February 24: Adam and Eve, Pablo Neruda, Wrestling Tournament

Their commander was a middle-aged corporal--red-eyed, scrawny, tough as dried beef, sick of war.  He had been wounded four times--and patched up, and sent back to war.  He was a very good soldier--about to quit, about to find somebody to surrender to.  His bandy legs were thrust into golden cavalry boots which he had taken from a dead Hungarian colonel on the Russian front.  So it goes.

Those boots were almost all he owned in this world.  They were his home.  An anecdote.  One time, a recruit was watching him bone and wax those golden boots, and he held one up to the recruit and said, "If you look in there deeply enough, you'll see Adam and Eve."

Billy Pilgrim had not heard this anecdote.  But, lying on the black ice there, Billy stared into the patina of the corporal's boots, saw Adam and Even in the golden depths.  They were naked.  They were so innocent, so vulnerable, so eager to behave decently.  Billy Pilgrim loved them.

I love this little passage, with its almost magically real image of Adam and Eve in the commander's boots.  War and death.  Innocence and vulnerability.  Billy falling in love with them as he is flat on his back on the black ice of the frozen creek.

That's the way poetry happens, really.  In the middle of the shitstorm of life, something beautiful surfaces.  Today, I felt pretty lousy all day long.  Hot then cold.  Stuffed up nose then runny nose.  Full of energy then exhausted.  Right now, I feel like I could crawl under the covers and take a Rip Van Winkle nap.  And there is snow and snow and snow.

I'm looking for poetry tonight.  Having a hard time.  Perhaps if I I take some Nyquil, I will find poetry.  Neruda once wrote, "And it was at that age . . . Poetry arrived / in search of me.  I don't know, I don't know where / it came from, from winter or a river."  I have an idea for a poem I want to write for the poetry reading I'm giving this coming Tuesday.  I haven't had the energy to put pen to journal.  Still don't.  I'm waiting for poetry to arrive.

Tomorrow, my son has a wrestling tournament.  Maybe poetry will be there, cheering in the crowd.  In the afternoon, my daughter has a dance rehearsal.  Maybe poetry will be there in a leotard.  In the evening, church.  Poetry may be there, saying a few prayers.

I'm saying that I don't know when poetry is going to arrive.  I just have to keep an eye out.

Tonight, Saint Marty is thankful for . . .the possibility of meeting poetry at the concession stand.

November 20: Shoveling, Newt Scamander, Classic Saint Marty

Heard the snowplows go by my house at around 5:30 a.m.  About 15 minutes later, I was outside with a shovel, cleaning up my driveway and front yard.  It took me over an hour.  By the time I was done, I was soaked in sweat and ready to go back to bed.

But I didn't.  I took a shower and got ready for church.  A whole morning of practicing with my praise band and then the chancel choir.  An hour of worship.  Then I went home, got changed, and drove over to my dad's house to shovel his driveway.  I have to say that I'm already tired of winter, and it's only the first snowstorm of the season.  It's going to be a long six or seven months.  (For those of my disciples not from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, I am NOT exaggerating.) 

The afternoon got a lot better, though.  I went to see a movie with my kids--Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.  That's right, Newt Scamander and a big bucket of popcorn did a lot to change my mood.  I will not say that it was my favorite film from the Harry Potter universe, but it was a really good way to change my rather cold and icy mood.  My teenage daughter even laughed and smiled.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired four years ago, when my little girl was on the brink of teenagehood.  All I can say is that some things change and some things are pretty constant.

November 20, 2012:  What Did I Do?

I am tired of being the father of an almost-teenage girl tonight.  When I picked my daughter up from my parents' house this evening, she came unglued on me.  She was mad that I had showed up to bring her home.  When we got home, she came unglued on me again, this time because she had lost a notebook she needed for school.  Then, after she had calmed down, she came unglued once more because she left another school book at my parents' house.

Currently, we are sitting in silence in the living room.  We are at a stalemate.  She doesn't want to talk to me, and I don't want to be screamed at anymore.  Perhaps things will get better when we're both asleep.

I don't like fighting with my daughter.  Actually, I'm not fighting with her.  I have spoken a total of three or four times to her.  I have said "Let's get going, sweetie" and "Do you have any homework tonight?" and "What are you looking for?" and "Did you leave it at school?"  I think that's about it.  In return, I have gotten door slamming, screaming, tears, and glares.  It's like living with a skunk.  I walk around, trying not to startle her in order to avoid a big stink.

