October 5: "The Golden Years," Saint Marty's Day, Tapioca Pudding

It is Saint Marty's Day.  Most feast days of Catholic saints are celebrated on the days of their deaths.  I believe the thinking is that the day a person is reunited with God is more important than the day a person is born.  Heavenly life more important than earthly life.

That may be true.  However, I doubt that the heavenly host bakes a cake, buys presents, and sings "Happy Birthday" on the day you die.  (On the other hand, I've never died, so I could be totally wrong.)  Sure, they did sing for Jesus on His birthday, but that was because they worked for His dad.  

As you get older, birthdays become less important.  I don't think I'm quite in my golden years yet, but I didn't mind that we had a belated family birthday party for my son this evening.  Of course, everyone who came to the celebration wished me a happy Saint Marty's Day, as well.  And a ton of my friends reached out to me via text, IM, and Facebook, wishing me glad tidings, too.

Billy Collins reflects on his drawn-out golden days . . . 

The Golden Years

by: Billy Collins

All I do these drawn-out days 

is sit in my kitchen at Pheasant Ridge 

where there are no pheasants to be seen 

and last time I looked, no ridge. 

I could drive over to Quail Falls 

and spend the day there playing bridge, 

but the lack of a falls and the absence of quail 

would only remind me of Pheasant Ridge. 

I know a widow at Fox Run 

and another with a condo at Smokey Ledge. 

One of them smokes, and neither can run,

so I’ll stick to the pledge I made to Midge. 

Who frightened the fox and bulldozed the ledge? 

I ask in my kitchen at Pheasant Ridge.

If you didn't realize it, the above poem is a sonnet.  Fourteen lines with a rhyme scheme (not quite Shakespearean, but close enough) and a concluding couplet.  I note this because Collins is using a very old form to write about his golden years, where nothing really lives up to its name.  Pheasant Ridge has no pheasants.  Quail Falls has no falls or quails.  There is no smoke on Smokey Ledge, and no foxes are running on Fox Run.  There ain't much gold in them golden years.  Just contradiction and disappointment.

However, I had a great Saint Marty's Day.  I took my puppy for several longs walks.  Celebrated my son's sixteenth trip around the sun.  Got some ice cream cake.  Heard from a lot of people I love.  If this is what my golden years are going to be like, I'll take it.

Now, all Saint Marty needs is some traditional, warm, fresh tapioca pudding.