August 23: "Love," Aunt Marian, Adoration

Tonight, I am writing about love.

In the past week, I've been getting messages from my sister about our aunt, my mother's youngest sister.  Last Friday, Aunt Marian had a stroke, although it seemed as though they caught it early enough.  No paralysis.  Speech only slightly slurred, but improving.  Swallowing with a little difficulty, but improving, as well.  Tonight, I found out that the doctors have discovered metastatic cancer throughout my aunt's body.  

I come from a very large family, with lots of aunts and uncles and cousins.  Love has always been abundant in my life.  Even though that love, for most of my adulthood, has been distanced by space (most of my relatives live around the Metro Detroit area), I still love them, and they love me.

My aunt and uncle made yearly pilgrimages to the Upper Peninsula to visit us in the past.  Aunt Marian married my dad's youngest brother.  That's right.  The baby of the family married the baby of the family.  And, when I was around them, it was obvious how much they respected and adored each other.

Billy Collins writes about adoration and love . . . 

Love

by: Billy Collins

The boy at the far end of the train car 

kept looking behind him 

as if he were afraid or expecting someone 

and then she appeared in the glass door 

of the forward car and he rose 

and opened the door and let her in 

and she entered the car carrying 

a large black case 

in the unmistakable shape of a cello. 

She looked like an angel with a high forehead 

and somber eyes and her hair 

was tied up behind her neck with a black bow. 

And because of all that, 

he seemed a little awkward i

n his happiness to see her, 

whereas she was simply there, 

perfectly existing as a creature 

with a soft face who played the cello. 

And the reason I am writing this 

on the back of a manila envelope 

now that they have left the train together 

is to tell you that when she turned 

to lift the large, delicate cello 

onto the overhead rack, 

I saw him looking up at her 

and what she was doing 

the way the eyes of saints are painted 

when they are looking up at God 

when he is doing something remarkable, 

something that identifies him as God.

I've always been drawn to the final image of this poem, the boy looking up at the girl like a saint having a vision of God.  I can see it--that boundless veneration for something/someone that seems perfect and unattainable.  The purity of that love, before cruelty or heartbreak shatters it.

I'm not saying my aunt is a saint or a god.  We're all human beings, dealing with out own failings and wants.  But my memory of Aunt Marian is one of love.  My wife and I got married on the same day (October 14) that my aunt and uncle got married.  They came to our wedding, danced at the reception together.  I've always felt incredibly connected to them because of that.

Aunt Marian doesn't want any extraordinary measures to sustain her life.  She's told her daughter that she wants to go home to die.  After all the arrangements have been made, that is exactly what is going to happen.  Palliative care and home, where she and my uncle (who passed a few years ago) lived, loved, and adored each other for so, so long.

I've learned so much by watching people like my aunt and uncle love each other and their family.  When I look at my wife or daughter or son, I hope people see the same kind of love in my eyes.  Sacred.  Holy.

Saint Marty loves his aunt.

Photo by Abbigail Berry

August 16: "Velocity," U. P. State Fair, Speed of Life

We took our kids to the U. P. State Fair today.  That's right--corn dogs, elephant ears, lemonade, Italian sausage, and corn on the cob.  Oh, and there were rides and barns full of critters, too, but food always seems to define trips I take for some reason.

It has been some time since we've all gone together to the fair.  My daughter has gone with other people.  I think my wife and son and daughter have gone together, as well.  It used to be an annual tradition when my sister, Sally, was alive.  I can't tell you how much money I've lost playing those stupid games on the midway.  

One of the first things we did when we got to the fairgrounds was hit the rides.  My wife and I have reached the age where simply looking at the Ferris wheel brings on a bout of vertigo.  So, we merely watched as our daughter and son were strapped into the Hang Glider.  About a minute after the ride started, our son opened his mouth and let fly a red shower of vomit.  It wasn't pretty.  He came off the ride red-faced and covered in puke.

In today's poem, Billy Collins meditates on the speed of life . . . 

Velocity

by: Billy Collins

In the club car that morning I had my notebook
open on my lap and my pen uncapped,
looking every inch the writer
right down to the little writer’s frown on my face,

but there was nothing to write
about except life and death
and the low warning sound of the train whistle.

