December 31: Trumpets of Praise, Peace in the Middle East, Acceptance and Love

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Emerson saw it.  "I dreamed that I floated at will in the great Ether, and I saw this world floating also not far off, but diminished to the size of an apple.  Then an angel took it in his hand and brought it to me and said, 'This must thou eat.'  And I ate the world."  All of it.  All of it intricate, specked, gnawed, fringed, and free.  Israel's priests offered the wave breast and the heave shoulder together, freely, in full knowledge, for thanksgiving.  They waved, they heaved, and neither gesture was whole without the other, and both meant a wide-eyed and knee-eyed thanks.  Go your way, eat the fat, and drink the sweet, said the bell.  A sixteenth-century alchemist wrote of the philosopher's stone:  "One finds it in the open country, in the village and in the town.  It is in everything which God created.  Maids throw it on the street.  Children play with it."  The giant water bug ate the world.  And like Billy Bray I go my way, and my left foot says "Glory," and my right foot says "Amen":  in and out of Shadow Creek, upstream and down, exultant, in a daze, dancing, to the twin silver trumpets of praise.

I thought it was fitting to end the year of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek with its final paragraph, which is a beautiful call to praise and thanksgiving, to embracing all of the world's great, intricate, messy blessings.  And it's a fitting paragraph for New Year's Eve, when we all, hopefully, can offer up prayers of praise and thanksgiving for the closing year.

I will be ringing in 2017 as I do every year, with my family--eating pizza, playing board games, arguing, kibitzing, loving, and then eating some more.  Since January 1st falls on a Sunday this year, I will also be playing the organ for Mass this evening.  Another opportunity for praise and thanksgiving.

Tomorrow morning will dawn, cold and white.  Newness in the midst of oldness.  Of course, I hope for great things in the coming year.  Health and happiness.  Peace in the Middle East.  Impeachment of Donald Trump.  You know, the things that all good people hope for.  Sure, I want to lose weight.  Exercise more.  Publish more.  Be named the next Poet Laureate of the U. P.  All that would be good, as well.

But, above all, I think the prayer I will send up at the stroke of midnight this evening is for acceptance and love, which I think has been in short supply in the world--and especially in the United States--in 2016.

So, may all your lives be filled with unconditional love--Jew or Muslim or Christian or atheist or refugee or Democrat or Republican or gay or straight.  Peace and amen.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Martin Achatz):

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July 16: It Seems to Me, Heywood Broun, an Underdog

...[White] particularly enjoyed Heywood Broun's "It Seems to Me" column in the World, which was so popular the newspaper promoted it on giant billboards.  A humorist and activist and essayist, Broun wrote about social injustice in the new prosperity following the war.  American business seemed like a train that couldn't be bothered to stop at the local stations; columnists such as Broun kept pointing out that many little people were being left behind or run over.  Broun defended labor unions and often took up the cause of an underdog who had been vilified in the more government-fawning media.

I love writers who combine elements of humor and political/social commentary.  I've read a little Heywood Broun in the past, and he really did fight for the underdog.  At a time when labor unions were almost considered criminal, Broun took up the fight for the working class.  He once ran for Congress as a Socialist.  I would have been friends with Heywood Broun had I lived in New York City in the 1920s, or I would have been his stalker.


To quote Broun, "it seems to me" there aren't enough writers like him anymore.  Writing has become too self-absorbed.  Nothing bores me more than poems or short stories or essays that are so "smart" I don't understand them.  I would prefer to read about the plight of illegal immigrants from Central America or coal miners in Kentucky.  I want something that engages not only my head but also my gut.  I like underdogs.  I root for underdogs.  I voted for Michael Dukakis, for God's sake.

My father was a plumber.  All my brothers are plumbers.  My oldest sister is a plumber.  I come from the working class.  I was taught to work hard by my parents, and I've done it my whole life.  Since I was 13 or 14, I've had jobs.  I worked with my father.  I bussed tables at the local Elks Club fish fry.  I mowed lawns.  Tutored writing.  Sold books at a bookstore.  Played the pipe organ at two different churches.  Last year, I had four W-4 forms to file for my taxes.

I believe in labor unions.  I believe in the equitable distribution of wealth.  No person should earn more money than a small African nation.  Everyone deserves decent healthcare.  World hunger should not exist.  There should be peace in the Middle East.  Hilary Clinton should be elected President of the United States.  (I'm sure that Heywood Broun would have voted for Hilary, had he not died of pneumonia in 1939.)

I'm grateful for writers who take up the cause of underdogs.  There aren't enough of them out there these days.  Mike Royko died in 1997.  Studs Terkel passed away in 2008.  Language poetry is still popular.  And Bill O'Reilly is rewriting the history of Lincoln, JFK, and Jesus.

Marty isn't a Broun or Royko or Terkel.  He's just a working-class saint who thinks Bill O'Reilly is full of shit.

Look, up in the sky!  It's a bird!  It's a plane!  It's a frog!