September 14: Laura Boss, "Waiting for Ed McMahon," Laughing, "Ives" Dip, Adventures of Stickman

I have selected Laura Boss as my Poet of the Week.  I chose her because, as I was flipping through her poetry collection, Arms, I came across a poem that literally made me laugh out loud, and I haven't done that spontaneously for a while.  The poem was titled . . .

Waiting for Ed McMahon

by:  Laura Boss

Ed McMahon, today is January 24th and I am sitting here waiting for you.  I am waiting for you to bring me ten million dollars.  You sent me a letter two months ago with my name on the envelope in two inch letters saying I was a winner--or at least that's the way it looked until I read it a second time.  But then it seemed that I still had a really good chance of your giving me ten million dollars if I would just get my envelope back to you on time--especially if I affixed the gold sticker with the number 10 million correctly though it was hidden among all the magazine subscription stickers and to even further my chances I took a subscription to a magazine I didn't especially want, and Ed McMahon, I stuck that sticker on so carefully and even checked that I wanted my payment in one lump sum rather than monthly installments, and yes, I checked that I'm willing to be televised when you hand me that check for ten million dollars.  And because I was getting my letter back to you so fast, Ed McMahon, I stuck the bonus Jaguar sticker on its special card in my choice of green though I hesitated for a few seconds over the red one.  And I left my calendar free for today--no free lance workshops (not that I have them everyday though I wish I did so I wouldn't be waiting so desperately for you today, Ed McMahon).  Ed McMahon, I am sitting here waiting for you.  I am waiting for you to bring me my ten million dollars.

Now, you have to admit that's funny.  It's funny because we've all done it--filled out the form, affixed the stickers, ordered subscriptions to magazines that we will never, ever read.  All for the possibility, the hope, the dream, that the doorbell will ring one day and, when the door is opened, a man will be standing on the front step, holding an immense cardboard check for ten million dollars in one hand and a fistful of balloons in the other.

I don't want to be serious tonight.  I'm tired of being serious.  This morning, when I woke up, I picked out a pair of black pants, a black turtleneck, and black socks.  After I got dressed, I looked at myself in the mirror and said, "You have got to lighten up."  So, Laura Boss's poem is my attempt at levity.

I'm sitting in my office right now, waiting to pick up my daughter from dance class.  It's her first night back at the studio.  She's got hip hop and ballet this evening.  I'm sure she's going to be famished by the time she's done.  That means I will be stopping at some fast food restaurant on the way home.  Usually, she wants deep fried cheese curds and frozen custard.  I will be pushing for Dairy Queen.

Now that my sister's funeral is over, I have this drive to get back to the business of my life.  Teaching.  Writing.  Working.  Picking up my daughter from dance.  Tomorrow, I will be driving to a little town on the shores of Lake Superior to receive an award for a nature essay I wrote.  Last year, that would have described the sum total of my life.  My normal.

That normal sort of feels like a pair of pants that I can't quite get buttoned.  It doesn't fit me anymore.  I have to find my new normal, and I'm not quite sure what it will be.  I do know that walking into the medical center where I work (and my sister used to work) every day makes me incredibly sad.  I'm not sure how to change that.  I'm more tired in the morning when I get up.  During the day, I'm a little more irritable than usual.  I don't like being around myself too much at the moment.

So my Ives dip question is this:

Will I feel "normal" again soon?

And, flipping through the pages of Mr. Ives' Christmas, my finger lands on:

Annie and Caroline laughed and confided all kinds of things to each other in a way that made Annie feel young again.  Later, having floated off on a cloud of sweet glory, Annie would catch herself in the mirror and begin to discern in her broadening figure, widened calves, and fleshier face the fact that she was changing into an image of her own mother, from whose face she had once believed she could run away.

There really isn't any running away.  Annie Ives realizes this.  She can't escape her heredity or her life.  Dead son.  Depressed husband.  That is Annie's "normal," and she learns to accept it instead of fight against it.

Saint Marty thinks that's pretty good advice.

Adventures of STICKMAN

July 29: Abideth Forever, Annual Evaluation, Sharon Olds, "His Stillness"

And now, he [Ives] thought, his boy was dead, and even if he were to rise, to be reincarnated in some other form, their lives would not be the same.  What was that little quotation from the New Testament that had once impressed him when he was a boy?  A quotation he'd at one time always taken to heart, from 1 John 2:17:  ". . . The world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever."  Was that so?  Or was it that the world, their life, the familiar, the comfortable would not ever occur again?

A tough passage.  Ives coming to terms with the death of his son.  Ives has no idea how to return to his life.  Everything has changed, and he starts questioning if he'll ever know a "normal" day.  He walks down the street and can't look people in the face.  He wears sunglasses all the time, so nobody can see the caverns of loss in his eyes.  Always a gentle and caring soul by nature, Ives now has to work to be gentle, to scrape up compassion from the wounded chambers of his heart.

Today, I had my annual evaluation at work.  It was good.  The one comment my supervisor made that stuck in my head was, "You're always so positive, no matter what."  I try not to bring my problems to work.  I don't talk about the hole in my kitchen ceiling or the shingles falling off my roof.  My car was out of commission for three weeks in June, and hardly anybody in the office knew that I was begging for rides from friends and family.

And, of course, there's my sister's illness.  I'm sure most of my coworkers know about her condition.  However, I don't speak about it much.  Part of being a professional is not letting problems affect job performance.  For the eight hours I'm at the medical office, I'm positive.  All the time.  At 4:30 in the afternoon, I'm exhausted.

I think it's because, like Ives, I have to work at being normal, and normal for me is happy, joking, compassionate, and kind, according to my supervisor.  It used to be easy, because, in general, I like almost everybody I meet.  It isn't easy any more.  It's a performance.  A part in a play.  A long and unending play.  And it's incredibly taxing.

I don't smile much at home right now.  In fact, I'm sort of cranky.  By the time I walk through my front door in the evening, I'm tired of being happy and positive.  I just want to be myself, and myself is sad and angry and tired and a little confused. 

My sister is going to have a third round of chemo this week.  Then the doctor is going to order an MRI.  Depending on the results of that test, my sister will either continue with the treatment, or she will come home to be kept comfortable.  That's the reality of my life at the moment.  My normal.

Saint Marty is positive tonight.  Positive he's going to go home and have some of his son's chocolate milk mixed with Bailey's Irish Cream.

His Stillness

by:  Sharon Olds

The doctor said to my father, "You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That's what I'm telling you now."  My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes.  I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out.  He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man.  The doctor said,
"There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you."  My father said,
"Thank you."  And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him.  This was my father.
He had known he was mortal.  I had feared they would have
to tie him down.  I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept silent to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still.  I had not
known him.  My father had dignity.  At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.

Which fish are you?