November 9: "Lakeside," Wittgenstein, Rabbit or Duck

I know y'all are getting tired of me losing my mind over the presidential election.  I'm going to try to avoid any politically-charged talk in this post.

Billy Collins does Wittgenstein . . .

Lakeside

by: Billy Collins

As optical illusions go
it was one of the more spectacular,
a cluster of bright stars
appearing to move across the night sky
as if on a secret mission

while, of course, it was the low clouds
that were doing the moving,
scattered over my head by a wind from the east.
And as hard as I looked
I could not get the stars to budge again.

It was like the curious figure
of the duck/rabbit –
even paradoxical Wittgenstein
could not find his way back to the rabbit
once he had beheld the bill of the duck.

But which was which?
Were the stars the rabbit
and the blown clouds the duck?
or the other way around?
You’re being ridiculous,

I said to myself,
on the walk back to the house
but then the correct answer struck me
not like a bolt of lightning,
but more like a heavy bolt of cloth.

What Collins is referring to is a picture--depending how you look at it, it could be a rabbit or a duck.  Using this picture as an example, the philosopher Wittgenstein said that objects just don't appear to our senses (it's not that direct).  Rather, objects are "seen as" something.  So, the same picture can be perceived as a rabbit or the bill of a duck, depending on who's looking at it.

This evening, my wife and I decorated our front porch for Christmas.  It was my wife's turn to pick the theme, and she chose blue Christmas.  Now, I know you all know the classic Christmas song "Blue Christmas" as sung by Elvis Presley.  Some people walking by our house, seeing the blue lights and blue ornaments, will immediately think of Elvis's yuletide tune.  And that's okay.

Other people passing by our house, spying the predominance of blue illumination and garland and balls, may think it's a form of political protest.  (There's not even a hint of red--or orange--anywhere on our porch.)  And that's okay, too.

It's all in the eye of the beholder.  Rabbit/Elvis or duck/democracy.

Saint Marty doesn't care which you see.

November 26-27: Difficult Time for All Fish, Christmas Decorations, Hope and Love

Santiago thinks about sunset and fish . . . 

"He hasn't changed at all," he said. But watching the movement of the water against his hand he noted that it was perceptibly slower.

"I'll lash the two oars together across the stern and that will slow him in the night," he said. "He's good for the night and so am I."

It would be better to gut the dolphin a little later to save the blood in the meat, he thought. I can do that a little later and lash the oars to make a drag at the same time. I had better keep the fish quiet now and not disturb him too much at sunset. The setting of the sun is a difficult time for all fish.

He let his hand dry in the air then grasped the line with it and eased himself as much as he could and allowed himself to be pulled forward against the wood so that the boat took the strain as much, or more, than he did.

Santiago knows he's in for the fight of his life against the fish, and he's preparing for it.  Trying to conserve as much of his strength as he can.  Yet, the old man still thinks of the fish with compassion, doesn't want to disturb it as night falls.  Because, through experience, he knows that dusk is a "difficult time for all fish."

Yesterday, I put up the Christmas decorations at my parents' house for my sisters.  It was difficult at the beginning.  I have a sister whose holiday spirit is a dull ember that needs kindling.  Every year, I go through the ritual of her refusing to put up decorations and me doing my best Spirit of Christmas Present act.

The Christmas tree and lights always go up.  In good years, it's taxing to stage this little production of A Christmas Carol with my sister.  This year, with my own brand of sadness, it was absolutely exhausting.  I try to maintain a level of compassion and understanding with my sister.  I know she has her own struggles, and her Ebenezer Scrooging has little to do with me or Christmas.  

As I sit typing this blog post, the Christmas tree is glowing in the corner of my living room.  I can see ornaments my son and daughter made in grade school.  A delicate pair of china ballet shoes that were a wedding present.  A felt ornament of a cardinal that a good friend made for me the year my mother died.  There's so much of the history of my family and life sitting in those branches.

Christmas is a difficult time for a lot of people.  I understand that.  My parents loved Christmas.  My dad would sit in his chair on the day I decorated the tree and thank me over and over.  When she was alive, my sister, Sally, was the embodiment of Christmas.  She loved everything about it--the decorations, Black Friday, gift wrapping, Christmas baking.  My sister, Rose, had Down syndrome.  She wrote a letter to Santa Claus every year and was thrilled when Santa ate the cookies and left a note for her.  

