July 3: Holly, Mistletoe, and Fireworks

Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, meat, pigs, sausages, oysters, pies, puddings, fruit, and punch, all vanished instantly.  So did the room, the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they stood in the city streets on Christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people made a rough, but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of their houses; whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little snow-storms.

As I may have said before, Charles Dickens is pretty much responsible for the things we normally associate with Christmas.  Snow, holly, mistletoe, ivy, roasted turkey, ham--Dickens used all these ingredients to create the stereotypical image of Christmas.  It's pretty safe to say that Bing Crosby wouldn't have sung "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas" if good old Chuck hadn't dreamed of it about a century earlier.

Tomorrow is July 4.  For those of my disciples who may not be from the United States, July 4 is the day when we celebrate the birth of our country.  As the story goes in the history books, on July 4, 1776, the founding fathers signed the Declaration of Independence, formally declaring our independence from the British crown. 

Now, there are certain stereotypes that have sprouted up around the celebration of the Fourth of July in the United States.  These stereotypes are just as arbitrary and quaint as the stereotypes Charles Dickens established for the celebration of Christmas.  And, for the most part, the Independence Day stereotypes hold pretty true for the little town in Upper Michigan in which I reside.

The day will begin with a community parade.  Early in the morning, people will begin placing folding chairs along the parade route.  Then the horses, motorcycles, dump trucks, marching bands, fire engines, and whatnot will begin to line up.  The parade itself is just an excuse to see neighbors and friends, visit with people you haven't seen for a year (or longer), and acquire a sunburn.

After the parade, if you live in a small town, as I do, everyone gathers in some kind of public park for a community picnic.  Usually, there are food stands to sell things like cotton candy, snow cones, ice cream, popcorn, pizza, hot dogs, and (if you're in Michigan's Upper Peninsula) Cornish pasties and bratwurst.  There are usually games for the kids, potato sack races and the like.  And the adults wander around, guzzling enough beer to put a small German town during Oktoberfest to shame.

At dusk, there's fireworks.  Everyone, drunk and sober, puts blankets down on the grass and watches the display.  As the sky lights up, "ooooohhs" and "aaaaaahhhhs" arise from the assembled crowd.  Sometimes, people will honk car horns for particularly impressive explosions of fiery flowers.  The fireworks usually end with a full two or three minute finale of rocket after rocket, filling the heavens with light and sound.

And then, we all stumble back to our vehicles and drive home.  We're tired, probably dehydrated.  We just want to take a shower, lather our sunburned bodies with aloe, and go to bed.  In the morning, we'll drag ourselves to work, exhausted and sore.  We'll struggle through our job duties at about fifty percent capacity.

And we'll be happy.  Free.  Hungover.

Saint Marty can't wait.  God bless us, everyone.

Break out the fireworks and figgy pudding

July 2: Dog Day, Working Poet Day, Watermelon Day

It is a dog day of summer.  Over ninety degrees.  Humid.  I'm not quite sure what a "dog day" is.  I think it has something to do with the fact that it's so hot that even dogs just head for the shade, or it could be a reference to the fact that it's so hot that everybody walks around with their tongues hanging out, like dogs.  Whatever the origin of that phrase, it's freaking hot outside.

One byproduct of participating in the writing panel last night is an impulse to work on my poetry.  Having a group of people listening to me, telling me they like my poems, motivates me a great deal.  Writing, for the most part, is a pretty lonely avocation.  It requires a certain solitude of mind and heart.  Whether I'm writing in a noisy business office or on the shores of Lake Superior, I need to isolate myself, physically or mentally or spiritually.  However, when I stand in front of an audience, when I see how my words effect people, that makes me take up pen and paper.  It reminds me of why I write poetry.  It's about connection, of being part of the human experience.  Today is also a working poet day.

Looks good to me

Finally, today is a watermelon day.  It's a hot dog and corn on the cob day.  It's a summer vacation day.  A kids under the sprinkler day.  A get in your car and roll down the windows day.  A water balloon day.  A vanilla malt day.  It's a day that slows you down, makes you think about the necessity of every movement you make.  A day when breathing makes you sweat.

Saint Marty is ready to face the heat.

July 2: Being a Poet, Great Panel, "Carol" Dip

Linda Nemec Foster:  a hard act to follow

Well, fresh from my appearance on the U. P. Book Tour in Republic, Michigan, I am a little tired but feeling wonderful.  The panel of writers was diverse and great, from the poets down to the historians.  We had poems, songs, and stories about starvation and fly-fishing nuns.  I read in the second half of the program, following Linda Nemec Foster--the most accomplished and entertaining writer of the group.  Linda brought down the house were her poems, and then I had to step up.  It was a little daunting, but I managed to grab hold of some of Linda's fireworks and not get burned. 

Last night just proved one thing to me.  Despite small audiences.  Despite limited opportunities for publication.  Despite years of honing my craft.  Despite lack of glory or honor or prestige.  Despite all of these things (and a few more I didn't mention), I LOVE being a poet.

There, I said it.

Today is Monday, and that means it's time, once again, to play the Carol dip game.  For those doubters out there, I wish to point out something.  Last week, I asked a question concerning the fate of a certain Today Show anchor.  The great book of Dickens predicted the departure of said anchor.  Last Thursday, Ann Curry quit Today, despite the fact that Ann is/was the nicest co-host Matt Lauer ever had.  Ann is gone, and Dickens knew it.  So what if everybody from Entertainment Weekly to Elmo was predicting Ann's demise.  The point is that you should never doubt the power of the Carol dip. 

Now that I have that off my chest, I will ask my question for today.  After much thought and reflection, I have settled on the following query:

Will I get sunburned on July 4th?

And the answer from Ebenezer Scrooge and company is:

To sit staring at those fixed, glazed eyes, in silence for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him.  There was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of its own.  Scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels, were still agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven.

I'm in trouble.  Just look at that string of adjectctives:  "very awful," "infernal atmosphere," and "agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven."  This description of Marley's Ghost isn't very comforting.

Saint Marty better purchase himself some sun block.

July 1: Hot Day, Run, Poetry Panel, New Cartoon

Happy July 1st!

Generally, I avoid using exclamation points, but the sentiment in the statement seemed to necessitate the use of that particular punctuation mark.

At the moment, I'm sitting on the back porch of my parents' house, watching my son play with his cars.  It's almost ninety degrees, a really hot day.  I just got finished with a two mile run, pushing my three-year-old son in a stroller.  It was not fun.  It was made even not funner by the fact that the stroller had a flat tire.  I realized that about half way through the route.  I finished the run, but it just about killed me.  My clothes were dripping sweat, and I didn't cool down for about a half hour.

It' a stereotypical Sunday afternoon.  Sunny.  Birds singing.  No a hint of wind.  Blue sky.  Everyone in the entire world seems to be sitting on the back porch, just watching the world bake.  There's not even a single kid on the playground.

Myself, I'm taking in a few moments of serenity before I have to get ready for the poetry panel tonight in Republic, Michigan.  I'm appearing with a few other poets and writers, and these kinds of events always make me anxious.  I tend to feel a little outclassed.  I compensate by using self-effacing humor and sarcasm.  I'm not sure if that makes up for only having one published book and no major awards (unless you count a class spelling bee in fifth grade).

Any how, it's just a lazy afternoon as a prelude to a very busy evening.

Saint Marty has to practice his humility.

Confessions of Saint Marty