August 6, 2026: “Just Now,” Quiet Evening, “The Best Day of My Life”

It’s been a quiet, lovely evening.  I didn’t go for a ten-mile hike.  Or eat prime rib for dinner.  Or see a cascade of meteors in the night sky.  Or read a long Russian novel in which a barefoot peasant throws herself in front of a train.  In short, nothing extraordinary happened.

Marie Howe writes about a quiet, lovely day . . . 

Just Now

by: Marie Howe

John opens his eyes when he hears the door click

open downstairs and Joe’s steps walking up past the meowing cat,

and the second click of the upstairs door, and then he lifts

his face so that Joe can kiss him.  Joe has brought armfuls

of broken magnolia branches in full blossom, and he putters

in the kitchen looking for a big jar to put them in and finds it.

And now they tower in the living room, white and sweet, where

John can see them if he leans out from his bed which

he can’t do just now, and now Joe is cleaning.  What a mess

you’ve left me, he says, and John is smiling, almost asleep again.

Such a tender, quiet poem, full of domestic perfection.  The love invested in these tiny moments Howe describes is undeniable and heartbreaking.  John is dying, and Joe, his partner, brings him magnolias to fill his life with beauty.  It would be perfect, if not for the looming phantom of mortality in the room.

But maybe it’s the specter of death that makes Howe’s poem so moving in its gentleness.  Some of the greatest, most profound moments of human connection I’ve ever experienced in my life have occurred at funerals and memorial services.  Everyone is just more vulnerable and open at such occasions.  People hug more, say “I love you” more.  Death reminds us all how tenuous and fragile life truly is.

That’s what I want to say tonight.  And I want to thank you, faithful disciple, for reading this post.  You are part of my perfect, quiet evening, and I wish you the same—perfection and quiet.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about a good day . . . 

The Best Day of My Life

by: Martin Achatz

Maybe it was today, and I just didn’t pay 

attention.  Maybe the mac and cheese I ate

for dinner was the best meal I will ever

eat, and that walk around the block

with my dog will be the best walk

of her life and, as she squatted 

on my neighbor’s lawn, she took

the best shit of her life.  Maybe

every breath I inhaled, every pulse

of my heart, every sip of cold water—

all the best.  And this poem.  Maybe

this poem I’m writing right now will be

the best poem I’ll ever write, and it will

be anthologized for years after I’m gone.

Maybe I should celebrate.  Maybe 

there’s a piece of the best leftover pizza

in my life still wrapped in aluminum foil,

sitting on the bottom shelf of the fridge

behind a truly great carton of skim milk.   

June 21, 2026: “Practicing,” Adulting, “Father’s Day, Rainy and Cool”

Adulting kinda sucks.

When you’re a kid, everything is new and exciting.  You can’t wait to be old enough to drive a car and get laid and earn money and buy booze.  All of adolescence is a rehearsal for adulthood, and, when you’re a kid, you’re convinced that with age comes limitless freedom and joy.  

Similarly, most adults I know yearn for the simplicity and security of childhood.  (I’m generalizing here.  I know not all childhoods are safe and uncomplicated, and I honor those kids who are forced at very young ages to deal with very grownup struggles.)  Stereotypically, we mythologize our childhoods.  We’re all cast members on The Brady Bunch.  

Marie Howe writes about the thrills of adolescence . . . 

Practicing

by: Marie Howe

I want to write a love poem for the girls I kissed in seventh grade,

a song for what we did on the floor in the basement

of somebody’s parents’ house, a hymn for what we didn’t say but thought:

That feels good or I like that, when we learned how to open each other’s

mouths how to move our tongues to make somebody moan.  We called it

practicing, and one was the boy, and we paired off—maybe six or eight girls,

and turned off the lights and kissed and kissed until we were stoned on kisses,

and lifted our nightgowns or let the straps drop, and, Now you be the boy:

concrete floor, sleeping bag, couch, playroom, game room, train room, laundry.

