October 15, 2025: “The Promise,”. Anniversary Dinner, “Beaver Moon”

Greetings, faithful disciples!

No, I didn’t write a blog post yesterday, which was my 30th wedding anniversary.  “Why?” you may ask.  Because, my wife and I celebrated our three decades of matrimony tonight with an anniversary dinner.  (Last night, I hosted an event at the library, so we didn’t have time to raise a glass to our years of endurance.  Make no mistake—marriage is as much about enduring the storms as it is about making love on a Hawaiian beach.)

Sharon Olds writes about enduring love . . . 

The Promise

by: Sharon Olds

With the second drink, at the restaurant,
holding hands on the bare table,
we are at it again, renewing our promise
to kill each other. You are drinking gin,
night-blue juniper berry
dissolving in your body, I am drinking Fumé,
chewing its fragrant dirt and smoke, we are
taking on earth, we are part soil already,
and wherever we are, we are also in our
bed, fitted, naked, closely
along each other, half passed out,
after love, drifting back
and forth across the border of consciousness,
our bodies buoyant, clasped. Your hand
tightens on the table. You’re a little afraid
I’ll chicken out. What you do not want
is to lie in a hospital bed for a year
after a stroke, without being able
to think or die, you do not want
to be tied to a chair like your prim grandmother,
cursing. The room is dim around us,
ivory globes, pink curtains
bound at the waist—and outside,
a weightless, luminous, lifted-up
summer twilight. I tell you you do not
know me if you think I will not
kill you. Think how we have floated together
eye to eye, nipple to nipple,
sex to sex, the halves of a creature
drifting up to the lip of matter
and over it—you know me from the bright, blood-
flecked delivery room, if a lion
had you in its jaws I would attack it, if the ropes
binding your soul are your own wrists, I will cut them.

It’s a surprising confession on Olds’ part, but one that I completely understand.  Nobody wants to see someone they care about suffer.  So, the speaker of the poem promises to kill her lover if a lion has him in its jaws, metaphorically speaking.  

When my wife and I first started dating, I told her about my fears of growing old alone, with no one to hold my hand or put a damp cloth on my fevered forehead.  Her response was this:  “I’ll be there with you.  We will throw handfuls of peas at each other and have wheelchair races in the hallways.”. I think that pretty much counts as a promise to kill each other.

My wife and I went to our favorite Cajun restaurant tonight for our anniversary.  Our 17-year-old son came with us.  She and I both ordered seafood risotto, and our son got jambalaya.  (I also ordered a chocolate martini and a double gin and tonic.)  For appetizers, we got hush puppies and cheese grit cakes.  When the server came by to offer us dessert, we were all stuffed to the eyeballs.

I remember some things about the day we got married.  It was a cold and wet.  I’d traveled with a friend from Kalamazoo the day before, and autumn was in full bloom—orange and gold and crimson all the way.  After the reception, Brian (my best man) drove us to our hotel.  There was a basket of chocolates in the room, and a heart-shaped jacuzzi was right by the bed.  

Don’t worry, I’m not going to give you all the intimate details.  (If you want that kind of story, I check out Pornhub.)  What I want to tell you is that there was a moon that night.  It was waning gibbous, but still large and bright as a pearl.  And I felt like the luckiest person on the planet.

A lot of things have happened since that night.  Lots of waxing and waning.  And our love has survived all these storms and eclipses.  Thirty years’ worth.  We’ve hiked volcanos.  Seen lava pouring into the Pacific Ocean.  Met Alec Baldwin.  Saw Lily Tomlin on Broadway.  Voted for the first African American President of the United States.  Voted (TWICE!) against a man who wants to be the Adolf Hitler of North America.  Made it through a global pandemic.  Raised two wonderful kids.

But some things never change.  The moon is still rolling across the heavens.  The Simpsons is still on TV.  And my wife and I are still in love with each other.

Saint Marty has a moon poem for you tonight, based on the following prompt from October 1 of The Daily Poet:

You may have noticed the harvest moon of September, but October with its large O looks like a moon.  Write a poem about the moon using multiple O words.  Words with capital O’s look even better. Make a list of some words that begin with O and go go go.