I did not want to write about the scenery
that was flashing past, cows spread over a pasture,
hay rolled up meticulously—
things you see once and will never see again.

But I kept my pen moving by drawing
over and over again
the face of a motorcyclist in profile—

for no reason I can think of—
a biker with sunglasses and a weak chin,
leaning forward, helmetless,
his long thin hair trailing behind him in the wind.

I also drew many lines to indicate speed,
to show the air becoming visible
as it broke over the biker’s face

the way it was breaking over the face
of the locomotive that was pulling me
toward Omaha and whatever lay beyond Omaha
for me and all the other stops to make

before the time would arrive to stop for good.
We must always look at things
from the point of view of eternity,

the college theologians used to insist,
from which, I imagine, we would all
appear to have speed lines trailing behind us
as we rush along the road of the world,

as we rush down the long tunnel of time—
the biker, of course, drunk on the wind,
but also the man reading by a fire,

speed lines coming off his shoulders and his book,
and the woman standing on a beach
studying the curve of horizon,
even the child asleep on a summer night,

speed lines flying from the posters of her bed,
from the white tips of the pillowcases,
and from the edges of her perfectly motionless body.

It is so true that life seems like a carnival ride that keeps getting faster and fasters as we get older and older.  When I was my son's age, summers lasted forever, and a day at the fair was a two-week journey down the Amazon with stops for cheesy fries and cotton candy.

For me, today seemed like riding a bullet train.  Like Collins, if I were to sketch my family today, we would all have speed lines flying from us.  I don't think young people are aware of the velocity of time.  They're too much creatures of the present, savoring each moment like a fresh cheese curd.  Being the father of one grown child and one almost-grown child, I realize how precious the time I had with my kids today was, and I savored it.  Even the vomit.

A little while after I got home from the fair, I got a text from my sister that our aunt (my mom's sister) had a stroke this morning.  She's doing alright.  She's able to move both arms and legs, and her speech is only a little bit slurred.  She's been improving slowly during the course of the day.  

Another example of velocity.  It seems like only yesterday that my aunt and uncle came up to attend our wedding.  But that was almost 30 years ago.

Saint Marty just wants things to slow down long enough for him to have another Italian sausage smothered in cheese.

August 4: The Castaway, Abandonment, Rescue

It was but some few days after encountering the Frenchman, that a most significant event befell the most insignificant of the Pequod's crew; an event most lamentable; and which ended in providing the sometimes madly merry and predestinated craft with a living and ever accompanying prophecy of whatever shattered sequel might prove her own.

Now, in the whale ship, it is not every one that goes in the boats. Some few hands are reserved called shipkeepers, whose province it is to work the vessel while the boats are pursuing the whale. As a general thing, these shipkeepers are as hardy fellows as the men comprising the boats' crews. But if there happen to be an unduly slender, clumsy, or timorous wight in the ship, that wight is certain to be made a ship-keeper. It was so in the Pequod with the little negro Pippin by nick-name, Pip by abbreviation. Poor Pip! ye have heard of him before; ye must remember his tambourine on that dramatic midnight, so gloomy-jolly.

In outer aspect, Pip and Dough-Boy made a match, like a black pony and a white one, of equal developments, though of dissimilar color, driven in one eccentric span. But while hapless Dough-Boy was by nature dull and torpid in his intellects, Pip, though over tender-hearted, was at bottom very bright, with that pleasant, genial, jolly brightness peculiar to his tribe; a tribe, which ever enjoy all holidays and festivities with finer, freer relish than any other race. For blacks, the year's calendar should show naught but three hundred and sixty-five Fourth of Julys and New Year's Days. Nor smile so, while I write that this little black was brilliant, for even blackness has its brilliancy; behold yon lustrous ebony, panelled in king's cabinets. But Pip loved life, and all life's peaceable securities; so that the panic-striking business in which he had somehow unaccountably become entrapped, had most sadly blurred his brightness; though, as ere long will be seen, what was thus temporarily subdued in him, in the end was destined to be luridly illumined by strange wild fires, that fictitiously showed him off to ten times the natural lustre with which in his native Tolland County in Connecticut, he had once enlivened many a fiddler's frolic on the green; and at melodious even-tide, with his gay ha-ha! had turned the round horizon into one star-belled tambourine. So, though in the clear air of day, suspended against a blue-veined neck, the pure-watered diamond drop will healthful glow; yet, when the cunning jeweller would show you the diamond in its most impressive lustre, he lays it against a gloomy ground, and then lights it up, not by the sun, but by some unnatural gases. Then come out those fiery effulgences, infernally superb; then the evil-blazing diamond, once the divinest symbol of the crystal skies, looks like some crown-jewel stolen from the King of Hell. 
But let us to the story.

