June 13: "Fay," Breath and Fury, ""Hail Mary Storm"

Billy Collins on meteorology . . . 

Fay

by: Billy Collins

never amounted

to a hurricane,

just a lot of rain

with a girl's name.

There's a joke told by Yoopers (people who grew up and/or live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan):  if you don't like the weather, just wait five minutes and it'll change.

Weather is very unreliable at my longitude and latitude.  I have seen forecasts go from snow flurries to blizzard warnings in the space of a few hours.  I call it the Lake Superior effect.  The big lake just has a mind of its own when it comes to atmosphere and temperament.

This afternoon, I was sitting in my office at the library (which is less than half a mile from the shores of Superior), engrossed in editing a podcast and finishing up a report.  Even though my desk is right by a window, I hadn't looked outside for a few hours.

Then I heard a sound like a semi-truck landing on the roof, and I looked up.  I could barely see across the street through the hail and rain.  The sky had gone ashy black, and the wind was tearing away at the trees.

I sat watching the storm until it lost its breath and fury.  Confession:  I love watching bad weather.  Lightning.  Gale-force winds.  Waves the size of freight cars.  Thunder snow.  Yoopers love this shit.  It's in our DNA.  Prick us, and we bleed winter.

Saint Marty still hasn't put his snow shovels away at home.  You never know.

Hail Marty Storm

by: Martin Achatz

Did Gabriel's greeting

sound like a million

bullets of ice shredding

the air with God's need

for her young body?

April 3: "The First Straw," Blizzard Warning, Yellow Snow

Billy Collins doesn't break camels' backs . . . 

The First Straw

by:  Billy Collins

The camel felt nothing

as it stood outside the tent,

its nose lifted in the desert air.

It has been a camel's back-breaking kind of day.  

I woke this morning to snow.  A lot of it.  And wind.  A lot of it.  And school closings (including the university).  A lot of them.  It wasn't a surprise.  The National Weather Service had given ample warning (from Winter Storm Watch to Winter Storm Warning to Blizzard Warning), so it's not like I was standing outside my house, nose lifted in the winter air, oblivious to the oncoming apocalypse. 

But yesterday, there was yellow-to-green grass all over, and spring seemed not a distant hope but a distinct possibility.  I could smell mud.  Always a good sign.  Now I'm staring at piles of plowed snow as tall as myself, and my body is sore from six or seven rounds with my shovel.  In short, I feel as if warmth and blossoms have flown to Walt Disney World for an extended vacation, and I'm left behind to clean things up.

That in itself feels like a last-straw moment, not a first-straw.

Spent the day working from home, answering emails, writing scripts, scheduling and rescheduling events.  All that in between taking my puppy out to bark at snow blowers and sniff around for those places where she's pissed.  (Don't eat yellow snow.)

It is almost 7 p.m. now.  The snow is still snowing, wind is still winding, and the National Weather Service has amended its predictions, calling for another nine inches of white by 8 a.m. tomorrow morning.  (I'm a little exhausted and am tempted to stand outside and go all ape-shit at the next plow that blasts by my driveway.)

Saint Marty's well of wisdom is dry tonight.  Snow in April just plain S-U-C-K-S.

January 12: "Last to Leave the Party," Blizzard Warning, Christmas Tree

Billy Collins is the . . . 

Last to Leave the Party

by:  Billy Collins

In your white dress

you revolved around me

like the moon

and like the earth

I was spinning,

titled back on my own axis.

I always find myself in a weird state around this time in January.  While other people have taken down their Christmas lights, stowed away their trees, and stopped watching Jimmy Stewart running down the streets in Bedford Falls in a snow storm, I stubbornly refuse to leave the party.

Yes, my Christmas tree is still the main source of illumination in my living room, and my front porch is the only one in the neighborhood still festooned with decorations and colored lights.  Perhaps people walk by my house at night and shake their heads, thinking me lazy.  Christmas is still revolving around me in its moon-white dress, and I'm still spinning on my yuletide axis, unwilling to change orbit.

Tonight, there is a blizzard warning from the National Weather Service in effect for my neck of the Upper Peninsula.  As with most warnings like this, the predictions are not incredibly specific.  Fourteen to 30 inches of snow.  Wind gusts of 35 to 50 miles per hour.  It could last until 7 p.m. tomorrow night, but there could be an additional six to 12 inches of lake effect snow into Sunday.

Having grown up and lived almost my whole life in the U. P. of Michigan, I'm used to these blizzard fetes that never seem to end.  Sort of like Christmas in my house, winter hangs around in its white dress, spinning and dazzling the trees and houses and streets, until well past the time the party is supposed to end.

