September 17, 2025: “Full Summer,” Road Trip, “Reflections on Water, or My Brother Tried to Drown Me”

Yes, it has been quite a while since I’ve posted.  

I’d like to say that I’ve been busy or sick or traveling or protesting.  Of course, I’ve been swamped with teaching and library events.  I’m just trying to settle into my fall schedule.  No colds or flus, and no roadtrips.  And every day of my life is an act of protest—because I try to be kind and understanding and compassionate to everyone.  (I know that’s a revolutionary in this country at this time.)  My excuse (whether legitimate or not):  I’ve been exhausted every night I’ve gotten home.

Summer is definitely coming to an end.  The maple trees on my property have already begin changing color.  We’ve already had a few nights when the furnace kicked in.  But no frost warnings, yet.  Schools are back in session, and the sun is setting before 8:30 p.m. these days.  Yet, I’m not ready to surrender to autumn and winter just yet.  I am a summer holdout.

Sharon Olds writes about the good ol’ summertime . . . 

Full Summer

by: Sharon Olds

I paused, and paused, over your body,

to feel the current of desire pull

and pull through me.  Our hair was still wet,

mine like a knotted wrack, it fell

across you as I paused, a soaked coil

around your glans.  When one of your hairs

dried, it lifted a bare nerve.

On the beach, above us, a cloud had appeared in

the clear air, a clockwise loop coming

in out of nothing, now the skin of your scrotum

moved like a live being, an animal,

I began to lick you, the foreskin lightly

stuck in one spot, like a petal, I love

to free it—just so—in joy,

and to sip from the little crying lips

at the tip.  Then there was no more pausing,

nor was this the taker,

some new one came

and sucked, and up from where I had been hiding I was

drawn in a heavy spiral out of matter

over into another world

I had thought I would have to die to reach.

This is prime Sharon Olds material:  sex, summer, sun.  It’s like an Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon beach blanket blowjob movie.  There’s something sexily nostalgic in her poem.  Even though she’s an adult, married woman in the poem, her words bring me back to my teenage summers.  That coming-of-age time.

 Well, it has been really warm these last five days, and today was no different.  It has been hitting the 80s since about last Saturday.  Tomorrow, my son and I care going on a road trip.  It was supposed to be my whole family going, but my wife tested positive for COVID on Monday, and then she had a little fender-bender with a UPS truck (no damage that I’m willing to claim with insurance).  Today, when my wife was taking our puppy for a walk around the block, a neighbor’s German shepherd attacked her.  The good news is that, thanks to my wife’s quick actions, the neighbor’s dog wasn’t able to do as much damage as the last time our puppy was attacked.  We did file a police report and took our dog to the vet.  The vet examined her and found a deep puncture on her right back leg.  

The itinerary for this weekend’s trip has changed drastically.  My wife and puppy are staying home.  My son and I are driving downstate.  We are staying in Mount Pleasant where my daughter is attending medical school, but we aren’t going to meet up with her because she’s got a final exam next Monday and doesn’t want to take the chance of catching COVID.

So, basically, my son and I are going to stay at an Airbnb by ourselves and try to find a way to amuse ourselves.  I actually planned an extra day in Mount Pleasant to have more time with my daughter, but fate had other plans.  It’s feels like a summer vacation gone terribly wrong—I’m Clark Griswold from the U.P. of Michigan.

A couple days ago, Saint Marty wrote a poem in a writing workshop led by a good friend of his.  (His friend called it a flash lyric essay.). Whether essay or poem, it has nothing to do with COVID or dog attacks.  Or summer, for that matter.

Reflections on Water, or My Brother Tried to Drown Me

by: Martin Achatz

I should have enjoyed the mist making my child face drip like an apple in the IGA produce section.

Fish.  I smelled fish, tasted fish in my mouth.  Waves applauded with foam hands, the thug-thug-thug of the ferry’s engine slapping the day awake.

I never liked fish sticks as a kid, begged my mom for grilled cheese when she brought a pan of Mrs. Paul’s to the dinner table.

Maybe I choked on amniotic fluid as I emerged from my mother or swallowed soapy liquid while being bathed as a baby or found a drowned mouse in a toilet bowl.

Yes, I’ve always associated water with death, so I avoid wading or floating or swimming, hold myself to the riverbank or shoreline, afraid I’ll untether and just drift away.

When rain baptizes the world, I think I hear the pine trees sob.

August 7, 2025: “First,” Road Trip, “7 Reasons Why We Need Superman Right Now”

It has been a long week, and it’s only Thursday.  

However, my weekend started yesterday evening when I clocked out.  You see, my daughter has her “Class of 2029 White Coat Ceremony” for medical school tomorrow.  So, my wife, son, and I are on a little road trip right now.  We spent the day driving, checking into the hotel, having dinner with my daughter and her significant other, and soaking in the hot tub for a little while.  

