So it goes.
The Maori Billy had worked with died of the dry heaves, after having been ordered to go down in that stink and work. He tore himself to pieces, throwing up and throwing up.
So it goes.
So a new technique was devised. Bodies weren't brought up any more. They were cremated by soldiers with flamethrowers right where they were. The soldiers stood outside the shelters, simply sent the fire in.
Somewhere in there the poor old high school teacher, Edgar Derby, was caught with a teapot he had taken from the catacombs. He was arrested for plundering. He was tried and shot.
So it goes.
And somewhere in there was springtime. The corpse mines were closed down. The soldiers all left to fight the Russians. In the suburbs, the women and children dug rifle pits. Billy and the rest of his group were locked up in the stable in the suburbs. And then one morning, they got up to discover that the door was unlocked. World War Two in Europe was over.
Billy and the rest wandered out onto the shady street. The trees were leafing out. There was nothing going on out there, no traffic of any kind. There was only one vehicle, an abandoned wagon drawn by two horses. The wagon was green and coffin-shaped.
Birds were talking.
One bird sad to Billy Pilgrim, "Poo-tee-weet?"
And with that, the time-traveling adventures of Billy Pilgrim come to an end. Not with a bang, but with a little bird song. Poo-tee-weet. There's something very gentle in those last two paragraphs, as compared to all the death and decomposition and cremation that comes prior. I'm not sure if it's a hopeful ending. I mean, there's a green, coffin-shaped wagon, so that hardly qualifies as "happily ever after." But are endings ever completely happy?
My semester is coming to an end. It is final exam week, and I am at one end of a long tunnel of grading. I'm so far away from the end that I can't even see the light on the other side. So, it's a matter of one paper/discussion forum/fairy tale at a time. Slowly but slowly (there is no surely in there), I will chug along to the end.
It has not been the greatest semester in the world. I have not been the greatest teacher in the world. It happens. I do my best, and sometimes my best is simply adequate. I get the job done, though. Every time. Exhaustion will be pretty much standard for me these next seven or so days. And then I will take a very long nap.
I am pretty hard on myself when it comes to my teaching. Instead of focusing on my successes, I tend to zero in on my failures. It may be a Catholic thing. I'm not sure. I grew up in a household that didn't really foster any kind of pride. What I remember from my childhood is the emphasis placed on hard work. When I did something well, received some accolade, I always asked myself how I could have done better. That was the way that I was brought up.
Of course, that doesn't really encourage high self esteem. The very opposite, as a matter of fact. Everything that happened to me was an opportunity for learning how to be better. That's not really a bad way to live. But, at some point, I think I would have liked to stop, take a deep breath, and say, "Damn, Martin, that was pretty fucking awesome." Never happened.
Instead, it was back to the corpse mines. over and over. I hope that I have helped my kids overcome my feelings of inadequacy. I frequently tell them how proud I am of there accomplishments. When they do something wonderful, I try to celebrate them. We go out to eat. I bring them a present. Or I simply hug them, tell them how special they are. I don't want them to inherit my baggage.
The semester is drawing to a close. So it goes. In a few weeks, the year 2017 will be history. So it goes. Endings are all around me. I embrace the possibility that exists in every closed door. Because nothing ever really ends, as Billy Pilgrim knows. Each moment is a link in a chain of moments.
Saint Marty is thankful the next link.
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