August 10: Last Day of Vacation, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

It is the last day of my vacation.  Tomorrow, I have to return to the drudgery of everyday life.  It's the only bad thing about taking a vacation:  you have to eventually go back to work.

I do feel refreshed from my time off.  Rejuvenated.  I would love to have another week.  The U. P. State Fair starts tomorrow.  You know--rides, fried food, cows, sheep, chickens, and pigs.  Blue ribbons.  Pies.  Quilts.  All the usual suspects.  I'm sure there will even be some spiders and rats, but probably no web with miraculous writing in it.  My sister is taking a whole crew of children to the Fair on Tuesday or Wednesday.  My kids can't wait.

And while they are stuffing their faces with cotton candy, I will be dealing with sick people for eight hours.  Pretty soon, these last seven days will pass from recent memory to distant memory to dream.  Wendy returning from Neverland.  I guess we all have to grow up some time.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired three years ago and contains a poem I wrote that I'd forgotten about.  I think it holds up still.  You be the judge.

August 10, 2011:  Day Three of Vacation, New Poem, Cracked Windshield

Welcome to Day Three of my vacation.

I went to a playgroup with my almost-three-year-old son this morning.  It was a little discouraging to see how much better all these younger kids were at speaking, cutting with scissors, sitting down, listening to stories, counting.  I almost wanted to leave, but I stuck it out.  My son is so good at problem-solving mechanical things.  He just doesn't want to take the time to listen to The Hungry Caterpillar.

After the playgroup, we went to visit my wife's grandma in the nursing home.  It was a really short visit because it was lunchtime, and my son was really tired.  We stayed around ten or 15 minutes.  Just long enough for my wife's grandma to walk down the hall to the dining room.

This afternoon, I took my daughter to her dance lesson.  I went to Walmart for a few groceries.  When I came out of the store, there was a huge crack in my windshield.  I don't know how it got there.  So I had to call my insurance company when I got home, make an appointment to get the damn thing replaced.  Thank God I have full glass coverage.

I have a new poem for you today, inspired by my visit to the nursing home with my family.

Saint Marty could very easily become a man of leisure (translation:  not work another day in his life).

In the Nursing Home

Birds sing.  Finches.  Canary and sparrow.
Saffron, green, blue feathers.
This time of year, the nests are full
Of new life, creatures smaller
Than thumbnails, blind to their world
Of glass and wood and seed.
My daughter crowds around the enclosure,
Watches anxious flit, hears mother
Birds scream to protect newborns.
Our visit will be short today.
My wife walks her grandmother
To the dining hall, keeps up
A steady monologue of news.
Our daughter's in fifth grade.
Our son's going to be three in September.
When they reach the aviary, they stop.
Her grandmother narrows her eyes
At the flutter and squeak inside.
Emmett hasn't come yet, she says to my wife.
I waited for him yesterday.
She looks up at my wife, says,  He never came.
My wife stares at her a few moments.
Grandpa died five years ago, remember?
Her grandmother smiles, nods.
They turn into the dining hall, to the smell
Of turkey and steamed broccoli.
My daughter points to a hatchling
That's fallen out of its nest.  It struggles
To return to the place of food, feather comfort.
Help it, my daughter says to me.
Someone will, I say, not sure
If I'm telling the truth or not.
I stare at the tiny bird's pink skin,
At its quick, hungry breaths,
Its fatal need for love.
Someone will, I say again.

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 12: Last Day of Vacation, Last Day of Freedom, Magic 8-Ball Query

Yes, I have enjoyed my last day of vacation.  My very last day of freedom from now until after Christmas.

I made good use of my time today.  I took down my son's crib and assembled his toddler bed.  This may sound like a simple task.  It wasn't.  I am not a handy guy.  I own a hammer and crescent wrench and screwdriver.  I even have a staple gun.  That doesn't mean I use these implements well or often.  My father is a licensed master plumber.  So are all my brothers and my oldest sister.  They are handy people.  Being handy is not genetic unfortunately.  I can diagram a sentence.  I cannot follow a map, and I sure don't do written instructions.  (Christmas is the most terrifying day of the year for me.  I hold my breath every time my kids open a present, praying it isn't labeled "some assembly required.")

