June 3: Carried the Mast, Heck of a Day, Square Peg

Santiago gets ready to head out to sea . . . 

When they reached the old man's shack the boy took the rolls of line in the basket and the harpoon and gaff and the old man carried the mast with the furled sail on his shoulder.

"Do you want coffee?" the boy asked.

"We'll put the gear in the boat and then get some."

They had coffee from condensed milk cans at an early morning place that served fishermen.

"How did you sleep old man?" the boy asked. He was waking up now although it was still hard for him to leave his sleep.

"Very well, Manolin," the old man said. "I feel confident today."

"So do I," the boy said. "Now I must get your sardines and mine and your fresh baits. He brings our gear himself. He never wants anyone to carry anything."

"We're different," the old man said. "I let you carry things when you were five years old."

"I know it," the boy said. "I'll be right back. Have another coffee. We have credit here."

He walked off, bare-footed on the coral rocks, to the ice house where the baits were stored.

You kind of get the feeling that the old man has gone through this morning ritual with the boy many times.  There's something comforting in rituals, doing the same thing over and over in the same way.  

It has been a heck of a day.  I thought I knew what was going to happen.  Had prepared myself.  Things went quickly in the opposite direction this afternoon.  I'm not going to reveal the details in this post.  Let's just say that I'm picking up the pieces and trying to put Humpty together again.

There will be no reading between the lines with this post.  On this last day of my son's middle school education, nothing went the way I expected.  I love my son and will do anything to help him succeed.  That's my job.  It hasn't changed.  

But every day with my son is new.  Just when I think I have it all figured out, the rules change.  No rituals exist, aside for breakfast (Pop-Tarts and Diet Mountain Dew).  For a person who craves sameness, I find this ever-shifting ground uncomfortable.

It's been like that since he started kindergarten.  Looking at poems I've written about him over the years, I now recognize this.  My son has never been typical.  This will serve him well later in life, I think, but it's rough at the moment.  If a child doesn't fit into a certain mold, schools simply try to make the child fit.  Hit the square peg hard enough with a hammer until it goes through the round hole.  

Loving my square peg tonight.  Wishing he was just a little rounder.

Saint Marty wrote this poem when his son was in kindergarten:

Orange Day

by:  Martin Achatz

My son had an orange day
in kindergarten, stuck crayons
in his ears, red in his left,
yellow in his right. Chased
kids at morning recess,
tried to lick them, his tongue
a pink bullet in the barrel
of his mouth. Sat under his desk,
screamed like a peacock at dusk,
roosted in dogwood above Georgia
clay, while his classmates practiced
their numbers: 1, 2, 3, 4, up to 100.
Took off his shoes, socks, spread
his monkey toes, picked up
a brush with them, painted
water lilies in a pond on the floor
where sunlight sparked purple,
pink. Chewed his mac and cheese
at lunch to orange glue, spat it
on the table, made a map of Hannibal's
journey over the Alps, raisin
elephants on the highest peaks.
Beat plastic drums in music class,
refused to make that damn spider
climb the water spout, instead
played Ligeti's Atmospheres,
moonrise over the monolith
of his chimpanzee heart.
His teacher calls me at night, says
she's at a loss with my son,
doesn't know what to do
with his untamed ways.
I want to tell her it's all about
evolution, that he's learning
how to walk upright, hunt
through pinecone and maple
for blueberries, slabs of bloody
venison. Give him time, I want
to say. To learn the agriculture
of her classroom, its fields, furrows,
seasons of alphabet, trapezoid,
computer and gym. In this epoch,
he won't be caught in tar lakes
underneath asteroid rain. He will
survive, become a new link.
Homo kindergartenus. Note
the wide scoop of his skull to accommodate
all he will know by year's end.
His cave drawings hang on our fridge.
Concentric orange circles, bull's-eyes.
"See," my son points, "this is King
Pumpkin. He's bigger and oranger
than the rest." I stare at his paintings,
feel the planet skip, stars reorganize,
something end, something begin.
The dawning of a new age.
Tonight, I'll pack his lunch,
for another orange day.
Apple juice, carrot sticks,
maybe a grilled cheese sandwich.
It's supposed to rain tomorrow,
enough to make the mastodons
hunker down in the woods,
orange hair slick with mud, moss.
Maybe my son will find
them there, in the trees
behind the playground. He'll climb
into their orange center where all
he can hear is breaths.
Deep, orange breaths.
He'll skip school. Stay there
for the rest of the day.
Happy. Wild. Orange.