It is the beginning of a short week. Thanksgiving on Thursday. Work on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Pies and Jell-O molds to make. A Turkey Trot to run on Thanksgiving morning.
I think I'm really going to try to concentrate on being thankful these next seven days. I've been trying to do that for most of this year. Some days are more difficult than others. This weekend has been a struggle with my father. My brother, who had a heart attack this past summer, is downstate being evaluated in Grand Rapids. It's not good news. He's not doing well.
So, this afternoon, I am going to try to relax. I don't have to teach this week, so I plan to do a little pleasure reading. Maybe some pleasure writing. Probably some pleasure eating, as well.
A year ago, I was giving thanks, too . . .
November 19, 2016: Ichneumon Flies, Blood Sport, Money Struggles
"To prevent a like fate," Teale continues, "some of the ichneumon
flies, those wasplike parasites which deposit their eggs in the body
tissues of caterpillars, have to scatter their eggs while in flight at
times when they are unable to find their prey and the eggs are ready to
hatch within their bodies."
Weird little fact.
Flies zigging through the air, dropping their eggs like the firebombing
of Dresden. The flies have to do this. If the eggs hatch inside the
flies, the young will start munching on their mommies. So, it's either
kill or be lunch.
Children can be trying at times.
Especially around this time of year, when they are bombarded by
commercials for new gadgets, toys, technology, books, music. The blood
sport of Black Friday shopping in the United States. I must admit to
making some back alley deals for a Tickle Me Elmo back in the day. As a
parent, I want to make my son and daughter happy, give them everything
they want.
Of course, I've never been able to do that
for my kids. They are pretty aware of the financial constraints that
exist in our household. But, interestingly enough, they have always
been pretty happy in our modest home. (Since my daughter has become a
teenager, she's been chafing at the fact that she has to share a room
with her little brother. We're working on that one.) My wife and I try
to give them a good life. Today, my son gets to go see the Trolls
movie. My daughter gets her dance lesson this afternoon. Tomorrow,
we're all going to see the new Harry Potter movie. Like I said, we do
the best we can.
Big things--like remodeling the
attic for my daughter--take a lot of planning and time and prayer. A
LOT of prayer. I'm not complaining. I know that my problems are
another person's fairy tale. My kids are smart and funny and
compassionate. Hopefully spiritual, too. (My daughter sometimes
bristles at going to church, but she eventually comes around.)
I
know that I will never be a rich person. We will always have money
struggles. My kids will never be the best dressed. My daughter is not
going to get a new car as a graduation present. My eight-year-old son
is about eight years away from getting his own cell phone, although he
wants one desperately right now. That's just the life I've chosen. But
I don't think I'll ever have to push my kids out of an airplane to save
myself from being eaten alive.
Saint Marty gives thanks today for his daughter and son.
At the start of Thanksgiving week, I have a poem of thanks . . .
Things My Daughter Knows
by: Martin Achatz
How
to lace ribbons up her shins,
count music beats, lift herself
to her toes, hold her body
on that axis, those ten digits,
defy laws of gravity, motion,
float like some undiscovered planet.
How to brush her red hair
upside down, rake teeth
from scalp downward,
over and over, until her mane
glows like organized flame
when she tosses her head back,
when she looks at me
from the forest fire of her face.
How to ignore the gaze of boys
as she splits water with the curves
of her hips and chest, dives
into the deep green end, reaches
for something on the bottom,
maybe an angel she painted
in kindergarten, all orange, black,
a ladybug singing in excelsis Deo.
How to feed me Life Savers
when my blood sugar dips so low
I can't remember anything
but my need for juice, cookie,
the steps of bite, chew, swallow,
bite again, as my mind untangles
the shoelaces of memory, finds
at its center knot this girl,
all leg, arm, body, DNA
of an encounter almost 13 years old,
when I reached out in the dark one night
and found the spark of love.
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