That's why I put up the tree at my parents' house despite my sister's bah humbugginess.  And despite my own struggles with darkness this year.  We all face difficult sunset times in our lives.  A little extra light in the corner of the room is a good reminder that hope and love are still alive.

Saint Marty gives thanks for Christmas decorations today.

February 26: Uncramped, Day-to-Day, Pain of Grief

Santiago works through his pain . . . 

He settled comfortably against the wood and took his suffering as it came and the fish swam steadily and the boat moved slowly through the dark water. There was a small sea rising with the wind coming up from the east and at noon the old man's left hand was uncramped.

I understand Santiago here.  He remains focused and resolute, despite the aches and cramps of his protesting body.  So much of life is like that.  Working through all the roadblocks until you reach your destination.  Sometimes, those roadblocks are tiny--a cramp in a hand.  And sometimes, they're huge--the death of a loved one.

Since my sister's funeral at the beginning of the month, I have found myself, at times, struggling with day-to-day obligations.  Yes, I've kept my head above water, but I feel as though I've been treading water a lot of the time.  Often, when I get home, I'm too exhausted to think of doing anything but going to sleep.

I'm not sure how much of this struggle is mental and how much is physical.  Certainly, I'm still working my way through the grieving process.  I can go for days without feeling sad, but then I find myself weeping in my car at a traffic light.  But I've also noticed that, since having COVID back at the beginning of January, my body simply doesn't want to function much past 8:30 p.m.   

So, if you are a friend of mine, and feel as if I've been distant or uncommunicative, I apologize.  If you've sent me a text or email, and it's taken me two days to respond to it, I am not ignoring you.  I just find myself a little . . . paralyzed at times.  Or asleep.

I think there's a perception in society at large that, once the funeral is over and leftovers from the wake are eaten, you must rejoin life fully, without missing a beat.  Doing anything less than that is considered a weakness.  Like you're wallowing in self-pity.  (Think Cher in Moonstruck, slapping Nicolas Cage in the face and shouting, "Snap out of it!")

I am here to tell you that it's not that easy.  On top of that, I'm a poet, and poets tend to obsess.  We do things like write entire books about a single mushroom.  At the moment, my obsession is a little existential.  Doing the tally, since 2014, I have lost three siblings and both of my parents.  Mortality has, more or less, been my constant companion for close to eight years now.

It is Saturday night.  Everyone else in my family is asleep.  I am sitting on the couch in my living room, staring at the lights on my Christmas tree.  (The fact that my Christmas tree is still up is not due to my current state of mind.  I often leave my Christmas decorations up for a long while.  They make me happy.  Remind me of my mom's holiday hams and family gettogethers  at my Grandma Hainley's house.)  I am thinking of my sister Rose.  And my mom and dad.  My sister Sally and brother Kevin.  All gone now.

British psychiatrist Colin Murray Parkes said, "The pain of grief is just as much a part of life as the joy of love; it is, perhaps, the price we pay for love, the cost of commitment."

Saint Marty will add to that statement:  the price of grief is sometimes exhaustion.

April 4: Easter Sunday, Chocolate for Breakfast, "Easter Bread"

Here we are.  Easter Sunday.  Actually, Easter Sunday night.  

My twelve-year-old son woke us up early this morning, sneaking into our bedroom and whispering, "Happy Easter!"  I love the fact that he still gets excited about Easter baskets and is sort of on the fence when it comes to the Easter Bunny.  He doesn't take any chances.

So, we had chocolate for breakfast.  Of course.  What else would you eat on Easter morning?  Then an Easter egg hunt.

After that, we put on our Easter bonnets and went to my wife's church.  The whole family.  I think that it was the first time we have all been together at a worship service since the pandemic began.  Christmas time, we were under quarantine.  So, it was kind of a miraculous moment, sitting in a pew with my wife and kids.  (Disclaimer:  we attended the service because the church practices social distancing and requires facemasks and does contact tracing.  I am still very aware that we are in the MIDDLE of a pandemic, not at the tail end or out of a pandemic.)

