May 2: Sleep More Easily, Poetry Assignments, No Cartoons

It was in fact a blessing.  An ability to sleep more easily and deeply had come to him during the past few years.  Where he used to toss and turn and drive his wife crazy at night, no sooner would he now lay his head upon the pillow than he would fall asleep.  But not into that sleep of old age, but into the sleep of a child, an infinitude of possibilities swaddling him.

I love that description of the sleep of a child, full of "an infinitude of possibilities."  Ives, in his old age, has rediscovered hope.  That's what possibility is all about.  Instead of focusing on the heartaches of the past, Ives is now looking forward, even in times of rest and rejuvenation.

I look forward to that kind of sleep tonight.  This morning, I graded a pile of poem explications from my poetry class.  This evening, I graded a stack of book reviews from my poetry class.  All of the hard work is done now.  All that's left are the poetry portfolios.  I've seen the poems before.  I've helped them with revisions on several occasions.  It will not take me long to grade them.

Therefore, I have no burdens weighing on my mind tonight.  Tomorrow, I will watch my daughter dance again.  (She received an Outstanding Award for the dance she did this afternoon.  That's like a Gold Medal.)  Then we're going to do shopping.  I plan on buying a few shirts for work.  Maybe some vintage tee shirts.  After the shopping, it's the Outback Steakhouse for dinner (my daughter's choice--she's a little carnivore). 

In short, the rest of the weekend, for the most part, is pleasure.  Even grading the portfolios--pleasure.

There will be no new cartoons this weekend.  I have no energy to be funny.  The only thing I have energy to do right now is eat some M&Ms, maybe watch a little SNL, and go to sleep.

An infinitude of possibilities swaddling Saint Marty.

I see a martini and rack of lamb in my infinitude of possibilities

May 1: Vacations in the Summer, Howell, Dance Competition, Vacation Fairy Tale

...[Ives] took his wife and daughter on vacations in the summer, but never very far, renting an inexpensive cabin at the far northern reaches of Lake George in Upstate New York.  He heard cicadas and the wind sweeping across the lake in the middle of the night, and felt depressed  because he had little sexual drive, and Annie, his beloved, had started to feel neglected and middle-aged...

Ives is not an adventurous soul, especially after the death of his son.  He travels to Europe early in his life with his wife and kids, but, in his middle age and suffering from profound grief, Ives can only manage short trips that only deepen his sadness.

I'm coming to you tonight from Howell, Michigan.  It is my yearly pilgrimage to this city for my daughter's dance competition.  I have been up since 4 a.m.  We drove all day.  When we got to the hotel, I took my son to the pool for an hour or so.  Then dinner and off to Howell High School for the first night of competition.

My daughter performed her tap solo this evening.  She received an Outstanding Medal.  She's happy and relieved that it's over.  She has group dances tomorrow and Sunday.  However, we will be able to do a little shopping tomorrow, since her performances aren't until later in the afternoon.  I will be spending a good portion of this weekend grading papers and poetry portfolios.  In fact, once I get the two posts done this evening, I have a pile of poem explications to mark up.

It's nice to get away, even if I had to bring work with me.  I love these dance weekends.  A time to leave my everyday worries at home for a few days, relax, and enjoy the company of my wife, daughter, and son.  I know I spend a good amount of time complaining about my shitty job and shitty bank account in my posts.  Little vacations like this one remind me that I have a lot for which to be thankful.

Once upon a time, a chicken farmer named Ken Tuckey decided to go on a vacation.  Ken rarely got away from his farm.  All day, every day, from dawn to dusk, he fed chickens, collected eggs, shoveled chicken crap, repaired coops, and chased hungry foxes out of his yard.

Ken packed up his wife and kids in a wagon, hitched up his mule, and headed off to Lake Enchantment for a few days.

While Ken and his family swam, picnicked, and roasted sausages over campfires, Ken's farm burned to the ground, and all his chickens died in the fire.

When he returned from his vacation and discovered what had happened, he decided to open a restaurant.

Moral of the story:  Ken Tuckey Fried Chicken is finger lickin' good.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

You know what I'm talking about