It is a weekend of firsts—first stay at this hotel, first step on the road to becoming a doctor for my daughter, and first family orientation at a university for my family.  (My daughter did her undergraduate work at the university where I’ve been teaching for 30-plus years.  I figured we didn’t need any parent orientation that time because I already knew all the ins and outs of the place.). 

Sometimes, firsts are great and affirming.  They can also be overwhelming and scary.

Sharon Olds writes about one of her firsts . . . 

First

by: Sharon Olds

He stood in the sulphur baths, his calves

against the stone rim of the pool

where his half-full glass of scotch stood, his

shins wavering in the water, his torso

looming over me, huge, in the night,

a grown-up man’s body, softer and

warmer with the clothes off—I was a sophomore

at college, in the baths with a naked man,

a writer, married, a father, widowed,

remarried, separated, unreadable, and when I

said No, I was sorry, I couldn’t,

he’d invented this, rising and dripping

in the heavy sodium water, giving me

his body to suck.  I had not heard

of this, I was moved by his innocence and daring,

I went to him like a baby who’s been crying

for hours for milk.  He stood and moaned

and rocked his knees, I felt I knew 

what his body wanted me to do, like rubbing

my mother’s back, receiving directions

from her want into the nerves of my hands.

In the smell of the trees of seaweed rooted in

ocean trenches just offshore,

and the mineral liquid from inside the mountain,

I gave over to flesh like church music

until he drew out and held himself and

something flew past me like a fresh ghost.

We sank into the water and lay there, napes

on the rim.  I’ve never done that before,

I said.  He eyes not visible

to me, his voice muffled, he said, You’ve been

sucking cock since you were fourteen,

and fell asleep.  I stayed beside him

so he wouldn’t go under, he snored like my father, I

tried not to think about what he had said,

but then I saw, in it, the unmeant

gift—that I was good at this

raw mystery I liked.  I sat

and rocked, by myself, in the fog, in the smell

of kelp, night steam like animals’ breath,

there where the harsh granite and quartz dropped down

into and under the start of the western sea.

There is something powerful about experiencing something for the first time.  (Don’t worry.  This blog post is not going to be about my first blowjob.)  In Olds’ poem, the speaker’s encounter with this older married writer would never fly in current society.  The man holds a certain amount of power over the young, inexperienced sophomore, and, after she says “No,” he still seems to force her to perform oral sex.  It’s not clear whether the act is consensual, but Olds, the poet, does invest a certain amount of pride in the fact that she “was good at this raw / mystery [she] liked.”

As I said in my introduction to this post, I am currently sitting in a hotel room in downstate Michigan.  Had dinner and some quality time with my daughter and her boyfriend this evening—went out to eat (Pad Thai for me), watched some TV (Impractical Jokers—one of my son’s favorite shows), and laughed a lot.

I’m new at this visiting college parent thing, so this whole experience is a first for me (and my wife).  But, I will say that my daughter looked exhausted but happy tonight.  She told me stories about her orientation week so far and then said, “It’s overwhelming but exciting, too.”  She’s with peers who have similar educational trajectories.  They know what she’s gone through, and they all have similar goals.  (While I’ve been a college professor for a long time, I can’t claim to understand fully my daughter’s situation right now.  I wrote stories and poems in grad school; she’s saving lives.)

I will say this—my daughter is my hero.  She’s chasing her dream, and I couldn’t be prouder of her.  (By the way, that’s not the first time I’ve said that, but it IS the first time I’ve said it since my daughter started medical school.  That counts as a first.)

Saint Marty wrote a poem about a first, based on a prompt from The Daily Poet for August 6 . . . 

From the New York Times:  “On Aug. 6, 1945, the United States dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan, that instantly killed an estimated 66,000 people in the first use of a nuclear weapon in warfare.”  Write a poem in memory of an event.  The event can either be a celebration or a tragedy.

7 Reasons Why We Need Superman Right Now

by: Martin Achatz

1.  Because most aliens on this planet are not criminals, just want to go to McDonald’s to get an M&M McFlurry.

2.  Because capes are back in style.

3.  Because truth and justice are endangered species, almost extinct in the continental United States, and the Smithsonian doesn’t have room for 185,000 migrants.

4.  Because if he catches a cold and sneezes, he could reverse global warming.

5.  Because eggs are too expensive, and we need to use his DNA to create a super chicken.

6.  Because all of our other heroes have been deported.

7.  Because we all need a Fortress of Solitude to hide our neighbors when the white vans roll down the street.

January 13: Road Trip, Shrek, New Cartoon

Yes, I am writing and posting Sunday's entry on Saturday night.  I will be travelling all day tomorrow.  I am taking my daughter to see Shrek the Musical in Green Bay, Wisconsin, tomorrow afternoon.  We're leaving early in the morning on this little road trip, and we'll be returning late in the evening.