Beaver Moon

by: Martin Achatz

November’s moon belongs to

the beaver, its “O” coasting

in pond and stream water

where that furred construction

worker has slapped and dammed

a home for himself, trapped

all that looming light so that

he can go for midnight 

glides through stars and comets,

become a constellation of tooth

and tail.  Tonight, I’ll stand

under the bowl of heaven, ogle

the bright lunar hole above,

imagine myself coasting with

the beaver through the black

current of night, our bodies

threaded, spooled with light.

March 10: "The Poet Compares Human Nature to the Ocean From Which We Came," Control Issues, Egotism

Mary Oliver reflects on human beings . . . 

The Poet Compares Human Nature to the Ocean From Which We Came

by:  Mary Oliver

The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth,

it can lie down like silk breathing

or toss havoc shoreward; it can give

gifts or withhold; it can rise, ebb, froth

like an incoming frenzy of fountains, or it can

sweet-talk entirely.  As I can too,

and so, no doubt, can you, and you.

Human beings sometimes flummox me.  In my various jobs--programming director for a library, college English professor, church organist, poetry workshop leader--I encounter all kinds of people.  And I'm part of two large, extended families, as well.  So, you can say that I get what Mary Oliver is saying here.  I've seen quite a bit in my life, from craziness to sweet-talk.

Yet, some aspects of human nature that I just don't get, no matter how many times I encounter them.  For instance, I don't understand individuals with control issues.  A person who literally has to control every aspect of every part of their lives (and everyone else's lives) is doomed to a life of unhappiness.  Because life and people are unpredictable.  So, either you can either enjoy life in all of its chaos, and love people in all their failings, or you can be absolutely miserable.  I prefer enjoyment and love over unhappiness and misery.

Another aspect of human nature that is beyond my comprehension:  egotism.  If someone has to provide a complete CV of accomplishments within the first five minutes of interacting with me, I will be quickly looking for the bar or hors d'oeuvres table.  I don't care if you received a $100,000 grant from the NEA, unless you're paying for dinner.  Don't regale me with tales of how you got drunk with Truman Capote at Studio 54.  I'll probably counter with how I met Alec Baldwin at the Met one day.  Humility is more interesting and attractive to me.  If you have to toot your own horn, please do so in another room (preferably in another house in another town).

If I sound slightly misanthropic, it's because I am.  At least tonight.  I've had a week where I've dealt with several difficult people, including today.  My response is always the same.  I patiently try to point out, in a gentle and kind way, the absurdity of overwrought emotional reactions to certain situations.  I try to pierce balloons of self-importance without causing another Hindenburg.  Sometimes, I'm successful.  Most of the time, however, I fail, because people don't like to be wrong (another aspect of human nature I loath).

The sad thing about people with these kinds of character traits is that they don't even realize how embarrassing their behaviors are.  Or they don't care, which is even worse.  I am so self-aware that it can be paralyzing at times.  But I prefer to go through life sensitive to the feelings of others rather than blindly oblivious.  Give me a healthy dose of compassion over a heaping helping of misplaced indignation or pride.

Saint Marty may have already used up all his people skills at the start of this weekend.

August 7: President of the Galaxy, Mackinaw City, Hope

Zaphod is still reminiscing about meeting a famous person . . .

"The captain was this really amazing guy, Yooden Vranx," said Zaphod.  "He gave us food, booze--stuff from really weird parts of the Galaxy--lots of conkers, of course, and we had just the most incredible time.  Then he teleported us back.  Into the maximum security wing of the Betelgeuse state prison.  He was a cool guy.  Went on to become President of the Galaxy."

Zaphod paused.

I have met some famous people in my lifetime.  On a vacation in New York, my family and I ran into Alec Baldwin.  He was filming near the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and we just happened to be eating some hot dogs in the same place.  I shook Kurt Vonnegut's hand.  Listened to N. Scott Momaday tell stories to a classroom full of undergrads.  Watched Gwendolyn Brooks be real cool not more than ten feet away from me.  I could go on.

The thing is, each one of those encounters reminded me of one thing--they are/were just regular people.  Alec Baldwin was sipping coffee.  Kurt Vonnegut looked old and bored and in need of a cigarette.  Momaday smelled like onions.  And Brooks looked like she was in need of a nap.  They were all amazingly . . . human.

