March 22: The Fish Jumped, School Musical, Cult of Oprah

Santiago finally gets what he's been waiting for . . .

He woke with the jerk of his right fist coming up against his face and the line burning out through his right hand. He had no feeling of his left hand but he braked all he could with his right and the line rushed out. Finally his left hand found the line and he leaned back against the line and now it burned his back and his left hand, and his left hand was taking all the strain and cutting badly. He looked back at the coils of line and they were feeding smoothly. Just then the fish jumped making a great bursting of the ocean and then a heavy fall. Then he jumped again and again and the boat was going fast although line was still racing out and the old man was raising the strain to breaking point and raising it to breaking point again and again. He had been pulled down tight onto the bow and his face was in the cut slice of dolphin and he could not move.

This is what we waited for, he thought. So now let us take it.

Make him pay for the line, he thought. Make him pay for it.

He could not see the fish's jumps but only heard the breaking of the ocean and the heavy splash as he fell. The speed of the line was cutting his hands badly but he had always known this would happen and he tried to keep the cutting across the calloused parts and not let the line slip into the palm nor cut the fingers.

If the boy was here he would wet the coils of line, he thought. Yes. If the boy were here. If the boy were here.

Everyone has things they wait for.  Books from Amazon.  Birthdays.  Christmas time.  Summer vacation.  I do it all the time.  I try not to look too far into the future anymore, though, and I try to keep my list fairly small.  Large lists, with huge life goals, are for people who follow the cult of Oprah.  Me?  My list of things I'm waiting for includes pizza on Saturday night.  A nap.  A beer with a friend every week or so.  (Yes, I still dream about Pulitzer and Nobel Prizes, but I'm not going to commit to a time frame on those.)

Today, my son performed in his school musical.  Schoolhouse Rock.  He had one of the lead parts, and he was fantastic.  Animated and funny.  After the second performance, I spoke with the director who has been a friend of mine for over 25 years.  Without prompting, he started praising my son, saying something like, "This was a really good way to end my career."  (My friend is fully retiring at the end of this school year.)

So, there you have it.  That's my big fish jumping today.  My son, at a microphone in a spotlight, hamming it up.

Saint Marty has no idea where he gets that from.

And a Lenten poem . . . 

My Son’s Cars

by:  Martin Achatz

When I read to my son, he runs
From me, as if I’m a hungry lion,
He, a well-fed Christian condemned
By Nero. I have never played with green
Soldiers, refuse to buy toy guns or darts,
Still have my daughter’s old dolls
In the toy chest. My son obsesses over
Cars, matchbox tractors, helicopters tiny
As frogs. I don’t know where he learned
This hunger, if it somehow mutated
From some Neanderthal gene, hairy,
Full of mammoth hunts, stone wheels.
He sits on the floor, growls, makes sounds
Of rusty mufflers, truck engines stuck
In pools of swamp mud. I listen,
Watch him shove cars across hardwood,
Think of my father, the plumber, hunter,
Car guy, in the front row for Our Town
When I was in high school. He watched me
The way he watches the Super Bowl
Every year, as if his life depends on
His team bringing home the Vince Lombardi
Trophy. I took my bow, looked at my father,
Standing, clapping, maybe understanding
Thornton Wilder’s words about how
We all go through life, ignorant of
Toast mothers make for breakfast,
Grass fathers mow on summer nights,
Our daily acts of devotion, sacrifices
We make without even thinking.
I will sit in stadium bleachers
If my son joins the football team.
I will buy popcorn, cheer, stomp.
I will do this for him, not quite
Comprehending the rules of his game,
The mechanics of toy cars pushed
Straight through the walls of my heart.