Lunch at my family's house.  Ham and cheese and Easter eggs and homemade Easter bread (the kind my mother used to make).  And a long visit with my sisters.  We haven't really been together since Thanksgiving, when I helped them put up their Christmas decorations.  My sister, Rose, who has Down syndrome, is very confused all the time now.  She suffers petit mal seizures every morning.  There's no way to control them, and they have really affected her physically and mentally.  I'm not really sure if she even knew who I was.

She smiles all the time.  Is happy all the time.  That was good to see.  Another Easter miracle.

I ended the evening watching O Brother, Where Out There?  Haven't seen that movie in years.  I had forgotten how wonderful it was.  The Coen brothers, George Clooney, and Homer.  Three more Easter miracles.

Now, I'm thinking about the chaos of the coming week.  Trying to prepare for it in my head.  Lots of work ahead in the next five days.

The tomb is open and empty.  Light has returned.  There's ham and Easter bread in the fridge.

And Saint Marty got to hug his sister Rose today.

An Easter poem . . . 

Easter Bread

Easter Sunday

by:  Martin Achatz

My mother made it on Holy Saturday
In her bowl as green as Easter grass.
She'd mix water, salt, sugar, flour,
Shortening and yeast, fold it
With her hands, over and over,
Until dough took shape, white
As my winter skin. Then she kneaded,
Pushed and pounded, picked it up,
Slammed it down on the kitchen table,
Made the room shake with violence,
Sounds like sledges and spikes,
Holy, Easter sounds. After she was done,
My mother left the bowl on the counter,
Draped with a towel. She waited
For the dough to leaven, the yeast
To work like prayer, make the dough
Rise higher and higher, swell, stretch
Like a pregnant womb. My mother
Returned, kneaded, punched
It into submission, broke
Its will, began the process anew.
As night fell, the dough rose and rose.
Some time after I went to bed,
My mother sliced loaves, and baked.
On Easter morning, I woke

To the aroma of fresh bread.
Resurrection, sweet and warm
As the wren.

November 4: Preparing, Mary Oliver, "Making the House Ready for the Lord"

I have a lot of preparing to do today.  Tomorrow night, my book club is coming to my house.  So, today, I have a lot of cleaning to do.  Clean the bathroom.  Fold and put away clothes.  Sweep and mop the floors.  Dust.  Make everything smell like lemon.

Then I have to take down Halloween decorations, put up Christmas decorations.  Out with the cobwebs.  In with the tinsel and garland.  It makes me tired just thinking about it.

I will have help.  My wife and daughter and daughter's boyfriend.  If we all pitch in, it will only take a few hours.  If I have to poke, prod, cajole, and yell, it will take forever.

Saint Marty is trying to make his house ready.

Making the House Ready for the Lord

by:  Mary Oliver

Dear Lord, I have swept and I have washed but
     still nothing is as shining as it should be
for you.  Under the sink, for example, is an
     uproar of mice--it is the season of their
many children.  What shall I do?  And under the eaves
     and through the walls the squirrels
have gnawed their ragged entrances--but it is the season
     when they need shelter, so what shall I do?  And
the raccoon limps into the kitchen and opens the cupboard
     while the dog snores, the cat hugs the pillow;
what shall I do?  Beautiful is the new snow falling
     in the yard and the fox who is staring boldly
up the path, to the door.  And still I believe you will
     come, Lord:  you will, when I speak to the fox,
the sparrow, the lost dog, the shivering sea-goose, know
     that really I am speaking to you whenever I say,
as I do all morning and afternoon:  Come in, Come in.

November 22: Ravioli, Robin Williams, Classic Saint Marty, Confessions of Saint Marty

Dinner at my parents' house tonight.  Ravioli.  I can feel the heat from the water on the stove.  Dead Poets Society is on the television--one of my favorite movies.  Pretty soon, we will be eating.

I don't have much more to say about today.  I spent most of the afternoon putting up Christmas decorations at church.  Up and down ladders and stairs.  Stringing garland and lights.  Hanging ornaments.  As usual, most church members left before the work began, so the bulk of the decking of the halls fell upon the usual suspects, die-hard parishioners with a sense of duty.