It came to pass, that in the ambergris affair Stubb's after-oarsman chanced so to sprain his hand, as for a time to become quite maimed; and, temporarily, Pip was put into his place.

The first time Stubb lowered with him, Pip evinced much nervousness; but happily, for that time, escaped close contact with the whale; and therefore came off not altogether discreditably; though Stubb observing him, took care, afterwards, to exhort him to cherish his courageousness to the utmost, for he might often find it needful.

Now upon the second lowering, the boat paddled upon the whale; and as the fish received the darted iron, it gave its customary rap, which happened, in this instance, to be right under poor Pip's seat. The involuntary consternation of the moment caused him to leap, paddle in hand, out of the boat; and in such a way, that part of the slack whale line coming against his chest, he breasted it overboard with him, so as to become entangled in it, when at last plumping into the water. That instant the stricken whale started on a fierce run, the line swiftly straightened; and presto! poor Pip came all foaming up to the chocks of the boat, remorselessly dragged there by the line, which had taken several turns around his chest and neck.

Tashtego stood in the bows. He was full of the fire of the hunt. He hated Pip for a poltroon. Snatching the boat-knife from its sheath, he suspended its sharp edge over the line, and turning towards Stubb, exclaimed interrogatively, "Cut?" Meantime Pip's blue, choked face plainly looked, Do, for God's sake! All passed in a flash. In less than half a minute, this entire thing happened.

"Damn him, cut!" roared Stubb; and so the whale was lost and Pip was saved.

So soon as he recovered himself, the poor little negro was assailed by yells and execrations from the crew. Tranquilly permitting these irregular cursings to evaporate, Stubb then in a plain, business-like, but still half humorous manner, cursed Pip officially; and that done, unofficially gave him much wholesome advice. The substance was, Never jump from a boat, Pip, except- but all the rest was indefinite, as the soundest advice ever is. Now, in general, Stick to the boat, is your true motto in whaling; but cases will sometimes happen when Leap from the boat, is still better. Moreover, as if perceiving at last that if he should give undiluted conscientious advice to Pip, he would be leaving him too wide a margin to jump in for the future; Stubb suddenly dropped all advice, and concluded with a peremptory command "Stick to the boat, Pip, or by the Lord, I won't pick you up if you jump; mind that. We can't afford to lose whales by the likes of you; a whale would sell for thirty times what you would, Pip, in Alabama. Bear that in mind, and don't jump any more." Hereby perhaps Stubb indirectly hinted, that though man loved his fellow, yet man is a money-making animal, which propensity too often interferes with his benevolence.

But we are all in the hands of the Gods; and Pip jumped again. It was under very similar circumstances to the first performance; but this time he did not breast out the line; and hence, when the whale started to run, Pip was left behind on the sea, like a hurried traveller's trunk. Alas! Stubb was but too true to his word. It was a beautiful, bounteous, blue day! the spangled sea calm and cool, and flatly stretching away, all round, to the horizon, like gold-beater's skin hammered out to the extremest. Bobbing up and down in that sea, Pip's ebon head showed like a head of cloves. No boat-knife was lifted when he fell so rapidly astern. Stubb's inexorable back was turned upon him; and the whale was winged. In three minutes, a whole mile of shoreless ocean was between Pip and Stubb. Out from the centre of the sea, poor Pip turned his crisp, curling, black head to the sun, another lonely castaway, though the loftiest and the brightest.