Well, it took me about 45 minutes to take apart the crib.  The toddler bed was missing bolts and nuts.  I had to call in the troops for that one.  Yes, I asked my daddy for help.  My father has so many nuts and bolts in jars that I knew he would be able to help me out.  I was not disappointed.  An hour later, my son's toddler bed was done, and I was feeling slightly handy.

This evening, I helped my dad install an air conditioner in his home.  That's right.  I said an air conditioner.  My dad is in his eighties, so he doesn't have the strength to lift heavy things like he used to.  I provided the strength.  For once, I was the brawn, not the brains.

In fact, writing this post is probably the first time I've taxed my intellect/creativity all day.  I've enjoyed being "the man" of the house.  I wouldn't want to do it every day, but it's nice to feel useful.

I am not looking forward to going back to work tomorrow morning.  It's going to be a very rough morning.  I've got a two liter of Diet Mountain Dew in the fridge.  That will get me through the first few hours at the office.  After that, all bets are off.  It would be different if I actually enjoyed my work.  I don't, but it pays some of the bills and provides medical insurance.

My question this Monday evening for J. D. Salinger is pretty simple:

Am I going to enjoy my first day back at work?

And the answer from Catcher is:

...He started talking in this very monotonous voice and picking at all his pimples.  I dropped about a thousand hints, but I couldn't get rid of him...

OK, that's disgusting, and it doesn't bode well for work tomorrow.  I have a feeling it's going to be a tough, long day.


But Saint Marty will try to make the best of a bad situation.  Maybe he'll call in sick.

I will never wear one of these

January 9: Last Day, "The Wilder Life," I Am Not a Kook

Today is the last day of my vacation.  Of course, I'm a little melancholy about this fact.  I get two weeks off during the year.  The first week comes at the beginning of January.  The second week comes at the beginning of August.  I'm in for a really long eight months now.  All work, very little play.

I dropped my daughter off at school this morning, loaded my son onto his bus.  Later on, I will be visiting my son's a.m. classroom.  I'm trying to work myself up for this visit.  When you step into a room full of three- and four-year-olds, there's a certain energy that kind of drains you after about an hour and a half.  The kids want to take you by the hand, lead you around, talk to you, give you food that you don't really want to eat.  However, just seeing my son's reaction when I step into his classroom will be worth it.

I'm nearing the end of my reading of The Wilder Life, and I'm becoming a little annoyed with the author.  Wendy McClure is coming off as a little bit of an elitist.  On her forays into "Laura World," she encounters a lot of Christian people.  Some of these Christians are on the fringe, preparing for the Rapture by living on compounds and learning how to make soap and yarn.  Other Christian people she encounters are home schoolers and a little on the fundamentalist side.  McClure seems to treat any Christian she meets like a child.  She seems to think that her approach to Laura World is somehow better because she's more academic and, therefore, a little jaded.  The attitude she exudes borders on condescension at times.  At least for me.

Do I look crazy?

I'm a Christian.  I teach at a university.  I love William Faulkner and Jesus Christ (although Jesus beats Faulkner, hands-down).  I consider myself just as intelligent and urbane as McClure.  (By the way, Noel Coward she ain't.)  I'm not living in the middle of the woods, stockpiling ammunition and canned goods, waiting for the end of the world.  To borrow a line from Richard Nixon, "I am not a kook."

I'm hoping McClure does something in the last pages of her book to redeem herself, although it's a slight hope.  I think she's pretty satisfied with herself.  As I read her book, I can almost see her smirking behind every word.  Perhaps I'm being too harsh.  Perhaps I'm tired and hungry.  Perhaps I'm transferring some of my latent hostility toward my present economic situation onto McClure and her book.

Saint Marty isn't playing well with others at the moment.