April 26: A Hundred Years Ago, Horton Hears, Poem from "Kyrie"

The sonnets from Ellen Bryant Voigt's collection Kyrie have great resonance for our current time.  In case you haven't noticed.

The world has been through this before.  About a hundred years ago.  Millions of people died.  Everyone walked around with face masks on.  Sheltered in place.  There were so many bodies that they had to be buried in mass graves, without ceremony or prayer.  And then, the Spanish flu subsided, and the world went about its business of dealing with the Great Depression.  Another World War.  A Cold War.  Nuclear proliferation.  Climate change.

And now the universe has brought us back to ground zero again.  We're all wearing masks.  Staying home.  Hundreds of thousands of people are sick and dead.  A world economy in shambles.  Throw into that mix, in my country, a leader who doesn't believe in science.  Or truth.  We have reached a tilting point.

I've been thinking about one of my favorite books when I was a kid.  Horton Hears a Who.  I imagine that our world is right at this moment balanced on a clover carried by a friendly elephant.  We're either going to be boiled in oil or we're going to shout from our rooftops our barbaric "YAWP!"--not going gently into that good night.  (Yes, I'm mixing metaphors and poets here.  So shoot me.)

We need to learn from this time.  I came across the story of Jonathan Coelho, a 32-year-old husband and father who recently died of Covid-19.  He wrote a letter on his phone to his wife and kids before he was sedated and intubated.  Here, in part, is what he said:

I love you guys with all my heart and you've given me the best life I could have ever asked for . . . I am so lucky it makes me so proud to be your husband and the father to Braedyn and Penny.  Katie you are the most beautiful caring nurturing person I've ever met . . . you are truly one of a kind . . . make sure you live life with happiness and that same passion that made me fall in love with you.  Seeing you be the best mom to the kids is the greatest thing I've ever experienced . . .Let Braedyn know he's my best bud and I'm proud to be his father and for all the amazing things he's done and continues to do . . . Let Penelope know she's a princess and can have whatever she wants in life.  I'm so lucky.

That is the greatest lesson of this pandemic.  It's about finding out what's really, truly important.  It's not whether you can get your hair done.  Or go out to Red Lobster for dinner.  It's about love.  Period.  Simple as that.

Saint Marty wishes you all a peaceful, love-filled Sunday evening.

from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

Thought at first that grief had brought him down.
His wife dead, his own hand dug the grave
under a willow oak, in family ground--
he got home sick, was dead when morning came.

By week's end, his cousin who worked in town
was seized at once by fever and by chill,
left his office, walked back home at noon,
death ripening in him like a boil.

Soon it was a farmer in the field--
someone's brother, someone's father--
left the mule in its traces and went home.
Then the mason, the miller at his wheel,
from deep in the forest the hunter, the logger,
and the sun still up everywhere in the kingdom.

August 9: Sister Update, Hospice Care, Classic Saint Marty

Sorry for the extended absence, folks.  I got back home from Ann Arbor around 8 p.m. yesterday.  It was a very long weekend.  I'm still pretty tired.

Well, the tumor in my sister's head has shrunk considerably.  However, the tumor cut off blood supply to the thalamus portion of her brain for an extended period of time, causing a stroke.  Also, her right shoulder and arm are constantly quaking.  The doctors think that she may be having seizures.  Her medical team have stopped nutrition, since her intestines are inflamed/infected.  She is receiving antibiotics to clear up her blood infection (sepsis).

All that being said, my sister's prognosis is very bleak.  After a lot of discussion and prayer and more discussion, my other sister (who has medical power of attorney) has decided to bring my sister home under hospice care.  Yesterday, the plan was to have her transferred to a nearby nursing home.  This afternoon, the plan has changed.  She will be coming to my parents' house and will be cared for by my sisters (a plan I don't support and cannot change).

In her current condition, my sister will not live long.  The neurologist estimated two to three weeks.  She will not receive any more chemo, which would probably kill her sooner.  The nutrition will also not be started again, because it would simply cause another infection, which would kill her sooner as well.  She will be kept comfortable and as pain-free as possible. 