Spent the day with my family touring Fort Michilimackinac in Mackinaw City.  It's a historic landmark from colonial times, much like Fort Mackinac on Mackinac Island.  There  are archaeological digs on the site, reenactments of musket firings.  My daughter and her boyfriend helped pull a canon out to Lake Michigan, where they loaded it with a gun powder charge and set it off. 

In the evening, we walked along the main drag of Mackinaw City and did all the tourist things.  Bought fudge and caramel corn and over-priced tourist crap.  Coffee mugs embossed with Shakespearean insults.  Tee shirts that changed color in sunlight.  Polished stones.  I talked my son out of a colonial pistol that I know would have ended up Goodwill fodder by Christmas. 

Now, considering my introduction to this post, you're probably expecting me to tell you that I ran into Jeff Daniels in Murdick's Fudge Shop or Bob Seger in the Popcorn Factory.  Although both of those celebrities are Michiganders, I did not run into anybody close to famous.  As far as I know, being the Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula, I was the only celebrity in town.  And nobody asked me for an autograph.  (Please read this paragraph with the appropriate dose of irony and self-deprecating humor.)

It was a wonderful day, despite a rather stressful supper at the local KFC.  The stress was the result of my son's ADHD medication wearing off and some over-cooked popcorn chicken and a mouthful of Mountain Dew.  The result, an ice cube fight and my ten-year-old son saying "Fuck!" loudly in a crowded restaurant. 

These last few days have provided me with something that I haven't felt in quite some time--hope.  That may be a dirty word to some people who see it as something empty, filled with nothing more than empty wishes or dreams.  Me?  I see hope as something that gives meaning when everything else seems meaningless.

So, tonight, I don't need Gwendolyn Brooks reciting poetry.  Or Kurt Vonnegut chain smoking in the backyard.  Tonight, I have hope that comes from firing a cannon across Lake Michigan.  From holding hands with my wife, walking down the path to a colonial fort.  From my son dropping f-bombs in the presence of Colonel Sanders.

Saint Marty will hold on to this hope, carry it home with him tomorrow, let it fill his days with light and joy.

April 18: Important People, Fame, Judith Minty, New Cartoon

Afternoons and evenings found Ramirez working in the Biltmore Men's Bar, a large mahogany-paneled room, with tulip-shaped fixtures, high gloomy windows, and many a dimly lit corner.  That important people came and went was indisputable, along the bar mirror rim and along the walls were various signed photographs:  Joe Dimaggio's, Douglas MacArthur's, Milton Berle's, Cesar Romero's, and Ronald Coleman's, to name a few that Ives wold remember.  There were others, but most of the autographs were carefully, if inexpensively, framed.  Some were just signatures, scribbled out on napkins or beer coasters.  Some with messages:  "Para Lius, con amistad, Ernest Hemingway," on a bar menu.

Famous people make cameo appearances in Ives' story.  Besides the ones mentioned above, Shelley Winters appears later.  Walt Disney shows up in the beginning pages.  And the ghost of Charles Dickens haunts the whole book.  They are not even secondary characters.  They appear, are mentioned in passing, and then fade into the background of Ives' grief.

I have had encounters with many famous people in my life.  Vincent Price.  Alec Baldwin.  Victor Borge.  Sharon Olds.  N. Scott Momaday.  John Cleese.  Like Ives, I can't say I had close relationships with any of these celebrities.  I spent a week in a poetry workshop with Olds, my longest brush with fame.  I had lunch with John Cleese.  Sort of.  I was eating lunch.  He was eating lunch at another table with his wife.  That counts, in my book.  I've got a picture with Baldwin outside the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.

All my life, I've wanted to be a famous writer.  When most kids my age dreamed of being in the NFL or on Happy Days, I dreamed of publishing contracts and book tours.  People lined up in book stores for my autograph.  That was my fantasy.  I know that marks me as a little strange.  But, I've always embraced strangeness.

I am not a famous person.  If I were, my poetry workshop next Tuesday would have been filled to capacity instead of being canceled due to poor enrollment.  And I would probably have a full-time teaching job at the university instead of being a contingent instructor.  Fame certainly has its benefits.

