May 14: Much Faith, Almost Full, Tilting Toward Summer

The boy believes in Santiago . . . 

"Santiago," the boy said to him as they climbed the bank from where the skiff was hauled up. "I could go with you again. We've made some money."

The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him.

"No," the old man said. "You're with a lucky boat. Stay with them."

"But remember how you went eighty-seven days without fish and then we caught big ones every day for three weeks."

"I remember," the old man said. "I know you did not leave me because you doubted."

"It was papa made me leave. I am a boy and I must obey him."

"I know," the old man said. "It is quite normal."

"He hasn't much faith."

"No," the old man said. "But we have. Haven't we?"

"Yes," the boy said. "Can I offer you a beer on the Terrace and then we'll take the stuff home."

If you can't tell, I've gone back to the beginning of The Old Man and the Sea, the night before Santiago heads out by himself for his encounter with the big fish.  The boy is there, helping the old man.  They talk about keeping faith, even in the face of almost three months of bad luck.  

That's a pretty tall order.  It's difficult to remain hopeful when it seems like the world has turned against you.  I'm in Calumet, Michigan, at the moment.  Tomorrow night, I'm performing in a radio variety show.  Reading some poems.  Acting in some skits.  Sometimes, I sing  songs.  It's a nice break from the stress of these last couple weeks.

Looking out the window of my hotel room just now, I can see the moon.  It's full.  Or almost full.  It's one of those moons that is just about as round and bright as can be.  Tomorrow night, there's going to be a full lunar eclipse.  A blood moon.  By the time the eclipse begins, I'll be done performing and back at the hotel, probably soaking in the hot tub.

The world, at the moment, is tilting toward summer.  These last couple days, the temperatures have been hitting close to 90 degrees.  For mid-May in the U. P., that's pretty unusual.  Everything is turning green, and, when I step out my front door at night, I can hear the peepers screaming down by Lake Bacon a few blocks away.  Yes, even the frogs can sense the shift.

At the start of every summer, I make big plans.  Lists of books I'm going to read.  Writing projects I'm going to complete.  Places I'm going to visit.  This year isn't any different.  I have plans.  However, I'm not going to detail those plans here.  If I do that, I'm setting myself up for failure.  

Instead, I'll just revel tonight in the possibilities of summer this evening.  The long days.  Moony nights.  That end-of-schoolyear fever.  Something ending.  Something beginning.  I remember that anticipation.  Like standing in line in 1977 to see Star Wars: A New Hope for the first time.

That's enough for Saint Marty tonight.