If I sound too cold and clinical, I apologize.  I love my sister, and I want what's best for her.  I think she would receive better care in a nursing home setting.  Plus, that would save my mother (who is very confused and struggling) and my sister (who has Down Syndrome) from an incredible amount of stress.  Other members of my family disagree with me.  So be it.  I will have to let go of the anger that I'm feeling at the moment,  It is beyond my control, which is very difficult for me to admit.

As most of my readers know, I don't deal well when my life feels out of control.  At the moment, I feel like I'm on top of a roller coaster, about to plunge down tracks that are shrouded in mist and darkness.  I dislike it when people keep changing the rules of the game that I'm trying to play.  (How's that for mixing metaphors?)

Today's Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago, when my life was much simpler and more peaceful.  I wonder where I can lay my hands on a time machine.

August 9, 2013:  Hot-Shot in English, Bonnie Jo Campbell, Fairy Tale Friday

..."Just don't do it too good, is all," he said.  "That sunuvabitch Hartzell thinks you're a hot shot in English, and he knows you're my roommate.  So I mean don't stick all the commas and stuff in the right place."

Holden's roommate, Stradlater, is the speaker.  He wants Holden to write an essay for him because he knows Holden is a really good writer.  In fact, English is the only thing Holden's got going for him at the moment.  It's the only thing he's successful at.


I went to a book signing event this afternoon at a local bookstore.  Ostensibly, the signing was to publicize The Way North, the anthology of U. P. writers that was released in early spring.  I went to the event not expecting a whole lot.  The manager of the store, Lee, is an old friend, so I knew I'd have someone to talk to.  Plus, I worked at this particular bookstore for almost nine years as a seller.  It was like returning to an old apartment I lived in while in college; everything sort of the same but a little shinier and smaller.  And, to top it all off, I was with two other writers I've known for a while.  It wasn't a bad couple of hours.  Didn't sell any of my books, though.

However, the other poet at the table with me, Janeen, told me something quite flattering.  At the release party for The Way North in Kalamazoo, Bonnie Jo Campbell, bestselling novelist and finalist for the National Book Award, chose to read my poem from the anthology.  My poem.  "She really loved it," Janeen said, "and she did a great job."

I know it sounds stupid, but knowing that Bonnie Jo Campbell knows my name/read my poem was quite a thrill.  More than a thrill, actually.  I've been riding the wave of that knowledge all evening.  Bonnie Jo Campbell's novel, Once Upon a River, was one of my favorite books last year, and her short story collection, American Salvage, is absolutely stunning.  She's a big fan of Flannery O'Connor, too.  I've been stalking Bonnie's official Web site for quite a few years (anonymously as I don't want to sound creepy).  And now, I know Bonnie Jo Campbell likes my work.

On a side note, I once took a fiction workshop in which Bonnie Jo was a fellow student.  She was obviously bound for bigger, better things even back then.  Plus, she was the nicest person in the class.  So I've been on the outer edges of the Bonnie Jo Campbell universe for a while.

And now, for a fairy tale.

Once upon a time, in a little town named Flannery, a struggling sword-maker named Hubert lived.  Hubert made great swords.  All the local knights came to him for his blades.  The problem was that Hubert couldn't sell enough swords to support his family, so Hubert moonlighted at a local fork factory.  Every night, he worked an eight-hour shift making tines for forks, and he was never allowed to make any over-tine.  (Sorry, I had to do that.)

Hubert studied the work of all the greatest sword-makers in the kingdom.  The greatest sword-maker of all was a woman named Kazoo.  Kazoo's blades were elegant, beautifully carved, and sharper than an arctic wind.  Hubert sent Kazoo fan scrolls every day, but he never received any replies.

One day, however, a bundle was delivered to Hubert's doorstep by a traveling knight.  When Hubert opened the bundle, he found a wondrous sword, carved from silver, its hilt encrusted with precious jade.  It gleamed in the sunlight, and Hubert knew it was an original Kazoo sword.  Kazoo had read his scrolls.  Kazoo knew his name.

Hubert reached down to pick up the sword and mistakenly cut off his left hand.  Hubert's wife found Hubert dead that night, clutching the sword to his chest, a blissful smile on his face.

The moral of this tale:  Always lend a helping hand, but bring a tourniquet.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

She likes me!  She really likes me!