February 9: Tomahawk Pipe, No Saint, Striking Sparks

Shifting the barrow from my hand to his, he told me a funny story about the first wheelbarrow he had ever seen. It was in Sag Harbor. The owners of his ship, it seems, had lent him one, in which to carry his heavy chest to his boarding house. Not to seem ignorant about the thing- though in truth he was entirely so, concerning the precise way in which to manage the barrow- Queequeg puts his chest upon it; lashes it fast; and then shoulders the barrow and marches up the wharf. "Why," said I, "Queequeg, you might have known better than that, one would think. Didn't the people laugh?"

Upon this, he told me another story. The people of his island of Rokovoko, it seems, at their wedding feasts express the fragrant water of young cocoanuts into a large stained calabash like a punchbowl; and this punchbowl always forms the great central ornament on the braided mat where the feast is held. Now a certain grand merchant ship once touched at Rokovoko, and its commander- from all accounts, a very stately punctilious gentleman, at least for a sea captain- this commander was invited to the wedding feast of Queequeg's sister, a pretty young princess just turned of ten. Well; when all the wedding guests were assembled at the bride's bamboo cottage, this Captain marches in, and being assigned the post of honor, placed himself over against the punchbowl, and between the High Priest and his majesty the King, Queequeg's father. Grace being said,- for those people have their grace as well as we- though Queequeg told me that unlike us, who at such times look downwards to our platters, they, on the contrary, copying the ducks, glance upwards to the great Giver of all feasts- Grace, I say, being said, the High Priest opens the banquet by the immemorial ceremony of the island; that is, dipping his consecrated and consecrating fingers into the bowl before the blessed beverage circulates. Seeing himself placed next the Priest, and noting the ceremony, and thinking himself- being Captain of a ship- as having plain precedence over a mere island King, especially in the King's own house- the Captain coolly proceeds to wash his hands in the punch bowl;- taking it I suppose for a huge finger-glass. "Now," said Queequeg, "what you tink now?- Didn't our people laugh?"

At last, passage paid, and luggage safe, we stood on board the schooner. Hoisting sail, it glided down the Acushnet river. On one side, New Bedford rose in terraces of streets, their ice-covered trees all glittering in the clear, cold air. Huge hills and mountains of casks on casks were piled upon her wharves, and side by side the world-wandering whale ships lay silent and safely moored at last; while from others came a sound of carpenters and coopers, with blended noises of fires and forges to melt the pitch, all betokening that new cruises were on the start; that one most perilous and long voyage ended, only begins a second; and a second ended, only begins a third, and so on, for ever and for aye. Such is the endlessness, yea, the intolerableness of all earthly effort.

Gaining the more open water, the bracing breeze waxed fresh; the little Moss tossed the quick foam from her bows, as a young colt his snortings. How I snuffed that Tartar air!- how I spurned that turnpike earth!- that common highway all over dented with the marks of slavish heels and hoofs; and turned me to admire the magnanimity of the sea which will permit no records.

At the same foam-fountain, Queequeg seemed to drink and reel with me. His dusky nostrils swelled apart; he showed his filed and pointed teeth. On, on we flew, and our offing gained, the Moss did homage to the blast; ducked and dived her bows as a slave before the Sultan. Sideways leaning, we sideways darted; every ropeyarn tingling like a wire; the two tall masts buckling like Indian canes in land tornadoes. So full of this reeling scene were we, as we stood by the plunging bowsprit, that for some time we did not notice the jeering glances of the passengers, a lubber-like assembly, who marvelled that two fellow beings should be so companionable; as though a white man were anything more dignified than a whitewashed negro. But there were some boobies and bumpkins there, who, by their intense greenness, must have come from the heart and centre of all verdure. Queequeg caught one of these young saplings mimicking him behind his back. I thought the bumpkin's hour of doom was come. Dropping his harpoon, the brawny savage caught him in his arms, and by an almost miraculous dexterity and strength, sent him high up bodily into the air; then slightly tapping his stern in mid-somerset, the fellow landed with bursting lungs upon his feet, while Queequeg, turning his back upon him, lighted his tomahawk pipe and passed it to me for a puff.

Ishmael and Queequeg, now the best of friends, are on their way, traveling through streets and down river to the sea.  The two friends are drunk on the salt air and the anticipation of their upcoming adventure.  Of course, Queequeg draws attention to himself, simply because of his appearance.  Yet, he will not put up with any shenanigans, as a good friend of mine often says.  Queequeg quickly puts the offender in his place.

Greetings from Hancock, Michigan.  I am here, close to the tip of the Upper Peninsula, to perform in a radio show this weekend.  I had made this commitment some time ago, before my father became so gravely ill this week.  I saw no reason to back out of the engagement.  My father would have understood.  Would have told me to go do my job.  That's the kind of guy he was.  If you promised to do something, you followed through on your promise.  He was always a man of his word.

It's odd to think that he is gone.  He was always a stabilizing influence in my life (sort of like Queequeg seems to be a stabilizing influence in Ishmael's life).  I may not have agreed with everything that he believed in--we got in quite a few arguments when I became an adult--but I think he respected me for standing up to him at times.  For being my own person, even if that person has never voted for a Republican candidate for President.  He allowed me to be an individual.

As I've said in an earlier post this week, my father didn't understand poetry, didn't know where this mutant poetry gene came from in my DNA.  He was a pragmatist.  He wanted me to learn the plumbing trade when I was younger, so that I would have something to fall back on.  I never fell back.  He watched me graduate from high school.  He watched me graduate from college (three times!).  He showed up at poetry readings, sat in the front row, and listened, with his eyes closed, so he could concentrate.

I think he was proud of me.  Last year, when I was nominated for Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula, he had my sister show him how to cast his vote for me on the computer.  The night that I was announced as the new Poet Laureate, he sat in his living room, watched me on television, and punched at the air with his arms when Donald Hall said my name, as if I had just knocked out the heavyweight boxing champion of the world.

My father was a small flint of a man, striking sparks out of life.  He sometimes enjoyed making people uncomfortable, and he was good at it.  He was no saint. That's for sure.  I never like the tendency to canonize a person after death, overlooking all the faults and flaws that made him human.  I think that's why people loved him.  He loved dirty jokes.  Swore like a whaler when he was working.  Was quite conservative.  Made Joseph McCarthy look like Che Guevara.  Voted for Donald Trump.  He was Ishmael sometimes.  Queequeg at other times.

And he was loved by a lot of people.

Saint Marty is thankful for his father's life, faults and all.