However, I, for the most part, have a pretty good life.  Good friends.  Great kids.  Beautiful wife.  Maybe some day I will write a book that brings pilgrims to my front door, begging for wisdom or a selfie with me.  If that ever happens, I will certainly have to move or buy an electrified security fence and trained attack Doberman.  Forgive me.  I have lapsed into fantasy again.

Judith Minty is a celebrity.  In Michigan, anyway.  In the Upper Peninsula.  On the Yellow Dog.

Saint Marty is a celebrity.  In his house.  In his living room.  On his couch.

9

All winter, my poems
were thin and icy, my head
filled with other people's words.
Those dark months, I lived
in the corners of failure.
Now, here by the river,
the hermit thrush opens his throat,
lines flow over the page, the afternoon sun
warms shoulders, my back
in its slow circle.

14

Those mice were too bold.
They ran right up to my chair,
across the sink.  They peered at me
from around pint cans on the shelf.
Last night, I set the traps,
then dreamed I skinned a fox
for the Cherokee woman downstate.
Today I unlock two frozen bodies, look away
from their surprised eyes, try to recall
that woman half-crazed by moonbeams.

16

This good French bread
from the Negaunee bakery
has lasted almost a week. 
I tear off a piece, then lather it
with butter.  I remember
she apologized it wasn't a long loaf.
No doubt, hearing my downstate accent,
she thought I meant to cut it with a knife.
How could she know my tongue
arched to thank her in the northland gutteral,
that I would kiss the bread before I ate it.

Confessions of Saint Marty

March 5: Gary Cooper, Alec Baldwin, Joan of Arc, Saint Colette

...The only way I could even half enjoy myself dragging her around was if I amused myself a little.  So I told her I just saw Gary Cooper, the movie star, on the other side of the floor.

"Where?" she asked me--excited as hell.  "Where?"

"Aw, you just missed him.  He just went out.  Why didn't you look when I told you?"

Holden is being a dick here.  He's met a group of girls in a hotel ballroom, and the girls are more interested in celebrity-gawking than dancing with him.  So, Holden, as usual, starts lying to them, claiming that Gary Cooper (not Elvis) is in the building.

I understand about being a starstruck.  The two times I've visited New York City, I spent a good deal of my time gazing at the crowds, waiting for Madonna or Sarah Jessica Parker to walk by me.  I did go to a taping of Live With Regis and Kelly.  I saw some member of the Temptation Island cast, a girl who dressed like a Vegas lap dancer.  I believe Bob Costas and Martin Short were also guests.  I went to Rockefeller Plaza to get on camera for the Today show.  Al Roker actually interviewed me on air two days in a row because I was holding my three-month-old daughter.  Al's a sucker for babies.  At Today, my wife and I got pictures with Martin Yan from the cooking show Yan Can Cook.  The highlight was running into Alec Baldwin at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Yes, my encounters with stars ran the gamut, from trashy reality TV star to A-list movie actor.  I would have irritated the hell out of Holden.  I'm not sure what it is about celebrities that excites me and the rest of the human race.  It doesn't matter who it is, either.  I could see Dan Rather or Meryl Streep walking down the street and get equally geeked for either of them.  (Clare Danes is a whole other issue and blog post.)  Fame is fascinating.

Tomorrow is the feast day of Saint Colette.  Colette interests me for one reason.  It's not because she joined the Franciscan Third Order when she was 17.  It's not because she established or renewed 17 convents and several friaries during her lifetime.  It's not because she miraculously received a relic from the cross during a Friday meditation.  Or because she was a visionary, once seeing "souls falling from grace in great numbers, like flakes in a snowstorm."  All that's interesting, I suppose.  However, in several accounts I've read of Colette's life, one detail stands out:  she may have been friends with Joan of Arc.  At the very least, Joan of Arc once passed through Moulins, France, and the convent where Collette lived.  Colette is famous by association.

Not that I think Colette rushed up to Joan's horse and begged her for an autograph.  Saints have this annoying habit of being unimpressed by things like celebrity.  They're more impressed with unimportant things like prayer and compassion and charity and good works.  Things that will never end up in the pages of People Magazine.

Rest assured, if Saint Marty had seen Joan of Arc passing by his house, he would at least have taken a picture with his iPad.

Joan of Arc's actual autograph