May 27: The Boy Came Back, Niece, High School Graduation

The boy is good to the old man . . . 

When the boy came back the old man was asleep in the chair and the sun was down. The boy took the old army blanket off the bed and spread it over the back of the chair and over the old man's shoulders. They were strange shoulders, still powerful although very old, and the neck was still strong too and the creases did not show so much when the old man was asleep and his head fallen forward. His shirt had been patched so many times that it was like the sail and the patches were faded to many different shades by the sun. The old man's head was very old though and with his eyes closed there was no life in his face. The newspaper lay across his knees and the weight of his arm held it there in the evening breeze. He was barefooted.

The boy left him there and when he came back the old man was still asleep.

The boy takes care of the old man.  He's a good kid.  Full of kindness and empathy.  He's the kind of kid who gives me hope for the future.

Tonight, I attended the high school graduation of my niece.  There's something about being in a gymnasium full of young people who have their eyes on the future that fills me with hope.  A lot of it.  At the end of twelve years of public education, these kids have been through a whole lot, including a global pandemic.  They've had to deal with loss on a scale that I could never even imagine when I was seventeen.

Yet, they were smiling.  Laughing.  Celebrating.  Quoting Kanye West.  (Yes, Kanye West.)  The orchestra played "Pomp and Circumstance."  Mothers and fathers cried.  Diplomas and carnations were handed out.  And pictures were taken.  A lot of pictures.  

That is my takeaway from this evening.  Despite all the crap these kids have been through, they remain excited and wide-eyed about what's next.  That's huge, considering they have lived through four years of Donald Trump and COVID.  If there was ever a group of high school graduates who were candidates for permanent existential crises, my niece and her classmates would be them.  Yet, they aren't.

I love my niece and am excited for her.  She's sweet, compassionate, funny, and amazing in so many ways.  Seeing her take that first big step into the future filled my heart with joy.  Made me believe that the world is in good hands.

For the first time in a while, Saint Marty is going to sleep tonight with hope in his heart.

May 31: Ound, Whale Questions, Ray

And now, something about the death of a whale (no, we're not going back to Moby-Dick) . . .

Another thing that got forgotten was the fact that against all possibility a sperm whale had suddenly been called into existence several miles above the surface of an alien planet.

And since this is not a naturally tenable position for a whale, this poor innocent creature had very little time to come to terms with its identity as a whole before it then had to come to terms with not being a whale any more.

This is a complete record of its thoughts from the moment it began its life till the moment it ended it.

Ah . . .!  What's happening? it thought.

Er, excuse me, who am I?

Hello?

Why am I here?  What's my purpose in life?

What do I mean by who am I?

Calm down, get a grip now . . .oh! this is an interesting sensation, what is it?  It's a sort of . . . yawning, tingling sensation in my . . . my . . . well, I suppose I'd better start finding names for things if I want to make any headway in what for the sake of what I shall call an argument I shall call the world, so let's call it my stomach.

Good.  Ooooh, it's getting quite strong.  And hey, what about this whistling roaring sound going past what I'm suddenly going to call my head?  Perhaps I can call that . . . wind!  Is that a good name?  It'll do . . . perhaps I can find a better name for it later when I've found out what it's for.  It must be something very important because there certainly seems to be a hell of a lot of it.  Hey!  What's this thing?  This . . . let's call it a tail--yeah, tail.  Hey!  I can really thrash it about pretty good, can't I?  Wow!  Wow!  That feels great!  Doesn't seem to achieve very much but I'll probably find out what it's for later on.  Now, have I built up any coherent picture of things yet?

No.  

Never mind, hey, this is really exciting, so much to find out about, so much to look forward to.  I'm quite dizzy with anticipation.

Or is it the wind?

There really is a lot of that now, isn't there?

And wow!  Hey!  What's this thing suddenly coming toward me very fast?  Very, very fast.  So big and flat and round, it needs a big wide-sounding name like . . .ow . . ound . . . round . . . ground!  That's it!  That's a good name--ground!

I wonder if it will be friends with me?


And the rest, after a sudden wet thud, was silence.

There are many things that make a person reevaluate their lives, ask the whale-big questions like "Who am I?" and "Why am I here" and "What is my purpose?"  Being born is one of those things, I suppose.  Babies coming to terms with no longer being in utero, having to begin the messy work of breathing and crying and being hungry.  Then there's starting kindergarten and all the separation anxiety that goes along with that.  Of course there's the whole falling in love and getting married, which makes a person re-prioritize goals and ambitions.  Then becoming a parent, which again forces an examination of goals and ambitions.  And, of course, there's high school graduation.