Tonight, I will watch a holiday baking competition on the Food Network.  My wife and daughter will join me, and we will yell at the TV and make fun of the contestants.  It's my household's version of watching Sunday Night Football, except with buttercream frosting and fondant.

Tonight, I am thankful for Christmas decorations.  Die-hard parishioners.  Ravioli.  Robin Williams.

And I'm thankful for an episode of Classic Saint Marty that aired exactly one year ago. 

November 22, 2014:  The Big Christmas Tree, Decorating Weekend, Fairy Tale

While I was walking, I passed these two guys that were unloading this big Christmas tree off a truck.  One guy kept saying to the other guy, "Hold the sonuvabitch up!  Hold it up, for Chrissake!"  It certainly was a gorgeous way to talk about a Christmas tree...

Most people forget that Catcher is a Christmas book.  It's the end of the semester at Pencey Prep.  Christmas break is starting.  Holden's sister, Phoebe, is in a Christmas play called A Christmas Pageant for Americans.  And Holden borrows Phoebe's Christmas money at the end of the novel.  Not to mention the little Christmas tree scene above.


It's going to be a weekend of Christmas decorating for me.  Tomorrow, I'm in charge of decorating at my wife's church.  Tomorrow night, I'm putting up our Christmas tree at home.  On Monday morning, I'm finishing my decorating at work.  Then I will be D-O-N-E with decking the halls.

I prefer to have all that busy Christmas work finished before Thanksgiving.  There's less pressure the rest of the holiday season then.  I can actually sit back with a cup of eggnog and relax some evenings.  Of course, there's shopping to do, presents to wrap, cookies to bake.  All that yuletide crap.  But the big part, for me, has already been completed.

Which reminds me, I went to the radio station this afternoon and recorded my Christmas essay.  That's another big cookie off my Christmas plate.  Now, I can concentrate on one of the things I love doing the most this time of year:  writing my Christmas poem.  I started it a while ago (back in August).  It's a matter of going back and reworking, revising, possibly throwing stuff out or starting over.  Whatever it takes.  I love the writing process, no matter how crazy it makes me.

Which reminds me of a little story...

Once upon a time, an elf named Holden lived at the North Pole with his parents.  Ever since he was a small elf...Well, all elves are small, but young elves are so small they sometimes get mistaken for animal crackers by Santa's reindeer.

Anyway, ever since Holden was young, his parents groomed him to be a part of Santa's toy team, which is the most important job in all of North Poledom, next to driving the sleigh and delivering the presents.  But Holden had no interest in making toys.  In fact, he wasn't very good with his hands.  He couldn't even pound in a nail without bending it sideways.

What Holden wanted to do, more than anything else, was be a Christmas poet, but his parents wouldn't even let him talk to Santa about such a job.

"If you mention this poet thing to Mr. Claus," his father fumed, "I will be kicked out of the elf union and lose my seniority and pension."

"Not to mention what all the other elf mothers would say to me if my son turned into a poet," his mother said.  "Why couldn't you have been gay?"

Holden went to toy school.  He learned how to make toy cars and toy kitchens.  He studied how to create apps for iPhones. But, at night, after his parents went to bed, Holden sat in his bedroom, writing elf sonnets and elf haiku.

Finally, one day, Holden worked up the courage to approach Santa.  "Please, sir," Holden stammered.  "I don't want to be a toy elf.  My dream is to be the first poet laureate of the North Pole."

Santa looked down at Holden, with a twinkle in his blue eyes.  "Ho, ho, ho," Saint Nicholas chuckled, "you've got to be joking.  Get back to work, or I'll have you shoveling reindeer crap for the rest of your life."

Dejected, Holden went back to toy school, graduated near the bottom of his class, and went to work in Santa's toy sweatshop, making knock-off iPads and Kindles.  Holden never wrote another poem.

Moral of the story:  Santa Claus is kind of an asshole.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Confessions of Saint Marty

November 8: Ten Below Zero, Galway Kinnell, "The Man Splitting Wood in the Daybreak," New Cartoon

After Christmas the thermometer dropped to ten below zero.  Cold settled on the world.  The pasture was bleak and frozen.  The cows stayed in the barn all the time now, except on sunny mornings when they went out and stood in the barnyard in the lee of the straw pile.  The sheep stayed near the barn, too, for protection.  When they were thirsty they ate snow.  The geese hung around the barnyard the way boys hang around a drug store, and Mr. Zuckerman fed them corn and turnips to keep them cheerful.