Linda’s basement was like a boat with booths and portholes

instead of windows.  Gloria’s father had a bar downstairs with stools that

spun, plush carpeting.  We kissed each other’s throats.

We sucked each other’s breasts, and we left marks, and never spoke of it

upstairs, outdoors, in daylight, not once.  We did it, and it was

practicing, and slept, sprawled so our legs still locked or crossed, a hand still

lost in someone’s hair . . . and we grew up and hardly mentioned who

the first kiss really was—a girl like us, still sticky with moisturizers we’d

shared in the bathroom.  I want to write a song

for that thick silence in the dark, and the first pure thrill of unreluctant

desire—just before we made ourselves stop.

Howe really captures that adolescent longing for adult experience in this poem.  Adolescent boys experiment with similar taboos, and, just like the girls in Howe’s poem, they don’t speak of these basement encounters in broad daylight.  It’s pretty common, although most guys will not admit it.  The stigma is just too strong.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my adolescence and childhood today.  I was a pretty easy kid, I think.  I never really gave my parents anything to worry about.  I didn’t smoke a joint until my junior year.  Didn’t get blackout drunk until I was a senior.  I only went on a few dates as a teenager, and the condom I carried around in my backpack never fulfilled its intended purpose during my high school career.  I thought I was going to live forever.

Now, I’ve had sex at least twice (as evidenced by my two kids).  I’ve also had a few careers—in healthcare and higher education and church music and event programming.  I know more than half of my life is behind me, and I’ve lost several family members and friends.  Mortality is very present in my day-to-day existence.  

Today was the first day of summer.  It was also Father’s Day.  I stopped by the cemetery this afternoon to visit my dad’s grave. It was raining pretty hard, but I stood there for a couple minutes, thinking about all the things I never said to my dad (and the things I DID say to him that I now regret).  As a kid, I thought I had all the time in the world.  Young people drench themselves in immortality the way they drench themselves in Axe body spray or Love’s Baby Soft.

I loved my dad, but he and I were very different people with very different values.  I can’t recall a single time that my dad said “I love you” to me.  Almost daily, however, I tell my son and daughter that I love them.  If the only memory they have of me when I’m gone is the fact that I said “I love you” way too my times, that’s enough.  I’ve done my job as their father.

Saint Marty wrote this poem about his dad for Father’s Day . . . 

Father’s Day, Rainy and Cool

by: Martin Achatz

I stand by my dad’s stone this afternoon

by myself, his Memorial Day flag now soaked,

deflated as a beached jellyfish.  The air

is stiff with the smell of worm and mud.

Most of my dad is here, although my sisters

have lockets of his ashes in their dresser drawers.

My son has an urn on his bookshelf.  I know

it contains the ashes of my dad’s pointer finger,

the one he always jabbed at my chest,

sinking his love into me like a rusty nail.

February 5, 2025: "The Connoisseuse of Slugs," Mystery, "42"

I like to think I have good taste in some things--poems, movies, books, music, friends.  Trying to define what makes a good poem or film or friend is difficult, mysterious.  It's like trying to understand the ending of 2001: A Space Odyssey.  Yet, I know good poems by the way they leave me breathless at the end.  Good films if I'm still thinking about them three days later.  Good friends by how much of my shit they will put up with.

Sharon Olds is an expert on something . . . 

The Connoissseuse of Slugs

by: Sharon Olds

When I was a connoisseuse of slugs
I would part the ivy leaves, and look for the
naked jelly of those gold bodies,
translucent strangers glistening along the
stones, slowly, their gelatinous bodies
at my mercy. Made mostly of water, they would shrivel
to nothing if they were sprinkled with salt,
but I was not interested in that. What I liked
was to draw aside the ivy, breathe the
odor of the wall, and stand there in silence
until the slug forgot I was there
and sent its antennae up out of its
head, the glimmering umber horns
rising like telescopes, until finally the
sensitive knobs would pop out the ends, 

delicate and intimate. Years later,
when I first saw a naked man,
I gasped with pleasure to see that quiet
mystery reenacted, the slow
elegant being coming out of hiding and
gleaming in the dark air, eager and so
trusting you could weep.

