May 12: Three Folks a Year, Grand Rapids, Swimming and Pizza

There were other tourists looking down into the canyon, too, and a ranger was there to answer questions.  A Frenchman who had come all the way from France asked the ranger in broken English if many people committed suicide by jumping in.

"Yes, sir," said the ranger.  "About three folks a year."  So it goes.

I'm betting the Frenchman's question isn't the first question most visitors to the Grand Canyon would think to ask.  On a vacation, I generally don't contemplate suicide.  Of course, that depends on the people with whom I'm vacationing.  I have to admit that, when I was standing at the top of the Empire State Building many years ago, a similar thought did cross my mind.  Perhaps it's great heights that make people consider mortality.  I dunno.

Greetings from Springhill Suites in Grand Rapids, Michigan.  I arrived a little over an hour ago, and, while my wife and kids are swimming in the pool, I am taking advantage of the peace and quiet of an empty hotel room.  The TV is turned off.  The only sound is the rumble of the air conditioning and the insectile pecking of my fingers on the keyboard of my laptop.  I have to say, it's a little heavenly.  Even though I am on the third floor of the building, with a window overlooking a construction site, I am not tempted to jump.

The drive down was very uneventful.  Sunny skies most of the way.  Very little road construction, which surprised me.  I was even able to remain fairly calm while driving over the Mackinac Bridge, despite my long-held fear of crashing through the barrier and plunging to a watery death.  (This goes back to the time that I drove over the bridge one day after a woman in a Yugo met her demise in the manner I just described.  The police tape was still on the section of the railing where the accident occurred.)  

Now, I am feeling fairly unmotivated.  My daughter doesn't dance until Sunday, so tomorrow I will take her shopping and my son to Chuck E. Cheese's.  Then, I will go visit my brother in the hospital.  From all reports, he is doing well.  The doctors performed another cardiac catheterization on him a day ago.  They were pleased with the results, whatever that means.  I will find that out when I get there.

Tonight, however, is for swimming and ordering take-out.  Alfredo chicken pizza, to be exact.

Saint Marty is thankful for a change in scenery.

May 15: Chuck E. Cheese's, Ellen Bryant Voigt, Another Sonnet

It is almost midnight, and I'm waiting for my phone to ring.  My daughter is on her way back from Great America with her class.  When she gets to Chuck E. Cheese's in Green Bay, someone is supposed to call me to let me know.

It's been a long day.  I was up at 3:45 this morning to drive my daughter to school.  I went to work.  Went to a concert by a chorale group.  Now, I'm watching Jimmy Fallon and staring at my phone, willing it to ring.  I have a feeling that bus is going to be pulling into the school parking lot around 3 a.m.

Saint Marty needs a little poetry to stay awake.

from Ellen Bryant Voigt's Kyrie

I always thought she ought to have an angel.
There's one I saw a picture of, smooth white,
the wings like bolts of silk, breasts like a girl's--
like hers--eyebrows. all of it.  For years
I put away a little every year,
but her family was shamed by the bare grave,
and hadn't they blamed me for everything,
so now she has a cross.  Crude, rigid, nothing
human on it, flat dead tree on the hill,
it's what you see for miles, it's all I see.
Symbol of hope, the priest said, clearing his throat,
and the rain came down and washed the formal flowers.
I guess he thinks that dusk is just like dawn.
I guess he had forgot about the nails.

Ring, damn you!  Ring!