When he returned to New York, in the early summer of that year, he came in a kind of triumph. He was beginning to be a successful artist. Long ago he had been elected to one of those more or less meaningless British societies, so that he could write F. R. B. A. after his name--which he never did--and I think he was already in Who's Who, although that was the kind of thing for which he had supreme contempt.
But now, what was far more useful to an artist, he had gained the attention and respect of such an important and venerable critic as Roger Fry, and the admiration of people who not only knew what a good painting was, but had some money with which to buy one.
As he landed in New York, he was a very different person--more different than I realized--from the man who had taken me to Bermuda two years before. All I noticed, at the moment, was the fact that he had a beard, to which I strenuously objected, being filled with the provincial snobbery so strong in children and adolescents.
"Are you going to shave it off now, or later?" I inquired, when we got to the house in Douglaston.
"I am not going to shave it off at all," said my father.
"That's crazy," I said. But he was not disturbed. He did shave it off, a couple years later, by which time I had got used to it.
However, he had something to tell me that upset my complacency far more than the beard. For by now, having become more or less acclimated to Douglaston, after the unusual experience of remaining some two years in the same place, I was glad to be there, and liked my friends, and liked to go swimming in the bay. I had been given a small camera with which I took pictures, which my uncle caused to be developed for me at the Pennsylvania Drug Store, in the city. I possessed a baseball bat with the word "Spalding" burnt on it in large letters. I thought maybe I would like to become a Boy Scout and, indeed, I had seen a great competition of Boy Scouts in the Flushing Armory, just next door to the Quaker meeting house where I had once got a glimpse of Dan Beard, with his beard.
My father said: "We are going to France."
"France!" I said in astonishment. Why should anybody want to go to France? I thought: which shows that I was a very stupid and ignorant child. But he persuaded me that he meant what he said. And when all my objections were useless, I burst into tears. Father was not at all unsympathetic about it. He kindly told me that I would be glad to be in France, when I got there, and gave me many reasons why it was a good idea. And finally he admitted that we would not start right away.
With this compromise I was temporarily comforted thinking perhaps the plan would be dropped after a while. But fortunately it was not. And on August the twenty-fifth of that year the game of Prisoner's Base began again, and we sailed for France. Although I did not know it, and it would not have interested me then, it was the Feast of St. Louis of France.
I sort of feel like Merton's father typing this post tonight. It has been a long time since I sat down with my laptop to record some thoughts. I'm sure some of you think that I have lost interest in blogging. I haven't. The problem I'm experiencing is one of adjustment. Since the new semester has begun, I have failed to establish a decent routine for myself, one in which I carve out time for writing. I've tried getting up early. Staying up late. Stealing some moments in the middle of the day. Nothing has really worked well .
Now, on top of everything else, I'm a little under the weather. The flu has been running rampant through my coworkers at the medical office, so I am a little anxious about this cold. I don't want it to develop into a full-blown case of leprosy. (My partners in the office are already sanitizing pens and phones and keyboards like the CDC in an Ebola zone.)
I sort of wish my situation was a little more like Owen Merton's. After many years of struggle, Owen returns home as a successful painter. He's able to support himself and his family with his art. I have not, and probably never will, be able to do that. Instead, I will work a series of part-time jobs until I retire, die, or have a stroke. With my luck, I'll probably die of a stroke on the day I retire at the age of 96. Not many jobs out there for full-time poets.
Tonight, I'm going to a poetry open mic. It's one of my favorite things to do every month. I'm surrounded by poet friends who appreciate what I do. Poetry rarely puts money in my pocket. In fact, when I go to poetry readings, I usually end up buying books with the money I have in my pockets. That's what poets do. We support each other, celebrate our successes, lend helping hands when necessary.
So, unless I find a rich patron, win the National Book Award or Pulitzer Prize, or inherit a large fortune from a distant rich relative, I will never be able to support my family with my art, like Owen Merton.
Instead, Saint Marty will cobble writing time from stolen minutes during the day, staying up late, getting up early, forgoing lunch or dinner, attending open mics. And, every once in a while, he'll get exhausted and a little sick.