Yes, when the weather turns cold on the Zuckerman farm, the animals basically do what humans do:  nothing.  They stay inside, where it's warm and safe, venturing outside only when necessary.  To drink water or add to the fertilizer pile, if you know what I mean.

It's been pretty cold today.  Windy and snowy.  There's a couple of inches on the ground now, and there's a winter storm watch in effect for Monday night into Tuesday.  Six inches on the way.  I am not down with winter yet.  I'm still in autumn mode.  Give me piles of leaves, not snow.  At least until after Thanksgiving.

I spent the evening putting up Christmas decorations with my daughter.  Our tree is glowing in the corner of the living room, and our front porch is decked out with candy canes.  Tomorrow night, we will put the garland and decorations on the tree.  Soon, our neighbors will follow suit.  In a couple of weeks, there will be lights up and down our street.  But we were the first.  Not that it's a competition or anything.

I'm beginning to feel old.  I used to love the dark and cold of this time of year.  Not any more.  I prefer July with its mosquitoes and warmth.  I understand the old people who head south in November.  I hate to admit it, but I have reached middle age.  Actually, I surpassed middle age a couple of years ago.  I'm sliding toward old age.  I can barely stay awake for the ten o'clock news.

That's what today's poem from Galway Kinnell is about:  feeling your age.  Realizing you aren't as strong or healthy as you used to be.  You can't shovel snow as fast.  You can't stay up as late.  You look forward to naps.  And you worry about retirement accounts and Social Security.

Saint Marty even watched the Weather Channel for pleasure.

The Man Splitting Wood in the Daybreak

by:  Galway Kinnell

The man splitting wood in the daybreak
looks strong, as though, if one weakened,
one could turn to him and he would help.
Gus Newland was strong. When he split wood
he struck hard, flashing the bright steel
through the air so hard the hard maple
leapt apart, as it's feared marriages will do
in countries reluctant to permit divorce,
and even willow, which, though stacked
to dry a full year, on being split
actually weeps—totem wood, therefore,
to the married-until-death—sunders
with many little lip-wetting gasp-noises.
But Gus is dead. We could turn to our fathers,
but they help us only by the unperplexed
looking-back of the numerals cut into headstones.
Or to our mothers, whose love, so devastated,
can't, even in spring, break through the hard earth.
Our spouses weaken at the same rate we do.
We have to hold our children up to lean on them.
Everyone who could help goes or hasn't arrived.
What about the man splitting wood in the daybreak,
who looked strong? That was years ago. That was me.

Confessions of Saint Marty

November 4: Therapy, Decorating, and Magic 8-Ball

I had a therapy appointment this afternoon.  The therapist is a good friend of mine.  We've known each other for many years, and she's seen me through some pretty tough times.  And she doesn't mind telling me, in a very professional way, when I'm full of shit.

She didn't have to say that to me today.  Mostly we talked about jobs and money.  When I start panicking about bills and past due notices and whatnot, my friend has a way of reeling me back from the stratosphere of oblivion.  She offers common sense advice and poses some difficult questions.  But I always leave my sessions with her feeling calmer, more in control.

I spent a portion of this morning putting up Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations at the medical office where I work.  It's one of the few duties in the place that I thoroughly enjoy.  This year, I'm including some of my poems in the displays, so I'm really excited about it.  I'm sure nobody is going to take the time to read the poems, but my poetry will be there.  That makes me happy for some reason that I can't explain.  It's like seeing my book of poems on the shelf in a bookstore.  Even though nobody is going to buy it, there's the possibility that someone will.  There's hope.

This evening, my Magic 8-Ball question is about finances:

Will my financial situation improve in 2014?

And the answer from that guru of positivity, Holden Caulfield, is:

"I'm sorry, sir, but we have our--"

Well, that's a pretty clear answer.  My therapist friend wouldn't put much stock in it.  Her bullshit detector would be going off.  I mean, all I did was ask the question, flip through my copy of The Catcher in the Rye, and stick my finger on a page.  It's not a message from God or anything.