It's a wonderfully weird poem from Olds--one only she could and would write.  And it's all about being an expert.  The slug imagery mixes with sexual imagery, until, in the concluding lines, Olds stuns us with beauty and longing.  It takes my breath away,  Hence, it's a good poem.

I had lunch with one of my oldest (not chronologically) friends.  We both worked at a local book store back in the 1990s, and we quickly bonded.  Through the years we've seen each other through a lot:  divorce, depressions, births, deaths, graduations.  Jody was in the birthing room when my wife was having our daughter.  She filled my university office with balloons for my birthday one year.  We both cuss like sailors and enjoy dirty jokes.  Through the decades we've known each other, she's put up with a lot of my shit.

And that makes her a really good friend.

Friendship is a mystery.  You're never sure where or when it's going to strike.  Jody is about a foot shorter than me with a Southern accent.  The first time I met her, she pointed at me and shouted, "Oh my God, a 4.0 GPA!"  (She'd looked over my resumé when I came in for my interview at the book store.)  I liked her immediately, but I never dreamed that--over 30 years later--we'd still be so close.  

It has been a long week, full of all kinds of stress at work (some induced by the President Musk and the Republicans):  a huge programming series funded by the National Endowment for the Arts, if federal funding isn't "paused" again for review; my annual evaluation for the university; issues with computers; issues with students.  In short, a shit show.  And Jody went out to eat with me and let me vent, hugely.  

When I dropped her off at her apartment complex after lunch, she gave me a kiss and a hug and said, "Take care of yourself, for fuck's sake.  I love you."  (I may be paraphrasing a little.)

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight on mystery, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet;

In celebration of the first Reader's Digest publication on this date in 1922, head to the Reader's Digest home page and click on Jokes:  http://www.rd.com/jokes.  After reading several jokes, draft a poem that riffs on scenarios and punchlines that most intrigue you.  Alternatively, write a poem of three or four sections in which each section begins with a well-known riddle.  Examples:  What time is it when an elephant sits on a fence?  What's black and white and red all over?  Why did the chicken cross the road?

42

by: Martin Achatz

1.

What can you catch but not throw?

Tonight, I caught wind in a pine,

jumping branch to branch like

a hungry crow, scraping the air

with the rusty blade of its voice.

2.

What can cry without eyes and fly 

     without wings?

An angel crashed in my backyard,

its feathers gummed with sap,

eyes filled with more salt than

the Atlantic.  I kissed her cheek, tasted

my mother's last breath.

3.

What gets bigger the more you take away?

Something gibbous walked down

the street, searching for 

a puddle of eclipse

to quench its bright thirst.

4.

What can you break without touching it?

I woke when I heard frost tap

on the pane, write a love 

letter to morning on the glass.

December 23, 2024: "I Love You," Family Christmas, Secret Santa Aubri

On my first official day of vacation from the library, I . . . spent about seven hours at the library.  I wanted to complete the audio version of my new book for my publisher, so I booked the sound booth at the library and recorded one poem after another poem after another poem.  I started around 10:30 a.m. and finished the whole project around 5 p.m.

By the end, I was hoarse and tired.  I was also pretty damn proud of myself for getting it done.  Stay tuned for information when A Bigfoot Bestiary and Other Wonders is available on Audible.

Then it was off to my sister-in-law's house on the Dead River for a family Christmas celebration.

Billy Collins writes about love . . . 

"I Love You"

by: Billy Collins

Early on, I noticed that you always say it
to each of your children
as you are getting off the phone with them
just as you never fail to say it
to me whenever we arrive at the end of a call.

It’s all new to this only child.
I never heard my parents say it,
at least not on such a regular basis,
nor did it ever occur to me to miss it.
To say I love you pretty much every day

would have seemed strangely obvious,
like saying I’m looking at you
when you are standing there looking at someone.
If my parents had started saying it
a lot, I would have started to worry about them.