Now, in calm weather, to swim in the open ocean is as easy to the practised swimmer as to ride in a spring-carriage ashore. But the awful lonesomeness is intolerable. The intense concentration of self in the middle of such a heartless immensity, my God! who can tell it? Mark, how when sailors in a dead calm bathe in the open sea- mark how closely they hug their ship and only coast along her sides.

But had Stubb really abandoned the poor little negro to his fate? No; he did not mean to, at least. Because there were two boats in his wake, and he supposed, no doubt, that they would of course come up to Pip very quickly, and pick him up; though, indeed, such considerations towards oarsmen jeopardized through their own timidity, is not always manifested by the hunters in all similar instances; and such instances not unfrequently occur; almost invariably in the fishery, a coward, so called, is marked with the same ruthless detestation peculiar to military navies and armies.

But it so happened, that those boats, without seeing Pip, suddenly spying whales close to them on one side, turned, and gave chase; and Stubb's boat was now so far away, and he and all his crew so intent upon his fish, that Pip's ringed horizon began to expand around him miserably. By the merest chance the ship itself at last rescued him; but from that hour the little negro went about the deck an idiot; such, at least, they said he was. The sea had leeringly kept his finite body up, but drowned the infinite of his soul. Not drowned entirely, though. Rather carried down alive to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of the unwarped primal world glided to and fro before his passive eyes; and the miser-merman, Wisdom, revealed his hoarded heaps; and among the joyous, heartless, ever-juvenile eternities, Pip saw the multitudinous, God-omnipresent, coral insects, that out of the firmament of waters heaved the colossal orbs. He saw God's foot upon the treadle of the loom, and spoke it; and therefore his shipmates called him mad. So man's insanity is heaven's sense; and wandering from all mortal reason, man comes at last to that celestial thought, which, to reason, is absurd and frantic; and weal or woe, feels then uncompromised, indifferent as his God.

For the rest blame not Stubb too hardly. The thing is common in that fishery; and in the sequel of the narrative, it will then be seen what like abandonment befell myself.

This chapter contains a tale of greed overcoming humanity.  Cruelty overcoming compassion.  Madness overcoming sanity.  The story of Pip fills me with a great deal of sadness.  A young boy, at sea with a crew of old whalers, falls victim to their hard experience.  As they pursue a harpooned whale, they leave him in the middle of the ocean, bobbing and alone.  A castaway.  No rescue in sight.  It's no wonder that he is greatly affected by the experience.  I would go out of my mind, too.  It's called post traumatic stress.

These last few years have been a little tough for me.  I've lost three members of my family--my brother, sister, and father.  In the middle of all that, I've dealt with the normal calamities that befall any person--home repairs, dying cars, brake jobs, employment shifts, shutoff notices.  It sometimes seems like my life is a series of crises interspersed with periods of calms-before-the-storms.  That may sound cynical, I know.  Self-pitying even.  That's not my intent here.

I'm not a person who goes around dwelling on all the bad things that have happened to me.  Those disciples of this blog who know me personally can vouch for this fact.  I'm a pretty upbeat person.  Don't like to be gloomy or negative.  That's not me.  Sometimes, however, I give into moments of, for lack of a better term, abandonment.  When I feel like I'm bobbing in the ocean, with no rescue in sight.

Of course, being a practicing Christian, I'm not supposed to feel like this.  I'm supposed to feel God's presence in my life, lifting me up in dark times.  Carrying me on His shoulders when I can't walk through the desert.  Keeping me afloat when I'm sinking.  All those old cliches you see on plaques and greeting cards and in magazines like Catholic Digest and Guideposts.

I don't discount those beliefs.  Most of the time, I embrace them wholeheartedly.  However, I am human, and with that humanity comes a healthy dose of doubts and fears.  For example, when I had my bout of vertigo a couple weeks ago, traveling to the hospital in the back of an ambulance, I thought about my sister, Sally, who died of lymphoma of the brain.  All the ambulance rides she had.  The days she spent throwing up, not knowing the reason why she was so sick.  I thought of my daughter, 17-years-old and a senior in high school.  My son, headed into his last year of grade school.  And my wife, who's had so many struggles herself over the years with mental health issues.  Yes, it was a moment of my life flashing before my eyes.

