November 1: Growing Up, Daughter and a Party, Warren Leamon, "All Saints' Day," New Cartoon

Happy All Saints' Day.

The two days following All Hallows' Eve in the Christian calendar year are All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day.  Tonight and tomorrow in churches all over the world, people are going to be remembering and celebrating loved ones who have died.  Candles will be lit.  Prayers will be recited.  Tears will be shed.

Of course, dealing with loss is all a part of growing up.  Along with going to school, leaving home, getting a job, falling in love.  Last night, my daughter went to a Halloween Party thrown by a friend from school.  A male friend from school.  When I went to pick her up, she was standing outside with "Tim," talking.  All the other guests had left.  My daughter has insisted for a couple of weeks that Tim is just a friend.  I'm not buying what she's selling.

She came bounding over to the car and slipped into the back seat.  She was really happy, but she wouldn't talk about the party at all.

Me:  "Was there dancing?"

Her:  "No."

Me:  "Did you play games?"

Her:  "No."

Me:  "Did you eat anything?"

Her:  "I wasn't hungry."

Me:  "Did you bob for apples?"

Her:  "What?"

You get the picture.  One and two syllable answers from her.  Increasing frustration from me.  I don't know if Tim is a friend or more than a friend.  I don't know if she roasted marshmallows or played naked Twister.  I don't know anything.

I wasn't this secretive when I was thirteen.  Well, except for the normal teenage boy stuff that involved uncontrollable hormones, bodily functions, and a poster of Alyssa Milano.  Which makes me trust Tim even less.

Saint Marty isn't ready to be the father of a teenage daughter.  He needs a firearm and some ammunition.

All Saints' Day

by:  Warren Leamon

A solitary tree atop a mountain rises
straight against a cloudless sky, and I remember
what the medieval painters would have seen:
a cross devoid of depth, flat from head to foot,
from nail to bloody nail, all lines of vision ending
in the innocent agony of a dying man.
We can’t say what they saw was mere distortion
(any serf knew well the depth of hill and sky);
nor can we say they saw no beauty in the world
(like us they loved lush color, reds and blues and yellows
split by smoke twisting up through icy air).
We can only say they knew too well the limits
of the flesh and caught on stark flat surfaces the truth
that haunts me now in the cold fields of November.

Confessions of Saint Marty