January 30: The World's Going to End, Armageddon, Dumbledore

The huge yellow machines are still advancing to destroy the Earth.  Ford Prefect is still drinking beer in the pub.  And Arthur Dent is freaking out because bulldozers have just demolished his house . . .

"Stop, you vandals!  You home wreckers!" bawled Arthur.  "You half-crazed Visigoths, stop, will you!"

Ford would have to go after him.  Turning quickly to the barman he asked for four packets of peanuts.

"There you are, sir," said the barman, slapping the packets on the bar, "twenty-eight pence if you'd be so kind."

Ford was very kind--he gave the barman another five-pound note and told him to keep the change.  The barman looked at it and then looked at Ford.  He suddenly shivered:  he experienced a momentary sensation that he didn't understand because no one on Earth had ever experienced it before.  In moments of great stress, every life form that exists gives out a tiny subliminal signal.  This signal simply communicates an exact and almost pathetic sense of how far that being is from the place of his birth.  On Earth it is never possible to be farther than sixteen thousand miles from your birthplace, which really isn't very far, so such signals are too minute to be noticed.  Ford Prefect was at this moment under great stress, and he was born six hundred light-years away in the near vicinity of Betelgeuse.  

The barman reeled for a moment, hit by a shocking incomprehensible sense of distance.  He didn't know what it meant, but he looked at Ford Prefect with a new sense of respect, almost awe.

"Are you serious, sir?" he said in a small whisper which had the effect of silencing the pub.  "You think the world's going to end?"

"Yes," said Ford.

"But, this afternoon."

Ford had recovered himself.  He was at his flippest.

"Yes," he said gaily," in less than two minutes I would estimate."

The barman couldn't believe this conversation he was having, but he couldn't believe the sensation he had just had either.

"Isn't there anything we can do about it then?" he said.

"No, nothing," said Ford, stuffing the peanuts into his picket.

Someone in the hushed bar suddenly laughed raucously at how stupid everyone had become.  

It is sort of like Armageddon outside right now.  Like my little part of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is being wiped out by spaceships from the ice planet Hoth (that's for all the Star Wars geeks reading this post).  All the schools are closed.  The U. S. Post Office didn't deliver mail.  The governor declared a state of emergency for the ENTIRE state.  I didn't have to teach today, so now I'm blogging.  Then, it's on to my annual evaluation narrative for the English Department.  That will take me right up to bedtime, I'd bet, with a side trip for dinner.

Tomorrow is supposed to get better in the afternoon.  Tonight, however, is supposed to have -45 degree wind chills.  That's colder than last night.  Schools have already started to announce closures for tomorrow.  My kids have not started thinking about another day off.  Yet.  I'm sure that will start at around 7:00 or 7:30 this evening.

Of course, the excitement of snow days is different for them than it was for me.  When I was their ages, I would have to get up in the morning, turn on the radio, and wait for the announcer to go through the entire list of school closings, praying, hoping, despairing, then celebrating when I heard the name of my school.  When I was younger, it was my mom coming into the bedroom in the morning, saying, "No school today," like Professor Dumbledore waving his wand and changing me into a unicorn.

These days, the news is delivered directly to their cell phones.  Or on Facebook.  My daughter knew school was cancelled last night before I did, thereby stealing one of the pleasures of being a parent:  delivering the news of a snow day to your child and seeing the pleasure spread across his/her face like a ray of sunshine.  Another thing that technology has ruined.

My goal this evening is to be first.  To make my kids' night by telling them that they can sleep in tomorrow (not that my son will sleep in--he was up at 6:45 this morning).  To beat Facebook and Google and Apple.

Saint Marty wants to be Dumbledore.  Or at least Dobby the house elf:  "Master has a snow day tomorrow!"  (Apologies to non-Harry Potter fans.)

ADDENDUM:  School is cancelled.  My daughter just texted me with the news.  For those keeping score:  Technology 1-Daddy 0.

May 11: Spoiler Alerts, Tracy K. Smith, "Sci-Fi"

Recently, I have been thinking a great deal about the future.  It has a lot to do with my new job.  In less than a month, I will be starting over.  Again.  It will mean a change in my schedule and duties and coworkers.  Again.  This coming change has caused me a few sleepless nights.

Over the past two years, I have settled into a new life.  I know what time I have to be to work tomorrow.  I know what I have to do all day long.  I know when I'll take my breaks, eat my lunch.  I know when my work day will be over.  Granted, two years ago, I was in the same situation I am now:  facing an uncertain future.  That future is now my present reality.

In two months' time, my uncertain future will be a reality.  I may be happier.  I may not be happier.  I don't know.  I not a big fan of uncertainty.  I read the ending of books first, spoilers about movies.  I knew that Han Solo died in the new Star Wars movie before I went to see it.  I knew that Dumbledore died before I read the The Half Blood Prince.  Jon Snow is alive.  Glen didn't get eaten by walkers.  Jesus rose from the dead.  No surprises, that's my motto.