For those of you who think I'm being overly dramatic, I will defend myself by saying that I was feeling VERY sick, and, just a year or so ago, my brother had a massive heart attack that destroyed all but 20% of his heart.  So, my family has a history of stroke (which killed another of my brothers), lymphoma, and heart disease.  An unholy trinity.  I had good cause to feel slightly . . . abandoned.

Once I was feeling better and life took over, I left those castaway feelings behind.  I was too busy for self pity and introspection.  That's what keeps me going.  I don't want to be at the end of my life, look back, and think, "I have made no difference in this world whatsoever."

I've been pretty blessed with good health (for the most part), a wonderful wife, great kids, and loving siblings (for the most part).  I have great friends who truly care about me.  I do things almost every day that feed my soul--poetry, charitable work, teaching.  All these things remind me that I'm not floating in the middle of the sea with no rescue in sight.  I'm pretty damn lucky.

Saint Marty is thankful this morning for being rescued, over and over, every day of his life.

August 9: Sister Update, Hospice Care, Classic Saint Marty

Sorry for the extended absence, folks.  I got back home from Ann Arbor around 8 p.m. yesterday.  It was a very long weekend.  I'm still pretty tired.

Well, the tumor in my sister's head has shrunk considerably.  However, the tumor cut off blood supply to the thalamus portion of her brain for an extended period of time, causing a stroke.  Also, her right shoulder and arm are constantly quaking.  The doctors think that she may be having seizures.  Her medical team have stopped nutrition, since her intestines are inflamed/infected.  She is receiving antibiotics to clear up her blood infection (sepsis).

All that being said, my sister's prognosis is very bleak.  After a lot of discussion and prayer and more discussion, my other sister (who has medical power of attorney) has decided to bring my sister home under hospice care.  Yesterday, the plan was to have her transferred to a nearby nursing home.  This afternoon, the plan has changed.  She will be coming to my parents' house and will be cared for by my sisters (a plan I don't support and cannot change).

In her current condition, my sister will not live long.  The neurologist estimated two to three weeks.  She will not receive any more chemo, which would probably kill her sooner.  The nutrition will also not be started again, because it would simply cause another infection, which would kill her sooner as well.  She will be kept comfortable and as pain-free as possible. 

If I sound too cold and clinical, I apologize.  I love my sister, and I want what's best for her.  I think she would receive better care in a nursing home setting.  Plus, that would save my mother (who is very confused and struggling) and my sister (who has Down Syndrome) from an incredible amount of stress.  Other members of my family disagree with me.  So be it.  I will have to let go of the anger that I'm feeling at the moment,  It is beyond my control, which is very difficult for me to admit.

As most of my readers know, I don't deal well when my life feels out of control.  At the moment, I feel like I'm on top of a roller coaster, about to plunge down tracks that are shrouded in mist and darkness.  I dislike it when people keep changing the rules of the game that I'm trying to play.  (How's that for mixing metaphors?)

Today's Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago, when my life was much simpler and more peaceful.  I wonder where I can lay my hands on a time machine.

August 9, 2013:  Hot-Shot in English, Bonnie Jo Campbell, Fairy Tale Friday

..."Just don't do it too good, is all," he said.  "That sunuvabitch Hartzell thinks you're a hot shot in English, and he knows you're my roommate.  So I mean don't stick all the commas and stuff in the right place."

Holden's roommate, Stradlater, is the speaker.  He wants Holden to write an essay for him because he knows Holden is a really good writer.  In fact, English is the only thing Holden's got going for him at the moment.  It's the only thing he's successful at.


I went to a book signing event this afternoon at a local bookstore.  Ostensibly, the signing was to publicize The Way North, the anthology of U. P. writers that was released in early spring.  I went to the event not expecting a whole lot.  The manager of the store, Lee, is an old friend, so I knew I'd have someone to talk to.  Plus, I worked at this particular bookstore for almost nine years as a seller.  It was like returning to an old apartment I lived in while in college; everything sort of the same but a little shinier and smaller.  And, to top it all off, I was with two other writers I've known for a while.  It wasn't a bad couple of hours.  Didn't sell any of my books, though.