Of course, I always like hearing it from you.
That is never a cause for concern.
The problem is I now find myself saying it back
if only because just saying good-bye
then hanging up would make me seem discourteous.

But like Bartleby, I would prefer not to
say it so often, would prefer instead to save it
for special occasions, like shouting it out as I leaped
into the red mouth of a volcano
with you standing helplessly on the smoking rim,

or while we are desperately clasping hands
before our plane plunges into the Gulf of Mexico,
which are only two of the examples I had in mind,
but enough, as it turns out, to make me
want to say it to you right now,

and what better place than in the final couplet
of a poem where, as every student knows, it really counts.

I've never had a problem saying "I love you."  When I gave my boss, the director of the library, a Christmas present a day or so ago, she stood up and asked, "Are you a hugger?"  "I am," I responded, and we hugged.

This holiday season, as you know, my predominant emotion has been sadness.  However, tonight, as I shared a turkey dinner and opened presents with my wife's side of the family, my overwhelming emotion was love.  We laughed a lot.  Insulted each other (in a completely loving way) a lot.  And, when we were getting ready to leave, we embraced and said, "Merry Christmas."  It was literally a love fest, if the fest was held with the entire cast of National Lampoon Christmas Vacation, minus the live squirrel in the tree and SWAT team storming the house.

The adults do Secret Santa for Christmas.  My niece, Aubri, one of my favorite people in the whole world, was my Santa.  She showered me with an embarrassment of gifts and love--a book I wanted, Bigfoot socks, new Moleskine journal, and a tee shirt she designed herself:

In short, she spoiled me silly.  And, on the gift tags, she wrote things like, "To Uncle Martin, from Your Favorite Niece."  I love this young woman profoundly, and I hope she knows it.  She never fails to make me smile and laugh, even on the darkest of days.  I'm a pretty lucky uncle.

It also filled my heart so much to see my kids enjoying Christmas with their cousins.  Their love and affection for each other was thick as the smell of turkey in the room.  I found myself getting a little weepy watching them together.  (Or it may have been the two Twisted Teas provided to me by my niece Aubri.  Now you see why I love her so much.) 

All in all, it was a great way to kick off Christmas.  Each and every one of the people I shared dinner with tonight is a true light in my darkness,

And Saint Marty is proud to proclaim, "I love you all."

September 26: "The Journey," Son's Birthday, Right Path

Mary Oliver tells us about . . . 

The Journey

by:  Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations--

though their melancholy

was terrible,

it was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice,

which you slowly 

recognized as your own, 

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

Rarely do I feel like I know where my life is headed.  I'm old enough to have encountered a lot of voices shouting bad advice, stiff fingers of wind, fallen branches and stones in the road.  There haven't been any maps to follow, and Siri doesn't know what's coming around the bend.

Today, my son turned 15.  When I was young, the idea of being a father terrified me.  If you haven't noticed, I'm not really into a lot of the typical "guy" stuff.  When it comes to cars, I can fill up a gas tank and check oil.  That's about it.  I don't remember the last time I held a fishing rod.  I haven't fired any kind of gun since I was a teenager, and I could care less who the Green Bay Packers are playing next.  My focus, at the moment, is who's going to win the Nobel Prize in Literature next Thursday, which happens to be Saint Marty's Day.  Fingers crossed.

I've tried to be a good guide for my son, keeping him away from swamps and cliffs, potholes and culverts.  His journey has been much shorter than mine, but it has been a long and winding road, as the Beatles say.  Bullying.  Strife at home.  Suicide attempts.  Not to mention a global pandemic.  Helping him navigate all of these challenges has been like trying to climb Mount Everest or explore the Grand Canyon.

I've made mistakes for sure.  As I said, I'm sort of unconventional when it comes to fathering skills.  If my son wants to know how to bait a fish hook or shoot a deer, he will have to talk to one of his uncles or cousins.  If he wants to know how to write a sonnet or understand The Catcher in the Rye, I'm his man.  