Unfortunately, the real world does not work that way.  The future remains a cliffhanger, and I'm waiting for the next episode.

Hopefully, Saint Marty won't be caught in a zombie apocalypse.

Speaking of the future . . .

Sci-Fi

by:  Tracy K. Smith

There will be no edges, but curves.

Clean lines pointing only forward.

History, with its hard spine & dog-eared

Corners, will be replaced with nuance,

Just like the dinosaurs gave way

To mounds and mounds of ice.

Women will still be women, but

The distinction will be empty. Sex,

Having outlived every threat, will gratify

Only the mind, which is where it will exist.

For kicks, we'll dance for ourselves

Before mirrors studded with golden bulbs.

The oldest among us will recognize that glow—

But the word sun will have been re-assigned

To the Standard Uranium-Neutralizing device

Found in households and nursing homes.

And yes, we'll live to be much older, thanks

To popular consensus. Weightless, unhinged,

Eons from even our own moon, we'll drift

In the haze of space, which will be, once

And for all, scrutable and safe.

February 28: Blessed Daniel Brottier

I suppose both of my two faithful readers are wondering how my weekend of eating crow went. After my post on February 25 about humility, there really was no turning back. I could have just left the subject hanging like the death of Dumbledore at the end of the Half Blood Prince (Is he dead? Is he not dead? Should Snape be strung up by his balls for his betrayal?). But I have too many friends reading this blog who will call my bluff, so I had to go through with my apology.

Forgiveness is a funny thing. You would think it would be easy on the person accepting the apology and a son of a bitch on the person apologizing. It doesn't quite work out the neatly. I think forgiveness is a 50/50 proposition. Both parties involved feel like shit. Really, only people you care about the most are the ones who can really hurt you. Setting aside that pain and saying "you are more important than my injured pride or Great Aunt Milly's diamond broach or the last can of Diet Dew" is difficult. But what I've learned this week is that holding on to that pain and sacrificing a friendship or family relationship is the equivalent of eating a peanut butter sandwich when you have nut allergies. It's not a good idea. You know it isn't. You do it anyway.

I can hear you thinking, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Cut to the chase."

Well, I rehearsed my apology for a couple of days, said it over and over in my head: "I want to apologize for the way I behaved and the way I expressed myself. I'm really sorry." I thought the "really" was a nice touch, adding just the right amount of sincerity. I waited all Friday night and Saturday morning for the perfect moment to deliver my speech. I wanted it to be just between the offendee and myself. I didn't want to have to suck ass in front of an audience. I wanted to appear contrite and abashed to only one person. The way I figured, humility is difficult enough without turning it into a three-ring elephant act.

Of course, the perfect opportunity never presented itself, and by early afternoon, I decided to bite the proverbial bullet. I stood up, and, with an audience of about two or three people, I recited my act of contrition: "I want to apologize for the way I behaved and the way I expressed myself. I'm really sorry."

Daniel Brottier was a French priest who felt called to serve people. In 1903, he went to Senegal and worked as a missionary for eight years. After becoming ill, he returned to France. That didn't finish his life of service for Africa. He raised funds to build a cathedral at Dakur, Senegal. During World War I, he served on the front lines as a military chaplain for 52 weeks without receiving a single injury. He ministered to the wounded and dying and was awarded six citations for bravery. After the war, he administered an orphanage for war orphans. On the day the Dakur cathedral was dedicated, Daniel became fatally ill. He died 26 days later. Daniel's entire life is a testament to humility.

So why is it so damn difficult for me to say three, tiny syllables--"I'm sorry"? Why do those words taste like rancid meatloaf to me? (For the record, I hate meatloaf.) I don't know the answer to that question, but I do know I stood waiting for an answer to my apology with my breath held.

The person regarded me and nodded. I could see on her face the same struggle with which I was dealing: simultaneous pain and relief. Her lips parted.

The heavens opened, and tongues of flame descended into the room.

She spoke. "Okay."

That was it. A week of torment and guilt and anger and sleepless nights, over and done. I can tell you, knowing this person the way I do, that "okay" was just as difficult for her to utter as my apology was for me. I didn't care if I was justified in my anger. I didn't care if I received an immediate apology in return, or ever received an apology. Bridges were being rebuilt. It was as if Christ on the cross had looked down on me, opened his lips, and, with blood choking his throat, said, "Okay." (Work with me. The main thrust of this comparison is that any moment of human connection, any service given, forgiveness rendered, is a true act of Christian charity.)

Forgiveness isn't easy. Ask Jesus. C. S Lewis once wrote, "If you want a religion to make you feel really comfortable, I certainly don't recommend Christianity." Forgiveness can be as difficult as building a cathedral or serving in a war. It can be messy. It can taste like shit in your mouth. But it can save friendships and families.

It can save the world. Okay?