Saint Marty needs a better Magic 8-Ball book next year.

No bullshit this afternoon for me

October 31: Rain Like a Bastard, Happy Halloween, Tricks and Treats

Boy, it began to rain like a bastard.  In buckets, I swear to God...

As Holden says above, it's raining like a bastard right now.  It's around 9:30 p.m. on Halloween night.  It has been a long day of holiday festivities.  Costume parades.  Tricks and treats.  Ferrying my kids from one friend's house to another friend's house.  My son was so tired that I had to carry him from my car to the house.  My daughter, remarkably, had an unmoody day.  No surprise tantrums.  No whining and crying at bedtime.  When we got home, she watched the Great Pumpkin and Charlie Brown.  Then she took a shower and went to bed.  No drama, whatsoever.

Me, I'm sitting in my living room, listening to the rain on the window behind me.  I'm beat.  I'm ready for this day to be over and for things to return to normal.  I'm also ready to raid my kids' Halloween candy in search of a Milky Way.

Tomorrow is the first day of November.  Thanksgiving month.  On Saturday, I'm going to clean out my front porch and put up my Christmas decorations.  That's right, I said Christmas.  I don't believe in waiting until the last minute.  In fact, my goal is to be the first person on our street ready for Christmas, inside and out.

Saint Marty isn't competitive.  He just loves making his neighbors feel inadequate.

My two little ghosts

October 29: Fairly Christmasy, Season of Joy, Holiday Prayer

It was Monday and all, and pretty near Christmas, and all the stores were open.  So it wasn't too bad walking on Fifth Avenue.  It was fairly Christmasy.  All those scraggy-looking Santa Clauses were standing on corners ringing those bells, and the Salvation Army girls, the ones that don't wear any lipstick or anything, were ringing bells too...

Most people forget that Catcher is a Christmas book.  It takes place just a few days before the holiday.  Holden talks about Christmas trees and Christmas shopping and Christmas "dough" quite a few times.  Perhaps the time of year has a lot to do with his breakdown.  After all, Christmas is not all "tidings of comfort and joy."  For some people, it's tidings of darkness and depression.

As I was driving home this evening, I noticed that the city workers had hung the Christmas decorations on the streetlight posts.  That's right, two days before Halloween and my little hamlet is ready for the yuletide season already.

I have always loved Christmas.  I love its light and spirit of love, generosity.  In particular, I love Christmas shopping, finding the perfect gift for loved ones.  As a parent, I love seeing my kids' faces on Christmas morning when they open their presents.  I love the surprise, followed by sheer joy.  I know the meaning of Christmas.  I know it's not about presents or gifts.  But...I really like being able to give people what they want.

Seeing those Christmas decorations on the streetlights tonight kind of depressed me.  I know I'm not going to able to be extravagant this holiday season.  My daughter wants an iPhone like crazy.  My son wants some new kind of computer tablet for kids.  My wife has a ring I gave her on our wedding night that needs to be repaired.  All of those things are out of reach for me.

It's not going to be a season of joy this year, and I can't do anything about it, aside from...say a prayer, I guess.

Dear Big Guy in the sky,

It's me.  I know You're probably tired of hearing from me.  Sorry about that.  I'm writing to ask You to help me this Christmas season.  I don't know what kind of help I need.  You do.  Therefore, I'm going to have to simply...trust You, I guess.

I love my kids.  I love my family.  I love my friends.  Help me to find a way to express my love this Christmas.  Somehow.

Oh, and while I have Your ear, if you could send us some good weather this Thursday for trick-or-treating, that would be great.

Your loving child,

Saint Marty

Can't we just move from Halloween to New Year's?

January 20 (Sort of): Sick Kid, Sick Dad, Christmas Decorations, New Cartoon

Sorry it's been so long since I blogged.  Saturday night, my son woke up vomiting.  He threw up all night long.  So, being a good father, I stayed up with him, rubbing his back as he heaved into a bucket, washing my hands with antibacterial soap about 513 times.

Well, despite my best efforts, I wasn't able to avoid catching my son's crud.  By about two o'clock yesterday afternoon, I could feel my stomach turning in strange ways.  I went to bed very early, for me, last night (7 p.m.).

