my two Constant Readers are probably aware, Gene Wilder died this past week, so I've been feeling a little nostalgic.  I used to watch Willy Wonka on TV with my whole family when I was a kid.  My mother would cook up a big pot of popcorn, and we would all gather in the living room.  It's one of my fondest memories as a child. 

I used to wish two things when watching the movie:  I wanted to be Willy Wonka, or I wanted to be Gene Wilder.  Either way, I would have a purple velvet jacket, top hat, and cane.  Even sitting here tonight, I sort of feel some kind of yearning.  Perhaps for a simpler time, when I believed I could have an edible chocolate room.

Planning on sleeping in tomorrow morning.  Not setting an alarm.  I can't remember the last time that I've gone to bed and not set an alarm.  It will be absolutely heavenly.

Tonight's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago, when I was pretty sick.  An early autumn case of tuberculosis.

September 4, 2014:  Hard to Sleep, Coughing, Book Bag

The night seemed long.  Wilbur's stomach was empty and his mind was full.  And when your stomach is empty and your mind is full, it's always hard to sleep.

Wilbur is excited.  A voice has promised to be his friend, and the voice said she would introduce herself in the morning.  Therefore, Wilbur is unable to sleep.  He waits and waits for the first rays of sun in the sky.  For his new friend.

I use this paragraph as an introduction because I have been having great difficulty sleeping this past week.  Not because of some disembodied voice.  Not because I'm hungry.  And not because my mind is full.  It's because I spend most of the night coughing up a lung.

I caved this afternoon and made an appointment with a doctor.  The doctor told me I have acute bronchitis, exacerbated by possible asthma.  Basically, the cold I had last week has settled in my lungs and is now turning my nights into tuberculosis time.

I have not had the energy to read a whole lot this past week.  I recently started the book Struck by Genius by Jason Padgett.  It's about Padgett's traumatic brain injury and onset of acquired savant syndrome.  Basically, Padgett went from being a shiftless, partying 30-year-old boy to a mathematical genius.  So far, the book is brilliant.  More to come on that.

That's my book bag at the moment.  My thoughts are clouded, and my lungs hurt.

That's all Saint Marty's got.

A portrait of last night

January 31: Worry Worries, Another Evaluation, Classic Saint Marty

Welcome to the start of my morning.  Yes, it is quite early (a little past eight o'clock).  I find myself with some unexpected time on my hands this a.m., which almost NEVER happens.  So, I decided to make constructive use of these first minutes of my day by doing my daily blog post.

It's going to be a busy day.  I have much to accomplish--grading and reading and lesson planning.  Above, I have to complete my annual evaluation document for the university.  I worked several hours on it last night, and I will complete and submit it this afternoon.  This year, I am asking for a promotion, so there's quite a bit of extra pressure to make this little 40-page book as good as I can.  After 23 years of teaching at this institution, I am hoping that I won't be turned down.

In a few minutes, I have to go pick up my kids from grandma's house to take them to church.  They will be grumpy.  My daughter will be sighing and rolling her eyes, probably.  My son will whine and stomp his feet.  That pretty much describes the whole process.  It's fairly predictable.  I'm not complaining.  I'm an adult who understands the importance of a spiritual component in a person's life.  My kids are 14 and 7.  They understand the importance of sleeping in and playing computer games.

Two years ago, I was pretty much doing the same thing that I'm doing today:  working on my annual evaluation.  Strange how things change and yet stay the same, year after year.  Evaluation worries.  Kid worries.  Money worries.  Car worries.  Worry worries. 

January 31, 2014:  Surprise Work, End of a Long Day, Fairy Tale Work

It's going to be a busy weekend.  My daughter's ballet recital is tomorrow night.  That means she has a two hour rehearsal this evening and a two hour rehearsal tomorrow afternoon.  Then the show in the evening.  I am basically going to be a shuttle service Friday and Saturday.  And I still have to do some house cleaning to make some money.