I miss the little girl who would sit in my lap while I read Charlotte's Web to her.  I have a friend who recently went on a trip to Pennsylvania.  When I asked my friend how her trip was, she said, "If I had to do it over, I would raise my kids Amish.  They're up at dawn, in the barns and fields.  They work all day and are too tired at night to cause any problems."  My friend has three daughters.  All three of them had babies when they were teenagers.

Maybe my friend is on to something.  Maybe the Amish are on to something.  No zippers.  Long, black dresses.  Church.  Barn raisings.  Arranged marriages.  Horses and carriages.

The only problem is that Saint Marty doesn't look good in a beard.

This would not be a good look for me

July 9: Expectations, Martin Espada, "Why I Went to College"

I don't have much time before I head off to church this evening.  Saturday night in the choir loft, sitting at the pipe organ.  Some Saturdays, I wish I could just take off my shoes and socks, stretch out on the couch, and forget about the world.  But I don't.

I am, if nothing, a responsible person.  I don't shirk work, ever.  People depend upon me on Saturday nights, and I don't like to disappoint, especially when it comes to church and God.

Martin Espada has a great little poem about living up to his father's expectations.

Saint Marty's trying to live up to his Father's expectations.

Why I went to College

by:  Martin Espada

If you don't,
my father said,
you better learn
to eat soup
through a straw,
'cause I'm gonna
break your jaw

I try not to piss off God

April 24: Rainy Sunday, Laptops, Classic Saint Marty

Rainy Sunday.

I just got done with church a little while ago, and now I'm settling down to a day's work of grading and reading.  Lots and lots of grading and reading.  If that was all I had to do this week, I'd be in good shape.  However, because I'm a contingent professor (a temporary, 23-year employee of the university), I also have a full-time job to worry about.  I've said it before:  if I were a tenured full-timer, I don't know what I'd do with all of the extra time I'd have.

My 15-year-old daughter is currently breathing down my neck because I am using my laptop.  It is the only computer in our household, and she wants to play Minecraft with her friends.  I can feel her stare drilling into the back of my head as I sit typing this post.  She is also sighing a lot.

The sad thing is that my day isn't going to get much better after I'm done blogging.  I will be moving from one pile of papers/exams to another.  For the next week, that will be my life.  I'm not complaining.  I love teaching, and I love my daughter.  They both drive me a little crazy sometimes.  That's all.

Three years ago, I was preoccupied with my daughter, as well:

April 25, 2013:  Your Prayers, My Daughter, Last Night

"Well.  Go to sleep.  Give Mother a kiss.  Did you say your prayers?"

Holden's mother appears for a very short time at the end of The Catcher in the Rye.  She's tucking Holden's little sister, Phoebe, in for the night.  Even though, earlier in the novel, Holden says his parents aren't religious at all, Holden's mother asks Phoebe, "Did you say your prayers?"  It's a casual question, like "Did you do your homework?" or "Did you brush your teeth?"  Yet, it highlights a spirituality in the Caulfield home that Holden denies earlier.


Last night, I was pretty tired.  Alright, I was friggin' exhausted.  I was trying to make it through American Idol, and I simply couldn't do it.  I surrendered to sleep at around 9:30 p.m.  Some time later, my twelve-year-old daughter came bouncing into my bedroom and jumped into bed beside me, snuggling into my armpit.

"Daddy?" she said.

I jumped and, without opening my eyes, said, "What, sweetie?"

"Are you going to say prayers with me?"

I sort of grunted.  I sleep with a mask on to blot out light.  I could smell her hair, which was still wet from her shower.  She uses a cherry blossom shampoo.

"Please, Daddy," she said.  "You can say short prayers."

I've prayed with my daughter or for my daughter or over my daughter every day since her birth.  We have developed a fairly complicated prayer routine, praying for family and friends, sick people, cousins, and teachers.  We even pray for her pediatrician.  Then we sing "Hush, Little Baby" three times to her.  We finish it off with the "be-attitudes," starting "Be a good girl for Jesus, Mary, Joseph, you guardian angel, the king and queen angels, the duke and duchess angels, knight angels and worker angels..."  The angel list goes on, developed in detail since my daughter was a toddler.  It takes a good five to seven minutes if the prayer routine is performed in full.

I didn't have the energy for all the prayers last night, so I said short prayers, which is a truncated version of the standard prayers.  General blessings for everybody.  "Hush, Little Baby" once.  And then the be-attitudes, skipping some of the lesser angels.

This morning, I read that little snippet of dialogue from Holden's mother, and I realized how blessed I am to have a daughter who wants to pray with me.  My daughter can't go to sleep until we've gone through some ritual of blessing for the people in her life.  She reminds me how important daily prayer is.  It's not like brushing teeth for her.  It's a completion thing.  Her day isn't over until she has a few words with God.

