November 7: Happy Moments, Annual Evaluation, Observation

Billy stayed in the wagon when it reached the slaughterhouse, sunning himself.  The others were looking for souvenirs.  Later on in life, the Tralfamadorians would advise Billy to concentrate on the happy moments of his life, and to ignore the unhappy ones--to stare only at pretty things as eternity failed to go by.  If this sort of selectivity had been possible for Billy, he might have chosen as his happiest moment his sundrenched snooze in the back of the wagon. 

It's a good concept--focusing only on the happy moments of your life.  Nice advice from the Tralfamadorians.  It would help me get through the rest of this week, or at least tomorrow night. 

What is happening tomorrow night, you ask?  Well, it is time for my annual evaluation at the university.  That means a full-time faculty member sits in my classroom, watches the circus I put on for my students, and then leaves with his notes on my abilities (or lack of abilities) to teach.  It's a nerve racking experience, every year.

Now, I have never really received a bad evaluation, and the gentleman who is coming tomorrow night is very friendly and pleasant.  He wants to go out for beers with me to talk about writing Catholic poetry.  That doesn't help me get through the actual Big Brother experience of being observed. 

If you haven't noticed before--if you are new to this blog--I tend to be a little neurotic about things like this.  I will over plan, create a startling lesson this evening, so that I can feel calm and at ease tomorrow night.  I will have PowerPoint, maybe a video.  I might read poetry or stand on my head.  If it were the right kind of class, I would do a pole dance, too.  All for the hour or so of that observation.

And then tomorrow night, I will come home and have a very strong special hot chocolate.

In the mean time, Saint Marty is going to think of the happy moments of his life, as the Tralfamadorians advise.  Pizza.  Thanksgiving turkey.  Filet mignon.  Buttered movie popcorn.  A nap . . .

July 13: Fighting a Chicken, Soo Locks, Filet Mignon

At three in the morning on Billy's morphine night in prison, a new patient was carried into the hospital by two lusty Englishmen.  He was tiny.  He was Paul Lazzaro, the polka-dotted cat thief from Cicero, Illinois.  He had been caught stealing cigarettes from under the pillow of an Englishman.  The Englishman, half asleep, had broken Lazzaro's right arm and knocked him unconscious.

The Englishman who had done this was helping to carry Lazzaro in now.  He had fiery red hair and no eyebrows.  He had been Cinderella's Blue Fairy Godmother in the play.  Now he supported his half of Lazzaro with one hand while he closed the door behind himself with the other.  "Doesn't weigh as much as a chicken," he said.

The Englishman with Lazzaro's feet was the colonel who had given Billy his knock-out shot.

The Blue Fairy Godmother was embarrassed and angry, too.  "If I'd know I was fighting a chicken," he said, "I wouldn't have fought so hard."

"Um."

The Blue Fairy Godmother spoke frankly about how disgusting all the Americans were.  "Weak, smelly, self-pitying--a pack of sniveling, dirty, thieving bastards," he said.  "They're worse than the bleeding Russians."

"Do seem a scruffy lot," the colonel agreed.

A German major came in now.  He considered the Englishmen as close friends.  He visited them nearly every day, played games with them, lectured to them on German history, played their piano, gave them lessons in conversational German.  He told them often that, if it weren't for their civilized company, he would go mad.  His English was splendid.

He was apologetic about the Englishmen's having to put up with the American enlisted men.  He promised them that they would not be inconvenienced for more than a day or two, that the Americans would soon be shipped to Dresden as contract labor.  He had a monograph with him, published by the German Association of Prison Officials.  It was a report on the behavior in Germany of American enlisted men as prisoners of war.  It was written by a former American who had risen high in the German Ministry of Propaganda.  His name was Howard W. Campbell, Jr.  He would later hang himself while awaiting trial as a war criminal.

So it goes.

That is one long passage.  Usually, the sections in Slaughterhouse are just one or two paragraphs.  That's all.  This section goes on for a little over two pages.  So it goes.  Billy is privy to a conversation that he probably wasn't supposed to hear.  He now knows what his future holds:  a trip to Dresden and contract labor.  He also knows that the Englishmen hate their American counterparts, almost as much as they hate the Russians.  Interesting.  Americans and Russians lumped together.  I'm sure Donald Trump, Jr., wouldn't have a problem with that.

But this isn't going to be a political post.  This post is going to try to makeup for my absence yesterday.  I was traveling all day.  While in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, we took the boat tour of the Soo Locks, which truly are a wonder to behold.  Human ingenuity in practice.  At one point, our boat was so close to Canadian soil that I could have simply taken one small step and asked for sanctuary.  I didn't do it, but it did cross my mind.

After the boat tour, we drove to Tahquamenon Falls, the lower and upper.  I haven't seen the falls since I was a kid, and my wife and kids had never seen them.  With all the rain we've had this summer, the water was like thunder as it spilled and tumbled downstream.  It was really beautiful and impressive. 

