August 22: Hollywood, the Secret Goldfish, Piece of Mind About Disspointment

...He's got a lot of dough, now. He didn't use to.  He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home.  He wrote this terrific book of short  stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him.  The best one in it was "The Secret Goldfish."  It was about this little kid that wouldn't let anybody look at his goldfish because he'd bought it with his own money.  It killed me.  Now he's out in Hollywood, D. B., being a prostitute.  If there's one thing I hate, it's the movies.  Don't even mention them to me.

For Holden, Hollywood represents everything that's fake in the world, and his brother, D. B., who used to be a great writer, is a part of the whole phony factory that is the movie industry.  Holden is disappointed with D. B. because D. B. has sold out.  In fact, The Catcher in the Rye is simply a novel about Holden's disappointments, from big ones (his brother Allie's death) to little ones (his date with Sally).

I'm sorry to disappoint you, my disciples, today.  I had every intention of writing a review of a really wonderful chapbook of poems I recently acquired.  I am not writing a book review this evening.  I don't have the energy for it.  Instead, I want to talk a little about disappointment.

Life is full of disappointments.  You don't always get the biggest piece of pizza, and gas prices at the pump rarely go down.  The biggest disappointments in life, however, always come from the people you love and trust the most.  D. B. really disappoints Holden with his career choice.  The people you care about are not supposed to let you down.  They're supposed to support you, help you, uphold you, and not do anything to jeopardize their spot on the pedestal they're on.

Today, a person I care about a great deal really disappointed me.  I was so angry that I had to go for a run when I got home.  A long, hot run.  It didn't help.  Even as I was taking my shower afterward, I was still fuming.

I'm not going to go into detail, but let's just say it involves work, a vacation, and this person making the statement, "Well, Marty's just going to have to miss his son's first day of kindergarten."  If I were a woman and my child was entering kindergarten, I know I wouldn't be in this situation.  For some reason, it's important that mothers are at home for first days of school, but it's OK for fathers to miss them.  Fathers have to work.  Fathers don't nurture.  Fathers provide.

Well, this father has always been at home to get his kids on the bus on the first day of school.  I haven't missed a school program or concert, ever.  And now a person I care about a great deal is telling me, "Sorry, buddy, you gotta work."

I'm really disappointed tonight with this person.  She's never been this thoughtless and self-centered before.  And I'm disappointed with the stereotype that mothers are more important than fathers when it comes to important events in kids' lives.  Fathers can be just as sensitive, caring, and supportive as mothers.

I will be at home on my son's first day of kindergarten.  I won't miss it.

And the person responsible for all this turmoil can simply suck my big toe.  (I was going to say "bite my ass," but I'm classier than that.)

And that's a piece of Saint Marty's mind.

Dads rock

August 14: Hallo, This Time of Day, Back to Work

"Hallo!" growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice as near as he could feign it.  "What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?"

Scrooge is toying with Bob Cratchit here.  He knows Bob is going to be late for work.  Scrooge himself sent the turkey that pretty much guaranteed Bob would be making "rather merry" the day before.  He fully expects Bob to be tardy.

This morning I go back to work.  I will miss my kids.  I will miss hearing my son call out "I want to get up!" when he wakes.  I will miss going into my daughter's dark room mid-morning to rouse the sleeping crocodile that is my eldest offspring.  I will miss running in the morning, swimming in the afternoon.  Most of all, I will miss the connection I have with my children right now.  My son actually calls for me in the morning.  My daughter told me yesterday that she had "the best day ever."

Society casts mothers as the nurturers, the ones who are always there to pick the kids up from school, make the lunches, give the baths, help with homework, change the diapers.  As a nurturing father, that bothers me a little bit.  Granted, there are fathers who are removed and distant, who would rather go to a business meeting than a parent/teacher conference.  I am not one of those fathers.  I like making cookies for my children and planning their birthday parties.  I love all that stuff.

Maybe Saint Marty was Carol Brady in another life.

I used to have this same outfit

May 12: Mrs. Cratchit, Pudding, Mothers, New Cartoon

Oh, a wonderful pudding!  Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage.  Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour...

Mrs. Cratchit is never given a first name.  In A Christmas Carol, we have Ebenezer, Bob, Fred, Fan, Belle, Jacob, Tiny Tim.  Even Bob's children are given first names:  Belinda and Peter and Martha and company.  Mrs. Cratchit remains simply Mrs. Cratchit through the entire book.

Of course, there have been literary explanations for this fact.  My favorite, and the one to which I give the most credence, is that Charles Dickens created in Bob and Tiny Tim his version of the Virgin Mary and Christ Child.  Dickens is writing a Christmas story.  Tiny Tim does carry a little crutch, which is very close to a cross.  Bob's last name is very close to the word "creche," which is another term for "manger."  In all the illustrations for A Christmas Carol, Bob and Tim are shown together, in poses very similar to illustrations of Mary and the Christ child.  Mrs. Cratchit takes a back seat in this narrative, very similarly to the way Joseph takes a back seat in the Jesus narrative.

Mrs. Cratchit, in the passage above, reminds me of just about every mother/grandmother/aunt/mother figure I know.  Mrs. Cratchit's pudding is good, but she has to list its failings:  the quantity of flour.  My wife's grandmother used to point out the defects of every one of her Thanksgiving meals--the turkey was too dry; she forgot the dinner rolls; or the mashed potatoes were lumpy.  Mothers don't ever accept the accolades that are given to them.  I think it's a mother's belief that she can never do well enough for her family.

The other thing about Mrs. Cratchit is that she is, basically, anonymous.  She is everyone's mother.  If your mother's name is/was "Frances," then she could be Frances Cratchit.  If your mother's name is/was "Olive," then she could be Olive Cratchit.  I'm not sure if that was Dickens' intention for not naming Mrs. Cratchit, but let's run with it.

On this Mother's Day weekend, Saint Marty salutes all the anonymous Mrs. Cratchits in the world.  And he salutes the Mrs. Cratchits of his life, Betty and Beth.

Confessions of Saint Marty