This post may seem sentimental.  I don't care.  I'm proud of the fact that I have a prayerful, caring daughter.

It's one of Saint Marty's greatest blessings.

I didn't say my daughter was perfect...

September 22: Multitasking, Church, "Web" Dip

I'm writing this post in my journal as I sit in church.  Monday nights, my son attends catechism classes.  And once a month, there's a session for the whole family.  It usually involves baked goods (my favorite), a video, and (for me) a sometimes tedious presentation about the nightly topic.  Tonight's topic is the sacraments.

Since I'm writing in my journal, you can probably surmise that I'm not all that engaged in the presentation.  The guy's giving an etymology lesson on the word "sacrament."  Everybody's looking at their watches already.  I just checked my phone for texts.  I'm not proud of my boredom, but I have so many things I have to do tonight.  Get my son to bed.  Pick up my daughter from dance classes.  Clean the bathroom.  Type in this post.  Make my lunch for tomorrow.  My mind is going in quite a lot of directions.

Thus, I am multitasking.  In church.  God may strike me dead, but, with a pen in my hand, I can center myself a little more.  That's the poet in me.  I don't feel any kind of electrical disturbance in the air, and my hair (what's left of it) isn't standing up, so I don't think I'm going to be smited (smote?) by lightning.

My question on this Web dip Monday has to do with my five-year-old son, who had some problems at school today.  The problems involved my son's fist and other kids' faces.  I was really hoping this year was going to be different than last year.  I was actually praying for it.  Right now, in conjunction with two doctors, we're thinking about medication to help my son control his impulses.

Now, please don't flood this blog with comments denouncing modern psychiatric medicine.  I don't want to be directed to hyperlinks about the evils of vaccinations and ADHD drugs.  I know it.  I've read it.  That's why I'm conflicted.  However, my son is headed toward another year of detentions and fights and teacher meetings.  I'm getting a little desperate.

So, my question:

Will my son ever learn to control himself and be a good boy in school?

And the answer from E. B. White:

...Mrs. Arable scrubbed the back of Avery's neck, and wet his hair, and parted it, and brushed it down hard till it stuck to the top of his head--all but about six hairs that stood straight up.  Avery put on clean underwear, clean blue jeans, and a clean shirt...

So maybe there's nothing wrong with my son.  Maybe he's just Avery, with frogs in his pockets and hay in his hair.


That answer gives Saint Marty a little comfort tonight.  Amen.  (That's how you end everything when you're in church.)

I think God is a multi-tasker, too

July 12: Fireworks Hangover

Hey, guys.  I'm not going to post too much tonight.  It has been a killer day.

I was up at 7 a.m. to run a race with my daughter.  (She took first place in her age group.  I took fourth place.)  By the way, my calves have not yet recovered.

Then I took my kids to a parade.  Two hours in the sun, scrambling for Tootsie Rolls and bubblegum.

Cleaned my parents' house.  Watered a friend's flowers.  Played the organ for church.

Finally, fireworks.  Kettle corn.  Bratwurst.  Sparklers.  And rain.  Lots of rain.  My underwear is still damp.

Got home about half an hour ago.  I don't have the energy to draw a new cartoon or search for an appropriate image to accompany this post.  So imagine a really funny or inappropriate picture.

Saint Marty is going to bed.

December 22: Feeling Like a Failure, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

I went to church this morning with my game face on.  I wasn't going to let anyone know how upset I was.  I had jobs to do.  Practice with the Junior Choir.  Sing with the choir.  Play keyboard for the praise band.  Concentrate on the work, and leave all the other crap at the door.

Well, that was my plan.  However, the morning was crap.  Emotional.  Difficult.  I barely kept my anger in check at times.  Other times, I just wanted to cry.  Usually, when I'm at church, I feel safe and loved and appreciated.  Not so much today.  It was pretty much a three-hour exercise in feeling like a failure.

So, I have a Classic Saint Marty for you today about feeling like a failure.  It originally aired during the Christmas season two years ago.  However, its message is kind of timeless for me.

Saint Marty needs to go stare into the mirror and say some encouraging words to himself now.

December 12, 2011:  You Want the Moon?

"You want the moon?  Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down."

Mary's Cartoon

Again, the quote comes from George Bailey.  He's walking home from a high school dance with his future wife, Mary.  Mary has had a crush on George since she was a little girl.  George has just noticed that Mary is Donna Reed.  He's flirting with her in his way, which is awkward and goofy.  Then he asks Mary what she wants in life.  Really, all Mary wants is to marry George and settle down in Bedford Falls.  George, on the other hand, has his sights set a little higher.  That's why he offers her the moon, because, at this time in his life, he still thinks he can do anything.  Mary eventually draws the cartoon above.