We ate at a pub located at the upper falls.  My daughter ordered filet mignon.  So did her boyfriend.  I had a vegetable sandwich that kind of blew my mind with how good it was.  By the time we were done eating, night was falling fast.  We got home around 11 p.m.  A long, good day.  No Russians or Germans in sight, although I did hear one family at the falls speaking with English accents.  They said nothing about Americans being dirty, thieving bastards.

It was a really good trip, but I am a little exhausted.  I got about four hours of sleep last night.  This weekend doesn't promise any rest, either.  On Saturday, I am reading with a poet friend at the Carnegie Library in Ishpeming, and my father is having a 90th birthday party.  Then I'm playing the organ for church.  Then I'm going to a wedding reception for a nephew.  On Sunday, I drop my son off at Bible camp for a week, and then we have a birthday party for another nephew.  Like I said, no rest.

By Sunday night, I will probably be ready for a stay in a German prison camp hospital.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for a clear schedule and the possibility of sleep.

A great trip

December 11: Christmas Program, Daughter's Party, Classic Saint Marty, "The Happiest Person in North America"

This morning, my son had his Sunday School Christmas Program.  There were kids who I couldn't hear reading their parts.  Kids who wouldn't stand in the right place.  Kids who rang their bells at the wrong time.  Kids who left their candy canes on the floor.

Then, this afternoon, we celebrated my daughter's sixteenth birthday with our families.  We had a party in the afternoon and evening.  We talked, sang, ate cake and ice cream, and had filet mignon (I'm not kidding).  Oh, and my daughter got some presents.

Two years ago on this date, my son had another Christmas program . . .

December 11, 2014:  Clown in a Ring, Son's Christmas Program, Good Day

But the crowd loved it.  Avery heard nothing but the applause.  He liked being a clown in a ring, with everybody watching, in front of a grandstand.  When he discovered there was still a little water left in the bottom of the pail, he raised the pail high in the air and dumped the water on himself and made faces.  The children in the grandstand screamed with appreciation.

Avery, as I've said before, is a typical little boy.  He loves getting dirty, playing with frogs, collecting bugs.  And he loves being the center of attention.  Any opportunity that arises, Avery will try to grab the spotlight, even at Wilbur's award ceremony.


My son isn't quite as bad as Avery.  My son gets shy in front of large crowds.  I don't know where he gets it from.  I am not a shy person.  Neither is my wife.  In fact, we met in the theater.  I was directing a production of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and my wife auditioned.  We love being onstage.  I love giving poetry readings, being in the front of a classroom.  These are a few of my favorite things, to quote The Sound of Music.

Today was my son's Christmas program at school.  We spent the morning in a crowded gymnasium, packed into seats that were designed for residents of Munchkinland.  The music was too soft.  The kids sang off-key.  Some kids yawned in the middle of songs (my son included).  Some kids started crying when they saw all the people in the audience.  And that many people in close quarters tend to exude a communal aroma that can be a little nauseating.

It was a great morning.

I didn't have to go to work.  I was able to clean my house, send some e-mails, and listen to Christmas music.  A good day.  Tonight, I may actually be able to relax a little bit.  No grading.  No sweeping or vacuuming.  No pressing writing projects.  Maybe I'll read something for pleasure.  Take a nap.  Write a poem.

Or maybe Saint Marty will do...absolutely...nothing.

I have another poem for you tonight.

The Happiest Person in North America

by:  Martin Achatz

According to a Gallup poll,

The happiest person in America

Is tall, not Jimmy Stewart tall,

But not Tom Cruise short. He

(Of course a man, women need

Not apply) is Asian-American,

To insure aptitude for math,

Science, I suppose.  He must

Be an observant Jew, Christians

Tending to be too Republican,

Therefore humorless, Muslims

Raising eyebrow threat levels

On airplanes too much to allow

For vacations in Europe, Fiji,

Greece.  No, a Jew, enlightened

Enough to appreciate the writing

Of E. L. Doctorow, but strict

Enough to take Yom Kippur off work.

He should be 65 years of age

At least, ready to collect

Social Security for a few years

Before the money runs out.

Married with children.

His wife should be up

For kosher late night dinners,

Skinny-dips, Tony Bennett songs.

His children, graduates of Brown,

UCLA, make trips home for

Radish and salt at Passover.

He lives in Hawaii, snorkels

Coral reefs in Huaname Bay,

Stops at roadside fruit stands

To buy fresh-cut pineapple.

He has his own business, something

Non-stressful like surf blogger,

Hot air balloon captain, pastry chef,

Earns more than $120,000 a year,

Not enough to attract the attention

Of relatives, but enough to pay

For botox, liposuction, Kindles.

This man is happiest.  Satisfied.

Wakes at dawn to sit lotus,

Watch the Pacific surf, kiss

His wife of forty years before

She goes for her morning jog.

Statistic perfection, as unattainable

As Liz Taylor’s violet eyes,

As peace between Israel, Palestine,

As John Lennon’s no Heaven, no Hell,

One Gallup world, living as one.

PLEASE VOTE FOR ME (MARTIN ACHATZ) FOR POET LAUREATE OF THE U. P. AT THE LINK BELOW:

U. P. Poet Laureate (voting ends December 31)