I will say that long car trips are not one of favorite things.  I'm looking forward to the show, but the six hours of driving are going to suck majorly, especially considering I will be the only one behind the wheel.  But I will have a great time with my daughter.  That is one of my favorite things.

Before I sign off, I want to acknowledge some sad news.  I follow a blog called Alice's Bucket List.  It's written by a seventeen-year-old girl with terminal cancer.  The blog is funny, inspirational, and life-affirming.  This evening, Alice gained her angel's wings.  Please join with me in praying for Alice and her family.

Saint Marty is going to hug his daughter long and hard tonight.

Confessions of Saint Marty

May 3: Road Trip, Howell, Dance

Tomorrow morning, I and my family will be taking off for exotic Howell, Michigan, for a weekend of intense dance competition.  When I say intense, I mean intense.  These young girls and their teachers take this stuff very seriously.

I am not looking forward to the drive or the cost of the gas or the cost of the hotel.  I am also not very fond of the greasy fast food that will be wreaking havoc on my digestive system all weekend long.  I am looking forward to the look of joy on my daughter's face as she dances.  I'm looking forward to swimming in the hotel pool.  I'm looking forward to seeing one of my best friends on the way down to the competition.  In the end, it all balances itself out.

This post will be my last until tomorrow night in Howell.  I will be very tired, probably ready to kill my children.  I know, however, it will be a good weekend, if I can set aside my concerns over finances.

Saint Marty will see you in Howell.

The Griswolds are hitting the road

May 12: Road Trip, New Poem, Remote Blogging

I'm going on a road trip with my family this weekend.  My daughter has a dance competition in Howell, Michigan, which, as far as I can tell, is a little way from Ann Arbor.  It's going to be around an eight hour drive with a ten-year-old girl and a two-and-a-half-year-old boy.  It's going to be a really long weekend.  My sister is coming to watch my son while we take our daughter to the dance competition.  However, my son likes to run.  He's like a charged ion.  He doesn't sit still.  This trip is going to be quite a test for him.

What I'm going to try to do for blogging is take a laptop with me.  I would bet the hotel will have WiFi access.  Therefore, the next time you hear from me, I will probably be in Howell, Michigan.  That's my plan, anyway.  If it doesn't work out, you may not hear from me until Sunday or Monday.  Keep checking the site, though.  I'm sure I'll be able to blog tomorrow.

I have a brand new poem for today.  I wrote a poem for Mother's Day this past weekend.  I guess you could call this one a Father's Day poem, even though Father's Day isn't for another month.  I'm just planning ahead, in case I get asked to read another poem at church for that occasion.

Tonight, I have to take my daughter to ballet class, go grocery shopping, and pack my clothes for the trip.  I have way too many things to try to remember.  It kind of sucks.  I like travelling, but I hate the details of travel.  I always plan and plan, and I always forget something important.  In fact, I just went downstairs to pick up a prescription that almost slipped my mind.  I will be a happy camper when I'm safely camped back at home on Sunday night.

Saint Marty on a pilgrimage to Howell, Michigan.  God help us.

Rules of Fatherhood

When I first heard my daughter's heart
Ten years ago in the doctor's office,
I had no clue how to care for a girl,
Those unwritten rules new fathers
Must learn over time.  Make your girl
Sit frog-legged in the bathtub
To allow warm water to flow
Into areas of her body where skin
Turns raw, pink or red as grapefruit,
In the privacy of diaper or panty.
When she turns three or four,
Teach her to wipe front-to-back,
Not back-to-front, to avoid kidney,
Bladder infections.  Comb her hair
As soon as she's done bathing.
Slide the teeth through and through,
To remove all tangles, then braid.
Start simple, one ponytail at the back
Of her head.  Work to French braids,
Beautiful as sweet, curled loaves
In bakeries at Christmas.  Never
Utter the name of the boy she likes
When she's five or seven or ten.
Just watch them play together.
Notice how he always insists
She climb the steps of the slide
Before him, his neck craned upward,
Cheeks flushed, as she goes higher and higher.
Invite said boy to her tenth birthday
Party, watch him squirm when you sit
Beside him and say, "What are your
Plans for the future, son?"
Even though you don't believe
In guns, buy one to hold
In your lap when she goes
On her first date.  When he arrives,
Stare at him, the way a lion stares
At a wounded water buffalo.
All these rules I've learned
Since that day the doctor waved
Her wand over my wife, pulled
From the top hat of my wife's belly
That sound:  crickets singing
On a summer night, Love me, love me, love me.

My daughter, with attitude