I think this part of the film is about dreams.  Mary's dreams are more realistic than George's dreams.  George spends the majority of his life chasing the moon, never realizing that he's already got his lasso around it.

George isn't much different from me.  I'm always jealous of people who seem to be happier or more secure.  I'm jealous of people who have things that I want (jobs or publications or better health insurance or cars or houses--I could go on forever).  I'm always looking to lasso the moon, too.  It's not an easy way to live.  It's not an easy way for George to live.  George is, at times, monumentally unhappy.  Sounds familiar to me.

I have friends who have tenured or tenure-track jobs at the university. They spend their days teaching, writing, and grading.  For me, that's the moon.  And, I'm ashamed to say, I'm jealous of these friends, just like George is jealous of his friend Sam Wainwright, who ends up richer than Mr. Potter.  Sam is doing the things that George has dreamed about his entire life.

But George has Donna Reed.  George has beautiful children.  George has great, loyal friends.  George has the moon.

So does Saint Marty.  He just needs to remind himself every once in a while.


Confessions of Saint Marty

 

March 29: Good Friday, Ackely, Church

"Only around!"  Ackley said.  "Listen, I gotta get up and go to Mass in the morning, for Chrissake.  You guys start hollering and fighting in the middle of the goddam--What the hell was the fight about, anyhow?"

If you can't tell from this little piece of dialogue, Ackley isn't a model Christian.  There's a lot of irony in what he says.  He has to go to Mass in the morning, followed up with "for Chrissake."  Then he starts complaining about Holden fighting with his dorm room mate in the middle of "goddam..."  Don't get me wrong.  I like Ackley, and I think Holden does, too.  As Holden says at one point, Ackley's a prince.

I have to go to church this weekend.  A lot of church.  It started last night, with a Maunday Thursday service.  At one o'clock this afternoon, I have to play for a Good Friday service at a Catholic church.  Tonight, I'm going to be singing with an ecumenical choir at an Episcopal church.  Tomorrow night is the main event--the Easter Vigil Mass.  It starts at 9 p.m. and lasts about two-and-a-half hours.  Lots of candles and chimes and reading and singing.  Probably smoke and water, as well.  Then, on Easter Sunday morning, it's the Easter Sunrise service at 8 a.m., followed by an 11 a.m. Easter worship service.

No wonder the Easter Bunny brings chocolate on Sunday.  He has to give everybody energy to make it through the last church services.  I'm feeling pretty good right now, but I have a feeling that, when the alarm goes off on Sunday morning, I'm going to feel more like Ackely, muttering something like, "I just go to sleep a little while ago, for Chrissake."

Today is one of the holiest days of the year.  It's also P.O.E.T.S. Day.  I still have a lot to get done before the sun sets.  Cleaning and writing and reading.  Maybe I'll watch a movie tonight with my wife.  Something light and easy.  Perhaps The Passion of the Christ.

Saint Marty is up for a few laughs.

Have you heard the one about the rabbi and the priest?

November 10: New Poem, "Before 4:30 Mass"

No, I did not forget about my pledge to post a new poem.  I struggled most of the day, but, in the end, my poem finally came to me.  I think it has the tone and flavor of something by Donald Hall.  It's still rough, but it's at a stage right now that I don't mind sharing it with my disciples.

Saint Marty hopes you enjoy it.

Before 4:30 Mass

I look down from the choir loft
At the silence gathered below.
Mrs. MacDonald wears her wool coat
In the same pew she sat in
With her parents, seventy years ago.
She looks behind her, as if she expects
Her father to march up the aisle,
Sit next to her, his boots
Still red with dust from the mines.
Father George flits from person-to-person,
Like a hummingbird in an apple tree,
Pausing long enough to taste
The blossom of each sinner's grief
Before moving on.  My daughter, white
Acolyte, lights candles on the altar,
Checks chalice and paten, makes sure
Gospel and cloth are in place
For the coming show.  So much quiet
Desperation fills the sanctuary,
Everyone craving a piece of holiness
To bring home, bake with eggs and oatmeal,
Spaghetti and meatloaf for the week.
I reach down, press the red button.
The pipe organ takes a long breath,
Groans to life, resurrected again.
It waits for my fingers, holds
Music in its gold pipes that reach
Up and up to the vaulted ceiling,
To the bell in the steeple.  It waits
For that low D of the first hymn,
Voices rising like seagulls
Above the waves of Galilee.