I am writing this post one day after I sat in a gymnasium and watched my daughter matriculate from her high school.  I will say this about the experience:  it was wonderful and awful at the same time.  I loved celebrating the success of my little girl, everything that she has accomplished in the first twelve years of her schooling.  That was the wonderful part.  Then there was sitting in the bleachers, feeling like I was attending the wake of my daughter's childhood.  That was the awful part.

Now, if you are one of the faithful readers of this blog, you are probably rolling your eyes, thinking, "Oh my God, he's going to write about his daughter again!  He needs to get over himself and move on!"  I understand that reaction.  After all, the whole month of May, I have been preoccupied with all of these last-days-of-high-school moments.  On the other hand, if I was writing a Christmas blog, would you tell me, "All you talk about is Christmas trees and Christmas presents and Christmas movies!!  Why can't you say something about Halloween or Kwanzaa???!!!"  This blog is about my life, and my life (and heart) has been full of my daughter.  So, yes, this is going to be another post about my first born receiving her diploma.

It's also going to be about the passing of a person I knew and admired.  When I was in high school, I had the good fortune of knowing a man named Ray.  Ray was a grade ahead of me, and he was one of the funniest, warmest, most talented people that I have ever known.  Ray's main passion was drama club.  He was a highlight in almost every school play and musical.  When he graduated high school, he carried that passion with him into college, and he became a mainstay in the local university's productions.  He went on to be a theater professor, passing on his love of the stage to another generation of young people.  I'm going to steal a phrase here, but it really is true--everybody loved Raymond.

It has been many years since I have seen Ray.  Probably over a decade.  Yet, I always thought that the world was a better place because he was in it.  Simply put, he was a really good guy.  Yesterday, I found out that Ray had died.  That has made me even more reflective about the passage of time and the importance of always living the best life possible.  Taking advantage of every possible minute.

My daughter just walked out the door with her boyfriend to attend a classmate's graduation party.  She was a little exhausted from yesterday's events, but she was also really happy.  Her whole life is stretching out before her, full of all kinds of possibilities.  I want to tell her that, whether she's a anesthesiologist or a kindergarten teacher or a short order cook, she needs to understand what's really important.  It's not money or travel or fame or prestige.

No, it's about living life like Ray did.  Pursuing your passion,  Being kind to everyone.  Leaving each person you encounter a little happier.  Making the world a better place because you existed.

That's the best way to answer those big questions.

Who am I?  I am Saint Marty.

Why am I here?  Saint Marty is here to be a poet, teacher, husband, and father.

What is my purpose?  Saint Marty's purpose is somehow to be a light in the window on a dark night.

Rest in peace, Ray.

June 2: Cool Dad, Janeen Rastall, "Skimming"

I find myself thinking about my daughter still.

As you could probably tell from my last post, she is feeling a little persecuted.  Right now, she is at school, playing in the band for the graduation ceremony.  I was planning on staying to watch, but, as we approached the school, she made it very clear to me that I did not have to stay.  In fact, she practically jumped out of the car as I was braking.

I used to be a cool dad.  Did things that most other dads don't do.  I teach college--cool.  I've published a book of poems--cool.  I taught her and her classmates poetry--cool.  I play keyboard in a band--cool.  Not to mention that fact that I used to direct and perform in plays and musicals--cool and very cool.

So, when did I graduate from cool to decidedly uncool, bordering on benevolent dictator (and sometimes not so benevolent)?  It is difficult for me to pinpoint an exact moment.  I know I haven't really changed much.  Still a poet.  Still play in a band.  Yet, I now have to drop her off approximately two miles away from the entrance to the high school.  (I used to think that was an exaggerated teenager cliche.  It's not.)

My daughter is trying to spread her wings.  I get that.  She has a boyfriend now, a nice kid who attended a reading with me at the university a couple months ago.  I'm fine with that.  She is taking driver's training this summer.  I'm a little less fine with that, but I'm adjusting to the idea.  She now has her own debit card so she can learn to manage her money.  I helped her open the account.

She is growing up.  I understand.

I just want to know when I'm going to be put on the cool shelf again, next to her dance trophies, first pair of pointe shoes, and pretty rocks she found on the shores of Lake Superior.

Because Saint Marty is cool.  Really.  He is.

Skimming

by:  Janeen Rastall

When Superior tosses waterlogged rocks
to the shore,
we do not lift them
like shells to our ears,
listen for their deep-veined stories.
We palm the worn stones,
prod places where the waves have had their way.
We flip them hand to hand,
judge their weight
then toss them back to drown again.

I know cool . . .