However, the other poet at the table with me, Janeen, told me something quite flattering.  At the release party for The Way North in Kalamazoo, Bonnie Jo Campbell, bestselling novelist and finalist for the National Book Award, chose to read my poem from the anthology.  My poem.  "She really loved it," Janeen said, "and she did a great job."

I know it sounds stupid, but knowing that Bonnie Jo Campbell knows my name/read my poem was quite a thrill.  More than a thrill, actually.  I've been riding the wave of that knowledge all evening.  Bonnie Jo Campbell's novel, Once Upon a River, was one of my favorite books last year, and her short story collection, American Salvage, is absolutely stunning.  She's a big fan of Flannery O'Connor, too.  I've been stalking Bonnie's official Web site for quite a few years (anonymously as I don't want to sound creepy).  And now, I know Bonnie Jo Campbell likes my work.

On a side note, I once took a fiction workshop in which Bonnie Jo was a fellow student.  She was obviously bound for bigger, better things even back then.  Plus, she was the nicest person in the class.  So I've been on the outer edges of the Bonnie Jo Campbell universe for a while.

And now, for a fairy tale.

Once upon a time, in a little town named Flannery, a struggling sword-maker named Hubert lived.  Hubert made great swords.  All the local knights came to him for his blades.  The problem was that Hubert couldn't sell enough swords to support his family, so Hubert moonlighted at a local fork factory.  Every night, he worked an eight-hour shift making tines for forks, and he was never allowed to make any over-tine.  (Sorry, I had to do that.)

Hubert studied the work of all the greatest sword-makers in the kingdom.  The greatest sword-maker of all was a woman named Kazoo.  Kazoo's blades were elegant, beautifully carved, and sharper than an arctic wind.  Hubert sent Kazoo fan scrolls every day, but he never received any replies.

One day, however, a bundle was delivered to Hubert's doorstep by a traveling knight.  When Hubert opened the bundle, he found a wondrous sword, carved from silver, its hilt encrusted with precious jade.  It gleamed in the sunlight, and Hubert knew it was an original Kazoo sword.  Kazoo had read his scrolls.  Kazoo knew his name.

Hubert reached down to pick up the sword and mistakenly cut off his left hand.  Hubert's wife found Hubert dead that night, clutching the sword to his chest, a blissful smile on his face.

The moral of this tale:  Always lend a helping hand, but bring a tourniquet.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

She likes me!  She really likes me!

April 21: Playing Organ, Birthday Party, New Cartoon

I like playing the pipe organ.  I like the instrument--its sounds and mechanics.  I've been playing the organ for close to 30 years at two different churches.  Recently, I have been filling in for the senior organist at the United Methodist Church.  The senior organist had a heart attack and a stroke last week; she's was sick the week before, and, the week before that, she was on a trip to Maryland or something.  That's three weeks thus far.

I never aspired to be a church organist.  It just sort of happened.  I learned on the job.  I remember the first Mass I played at Saint John's in my home tome over 27 years ago.  It was simple.  Four standard hymns, no liturgical music.  Quick and easy.  I got sick to my stomach before I sat down to play.

I don't get physically ill any more when I play the organ.  I get nervous.  I make mistakes.  But I don't vomit.  Haven't in years.  I've played for bishops and at cathedrals.  I've played funerals and weddings, first communions and Easter Vigils.  I've never played for a cardinal yet.  If I was asked to play for the pope, I'd probably blow some chunks.  Aside from that, nothing rattles me too much.

I'm going to be filling in for the senior organist for a while.  She's in physical and speech therapy now.  About the only thing that causes me stress is playing anthems for the chancel choir.  That music is complicated and requires hours of practice.  At the moment, I don't have hours to practice.  I'm going to have to find them, somehow.

Yes, playing the pipe organ is one of my favorite things, even if it causes me some anxiety. 

No more anxiety for me today, however.  It's my sister's birthday, so my wife is cooking dinner for her.  It will be a good time.  My kids will eat cake and ice cream.  They'll probably fight with each other, and my son or daughter will end up crying.  Good times will be had by all.

Saint Marty is ready for some good times.

Confessions of Saint Marty