Tonight, after having dinner with my kids, I headed out into the start of the blizzard to practice music for some church services I have to play this weekend.  The winds were just kicking into high gear, but the snow had already been coming down for a couple hours.  The streets were a little drifted.

First, I practiced at a Catholic church.  When I stepped inside, the thing I noticed immediately was the absence of Christmas decorations.  The manger and trees and wreaths had all been raptured into storage, and the flames of candles cast long, flickering shadows on the walls of the bare sanctuary.  The party was over.  I played through the music, and then I hopped in my car and drove to a Lutheran church.  The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the building?  All of the Christmas decorations had disappeared.  It looked . . . empty.  Sad.  The party was definitely over.  I practiced music and then drove home.

Now, I'm sitting on my couch, typing this post, listening to the blizzard rattle my windows.  My Christmas tree is the only light in the living room, and everyone else in the house has gone to bed.  It almost feels like December 24th instead of January 12th.  

Everyone else has strapped on their 2024 armor.  The upcoming presidential election year is going to be long and ugly, and I'm not looking forward to it at all.  I prefer silent nights to blizzards.

That's why, for a little while longer anyway, Saint Marty's going to hold onto the holidays and the hope that always accompanies them.

February 24: Bugblatter Beast of Traal, Blizzard Warning, Oscar Night

Arthur is learning about The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy:

"I'll show you how it works," said Ford.  He snatched it from Arthur, who was still holding it as if it were a two-week dead lark, and pulled it out of the cover.

"You press this button here, you see, and the screen lights up, giving you the index."

A screen, about three inches by four, lit up and characters began to flicker across the surface.

"You want to know about Vogons, so I entered that name so."  His fingers tapped some more keys.  "And there we are."  

The words Vogon Constructor Fleets flared in green across the screen.

Ford pressed a large red button at the bottom of the screen and words began to undulate across it.  At the same time, the book began to speak the entry as well in a still, quiet, measured voice.  This is what the book said:

"Vogon Constructor Fleets.  Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon:  forget it.  They are one of the most unpleasant races in the Galaxy--not actually evil, but bad-tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous.  They wouldn't even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled for firelighters.

"The best way to get a drink out of a Vogon is to stick your finger down his throat, and the best way to irritate him is to feed his grandmother to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.

"On no account allow a Vogon to read poetry at you."

Arthur blinked at it.

I must say that The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy sounds a lot like an iPhone, with Siri reading an entry on Vogons.  It has been kind of a crazy day.  Got up this morning to try to get my car shoveled out to go to church.  Didn't happen.  Too much snow, and the plows had come through.  There was a concrete wall of white blocking the entire street line of my property.  I spent 40 minutes digging, pushing, and digging some more.  Then I came back inside, checked my iPhone, and found out that the church services had been canceled for the day.

Not only that, but the Winter Storm Warning had also been canceled for my little corner of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, only to be replaced by a Blizzard Warning that is in effect until 1 a.m. tomorrow.

My son is doing a no-school dance.  My daughter and her boyfriend have been firmly ensconced upstairs in my daughter's bedroom all day, watching Netflix.  And I am sitting in my kitchen, listening to the wind rattle my windows and drive clouds of white powder into my backyard.

Earlier, my plow guy came through.  He dug us out.  I got my car stuck down the street.  (I was attempting to reach my mother's house to see if everybody was alright.  Didn't make it.)  With the help of my daughter, her boyfriend, my plow guy, and a helpful neighbor, I was able to push my way back up the street to my driveway.  Since that time, I haven't stepped foot outside.

UPDATE:  My kids just found out that school is canceled for tomorrow.,

Tonight, I will be watching the Academy Awards as my house gets buried in drifts of snow.  I'm supposed to work tomorrow.  I'm supposed to teach tomorrow.  (The university will not make an announcement about cancellation until the wee morning hours.)  Usually, on Oscar night, I get together with my family, eat snacks, order pizza, and have a little competition.  It's like New Year's Eve but without the horns and balloons.  That won't be happening this year.

Currently, I'm wondering what we're going to eat for dinner.  Old Father Hubbard's cupboard is pretty bare.  I have blueberries that I picked this summer.  There's eggs and milk.  Tonight's menu might consist of blueberry pancakes and omelets.

I hope all of my disciples are safe and warm tonight.  Stay off the roads.  Drink hot cocoa.  Watch a bunch of shallow people in Hollywood congratulate themselves on how wonderful they are.

That's what Saint Marty is going to do.