On top of all that, I received an e-mail this morning from the English Department.  I have to write a document for my annual evaluation, and it's due by 5 p.m. on Monday.  I'm going to have to get that done this evening.  It's my only free time in the next few days.  Surprise work.  I have a feeling that, by Sunday afternoon, I'm going to be one tired little saint.

When Charlotte gets to the Fair Grounds with Wilbur, she's tired.  The end is very near for her, and she knows it.  Wilbur has no idea his friend is nearing the final days of her life:

"I'm awfully sorry to hear that you're feeling poorly, Charlotte," he said.  "Perhaps if you spin a web and catch a couple of flies you'll feel better."

"Perhaps," she said, wearily.  "But I feel like the end of a long day."  Clinging upside down to the ceiling, she settled down for a nap, leaving Wilbur very much worried.

Charlotte goes with Wilbur to the Fair because she knows her work is not finished.  Even when she feels like the end of a long day, she still has to save her friend's life.  At the end of my life, I know I'm going to be exactly like Charlotte.  There's still going to be some task I need to complete.  One last thing to do.  Work never goes away.  It just goes undone.

Once upon a time, there lived an old farmhand named Lotta.  Lotta rose every day before the sun, labored all day in the barn and fields, and fell into bed long after the sun was on the other side of the world.  Lotta never took vacations, and the milk from her cows was known to be the best in the kingdom.

One day, Lotta died, and nobody was there to take over her chores.  The cows went unmilked.  The corn rotted on the stalks.  And the pigs died of starvation.

Moral of the story:  Farms are a whole Lotta work.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Who does give a damn?

August 25: Sleeping In, Recuperation, Classic Saint Marty

I slept in this morning until around 10:30 a.m.  I haven't slept that late in years.  My life doesn't allow me that luxury.  However, with the pain medication, I just couldn't rouse myself any earlier.  When I finally climbed out of bed, I felt like I was moving through oatmeal.  I have an inkling I'm not going to be up and at 'em quite I quickly as I was planning.

Today, I have a Classic Saint Marty from September 9, 2011.  It's about kids going back to school and mythology and religion.  You know, the usual.  Hope you enjoy it.

Saint Marty's going to find a recliner and take a nap now.

September 9:  Prize-Winning Poem

Below you will find the poem I wrote based on Wonder Twin's winning suggestion for the "Name the Poem" contest.  Wonder Twin's winning entry was "jealousy/envy," something she thinks I know a little bit about.  Aside from this poem, of which she will receive a special, autographed copy, Wonder Twin will also receive the saint holy card scanned in below.  Saint Gianna Beretta Molla is known as the Martyr of Maternal Love.

Congratulations, again, Wonder Twin

If you are jealous of these prizes, you should have entered the contest.  It's your own fault.  However, despair not.  Just stay tuned to this blog for my next contest.  I'll try to up the stakes even more.  I'm a big believer in friendly and/or cutthroat competition.

Saint Marty presents Wonder Twin's poem...

The Miracle of the Bus

My son stands curbside, coiled tight.  Waits for the bus to appear in the morning light like some mythic mammal with beaver fur, kangaroo tail, pelican mouth.  He cocks his head, listens for the stampede of diesel in the air.  Distant at first.  The way, I'm sure, buffalo herds sounded in the Old West.  Tremor.  Tremble.  Rumble.  Roar.  Avalanche of back and horn and hoof.  When it appears at the end of the street, my son knows a miracle is about to happen.  He jumps, claps.  If he had palm fronds, he'd be waving them, singing hosannas with the rocks and trees.  The bus groans to a stop.  Its door exhales, opens.  My son ascends the steps.  Slow.  Heracles climbing to Olympus, joining the other gods in this yellow chariot.  The door sighs.  Closes.  The bus coughs, moves off into the blue air, leaving me, mere mortal, jealous, hungry for the ambrosia of chalk and crayon and recess.