December 1: Visting this Moment and That, Relivable Moments, Late Dinners

If what Billy Pilgrim learned from the Tralfamadorians is true, that we will all live forever, no matter how dead we may sometimes seem to be, I am not overjoyed.  Still--if I am going to spend eternity visiting this moment and that, I'm grateful that so many of those moments are nice.

One of the nicest ones in recent times was on my trip back to Dresden with my old war buddy, O'Hare.

We took a Hungarian Airlines plane from East Berlin.  The pilot had a handlebar mustache.  He looked like Adolphe Menjou.  He smoked a Cuban Cigar while the plane was being fueled.  When we took off, there was no talk of fastening seat belts.  

When we were up in the air, a young steward served us rye bread and salami and butter and cheese and white wine.  The folding tray in front of me would not open out.  The steward went into the cockpit for a tool, came back with a beer-can opener.  He used it to pry out the tray.

There were only six other passengers.  They spoke many languages.  They were having nice times, too.  East Germany was down below, and the lights were on.  I imagined dropping bombs on those lights, those villages and cities and towns.

Greetings from this moment, the first day of the last month of the year 2017.  Vonnegut's concept of time in Slaughterhouse could be pleasant or miserable, depending on the life that you have led.  For example, Charles Manson reliving moments of his life, over and over, for eternity is not a very uplifting thought.  However, Jesus Christ reliving his life--excluding, say, the last four or five days--wouldn't be such a bad thing.

For me, this morning has been a relivable one.  I'm not at my normal, medical office job.  I took the day off to go talk about poetry with some English classes at my daughter's high school.  Just got back from the first class a little while ago, going back for a second round in a couple hours.  I read some Bigfoot poems to the students, talked about sonnets and free verse.  More of the same this afternoon.  The kids were great, and my daughter's English teacher is so, as my daughter says, "chill" and enthusiastic.

I've been a lucky person for most of my life.  Sure, I have my share of worries and frustrations and sorrows.  Everybody does.  But I also get to do really cool things, too, like talk about poetry to young people.  That's a great gift.  And now, for a little while, I am able to sit and reflect and write.  That's also a great gift that a lot of people don't get.

Last night, I went to a poetry reading.  It was a group of over 19 or so poets, eating, drinking, laughing, and sharing their work.  I sat in the back of the room, on the wooden steps leading up to the second floor.  Below me was a small sea of heads.  People I've known for a long time, and people I've just come to cherish just in the past year.  It was a relivable moment, as well.

Later today, I have a dentist appointment.  Then tonight, my daughter is playing in the pep band at a basketball game.  My wife and I will probably take my daughter and her boyfriend out to dinner following the game.  It's the weekend before my daughter celebrates her seventeenth birthday.  All relivable moments.  Even the trip to the dentist.

Tomorrow, I will attend the funeral for my friend's daughter.  It will be incredibly sad.  I will go, hug my friend, sing hymns, pray.  That's what we do in times of great sadness.   We join together, make casseroles, laugh, and cry.  We try to turn the experience into something relivable.

Saint Marty is thankful this day for broken teeth and poetry, relivable words and late dinners.