I had every intention of writing a wonderful post about how much I love Christmas decorations, how much they make me feel warm and safe on very cold days and nights.  (If you're wondering, my Christmas decorations are still up at my house.)  However, my stomach and bowels got the best of me last night.

Saint Marty is going to eat of bowl of chicken noodle soup now.

Confessions of Saint Marty

December 26: One Vote and Counting...

So, The Catcher in the Rye has received one vote.  That's one more vote than I thought I'd receive on any book.  It looks like Holden Caulfield is in the lead at the moment.  Other authors have five more days  to beat Mr. Salinger.

It was tough getting back to work today.  I'd like to say I enjoyed myself.  That it was easy.  However, after being on vacation for four days, it wasn't quite like riding a bicycle.  It was more like strapping on roller blades for the first time in my life and rolling down a street in San Francisco into the Bay.  Tomorrow's going to be hideous.  I have to take the Christmas decorations down because I will be on vacation for the next two weeks, and nobody else in the office will do it.  It's going to be really depressing.

So, let Saint Marty sum things up:  J. D. Salinger--one, Christmas Decorations--zero.

They're coming down tomorrow

December 7: Good Grief

One final exam down.  One final to go.

It's been a fairly good day, but for some reason, my mood has suddenly taken a nose dive, and I'm feeling quite angry/annoyed/grumpy.  I wish I could say I've been in a good mood all day, but it just doesn't seem possible at the moment.

It's not helping things that there are very small children right now in the medical office, and their parents are letting them play with my really expensive Christmas decorations.  I just don't get people sometimes.  These stupid men and women think that, because they are in a public office, they can let their little kids touch and fondle anything at their height.  I have signs posted everywhere that ask parents to monitor their brats.  Most mothers and fathers, however, are under the mistaken impression that every action of their children is cute and endearing.

It's not.  Most of the time, children are destructive and careless, and it's their parents' faults.

That was quite the rant.  I'm feeling very Charlie Brownish.  The only things I'm missing are the yellow shirt and really smart beagle.  I have all the angst and depressive tendencies.

Sounds like one of the little angels in the office just wound up my expensive snow globe.

Saint Marty says, "Good grief!"

You tell 'em, Chuck

February 19: Blessed Elizabeth of Mantua

Well, today is the day.  I'm going to take the Christmas decorations down on my front porch.  I know what you're probably thinking:  are you lazy, stupid, or just getting a jump-start on next Christmas?  The answer is maybe, no, and that's not a bad idea.  But even my ten-year-old daughter has been saying, "When are we going to take the Christmas stuff down?"  So, today the porch gets undecorated.

One of the most popular Christmas stories is Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.  Basically, the message of the novel is that you have to keep Christmas in your heart all year long.  After his redemption, Scrooge pretty much says that's what he's going to do.  I guess it's OK to treat every day like Christmas, do things like be kind to people, be generous, be jolly.  I suppose if you said "Merry Christmas" to people all year, you may be thought a little off-balance.  But if you leave Christmas decorations up until past Valentine's Day, suddenly your neighbors start worrying about their property values.

The Day of Undecoration, as it will henceforth be known, always makes me a little sad.  My front porch is the final vestige of a time of year when people have daily visual reminders to be kind to each other.  Saints don't need that kind of reminder.  If I were an actual saint, I'd probably glow like a Christmas tree, ooze peace like a Nativity scene or Christmas carol.  I, myself, would be the reminder.  Elizabeth, today's saint, was born in Mantua in 1428, and she had the Christmas-every-day thing down cold.  She was pretty much raised to be a saint.  Her father taught her Latin.  Her mother taught her how to meditate.  When Elizabeth became a nun, she was known for her "supernatural gifts."  That usually means she could do cool saint stuff like heal people and levitate.  She even predicted her own death a year before it happened, according to legend.  Elizabeth was a Christmas carol.  She reminded everyone around her about kindness, generosity, and joy.

Saint Marty says, "Merry Christmas!"



I'm going to listen to a Christmas CD while I'm working this afternoon.  I might even put on my Santa Claus hat.  For a half hour or so, I'm going to hold on to the holiday just a little longer.  If you see me today, I may wish you a "Merry Christmas."

Saint Marty isn't losing it.  He's just reminding himself to be a better person.