May 10: Cold Mother's Day, Classic Saint Marty, New Poem, New Cartoon

It's cold this Mother's Day.  The 70-degree weather the Upper Peninsula of Michigan has been enjoying this past week has gone south or east or west.  Wherever it is, it is not in the U. P.  It's barely above freezing right now, and it's almost two o'clock in the afternoon.  Which means that not too many people around these parts will be barbecuing for mom.

This morning in church, I shared a new poem that I finished last night.  I'm pretty happy with this draft.  After four weeks, all the pieces sort of fell into place around 10 p.m.  By the time my wife got home from work, I was nearly done with it.  There wasn't a dry eye in the congregation when I finished reading it today.

Today's episode of of Classic Saint Marty first aired three years ago, close to Mother's Day, during my Charles Dickens year.

May 10, 2012:  Joe Miller, Gifts, Books

"I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's!" whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh.  "He shan't know who sends it.  It's twice the size of Tiny Tim.  Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be!"

Scrooge has obviously had his change of heart in this little passage.  He's about to pay for a turkey to be delivered to his clerk's house, and, of course, the joke is that he's not going to tell Bob who sent the bird.  Joe Miller was a popular 18th century comedic actor; after Miller's death, a posthumous book, titled Joe Miller's Jests, was published.  Miller's name became synonymous with witty exchanges and practical jokes.  Thus, Scrooge's allusion to Miller.

The reason I chose this Carol passage is that I forgot to send my nephew/godson a birthday present earlier this week.  He turned nineteen on May 7.  I realized my faux pas yesterday and quickly remedied the situation.  I hopped on Amazon.com and ordered him a copy of one of my favorite books, Yann Martel's Life of Pi.  I'm not sure if my godson is going to like this gift, and, frankly, I don't care.

Several years ago, I got tired of the tsunami of toys and electronic gadgets my nephews and nieces kept requesting for Christmas and birthdays.  I vowed that I would never contribute to the profits of Mattel or Hasbro or Nintendo on behalf of my sister's children again.  Instead, I would fund book publishers.  For almost five years now, I have bought nothing but books as presents.  I have heard few complaints.  For the most part, my sister's kids are voracious readers.

It's not like I don't put thought into the books I choose.  I try to cater to each child's tastes.  One child likes dragons.  Another child likes bugs and frogs.  My niece is into supernatural romance crap thanks to Stephenie Meyer.  My godson has reached adulthood.  He's in his first year of college.  Therefore, he's getting books that I think he should read.  Books I love.  Hence, Life of Pi.

I know that most of my gifts are not greeted with the same kind of enthusiasm as a prize turkey at the Cratchit household.  I'm OK with that.  No practical jokes here.  Take that Joe Miller.

Saint Marty's doing his part in support of literature and literacy.

...and my poem for Mother's Day:

Heart to Heart


Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants.  Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast.  My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest.  Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems.  Yes, I told
Her.  I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said.  She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts.  This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
for me for Mother’s Day.  Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm.  They
will find a diner to have
coffee together.  They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

Confessions of Saint Marty