The good news is that, despite my deficits as a father (or because of them, maybe), my son has grown into a funny, smart, and sensitive young man.  He makes me laugh on a daily basis and will still say "I love you" to me in public settings.  He treats everyone with respect and doesn't have a mean bone in his body.

In short, at the beginning of his 15th journey around the sun, my son is on the right path.  I don't know where he's headed, and he will certainly encounter more obstacles, but I couldn't be prouder of the person that he's becoming.

Even though he's directionally challenged, Saint Marty has managed to be his son's compass.

June 17: "Lead," Loons, My Dad

Mary Oliver tells a sad story . . . 

Lead

by:  Mary Oliver

Here is a story

to break your heart.

Are you willing?

This winter

the loons came to our harbor

and died, one by one,

of nothing we could see.

A friend told me

of one on the shore

that lifted its head and opened

the elegant beak and cried out

in the long, sweet savoring of its life

which, if you have heard it,

you know is a sacred thing,

and for which, if you have not heard it,

you had better hurry to where

they still sing.

And, believe me, tell no one

just where that is.

The next morning

this loon, speckled

and iridescent and with a plan

to fly home

to some hidden lake,

was dead on the shore.

I tell you this

to break your heart,

by which I mean only

that it break open and never close again

to the rest of the world.

Here is a blog post to break your heart.

I live a few blocks from a small, inland lake.  During the summer months, sometimes in the morning but mostly near dusk, I will hear loons singing to the rising or setting sun.  If you've never heard the song of a loon, you've missed one of the most beautiful sounds in nature, I think.  

A loon call can be both celebration and lament.  "Look at the sun!" or "Look at the moon!" or "Winter is coming!" or "Farewell!  Farewell!"  (Loons also figure prominently in one of my dad's favorite Henry Fonda movies--On Golden Pond--a film that Jane Fonda bought solely for her dad.  It won him an Oscar, which would be a pretty cool Father's Day present.)  Loons are thought to mate for life, with the male and female building nests together out of reeds and grasses near lakeshores.  A loon unleashes its signature tremolo in response to perceived threats or territorial disputes, and as a night concert or duet with its mate.

This Father's Day eve, I'm thinking a lot about my dad for obvious reasons.  And I'm thinking about fatherhood, in general.  As I've said in previous posts, my relationship with my father was complicated.  We were very different people with very different beliefs.  Don't misunderstand--I loved my dad, and I know he loved me in his own way.  We were not a hugging family.  Physical demonstrations of love were reserved for special occasions, like births or weddings or funerals.  As a result, I can count on one hand the number of times I remember hearing my father say, "I love you."

After my dad died, I inherited many of his nice hats.  My dad was kind of a hoarder.  He never threw anything out.  Thus, I have some caps and a fedora that are probably 70-years-old.  In my mind's eye, I always picture my father wearing some kind of head covering, mostly out of necessity (he was quite bald, something else I inherited from him).

As I sit typing tonight, I am wearing my dad's fedora.  It's charcoal gray and has seen its better days.  I think it was my dad's fancy hat--the one he wore on special occasions.  When it sits on my head, I sometimes think about all the sacrifices my father made to raise and support our family.  I have eight siblings (or had--two of my sisters and one brother have died in the last few years).  Consequently, my dad worked hard to put food on the table and clothing on our backs.  That was his way of showing love for all of us.

My approach to fatherhood is quite different.  I tell my kids that I love them.  I probably say it way too much, especially to my son who is now 14-years-old and refuses to admit how cool I am.  I cry.  Hug.  Kiss.  Tell them how proud I am of their accomplishments.  If my father got his parenting style from Clint Eastwood/John Wayne, I got mine from Pa Ingalls/Michael Landon.   

My father was the best father he knew how to be.  He wasn't perfect, by any means.  But he loved us all, fiercely, in his own way.

Saint Marty isn't a perfect father, either, but he is willing to step outside to let his heart break open for the world and everything in it--loons, lakes, my wife and kids, my dad. 

May 24: "Night Herons," Unpredictability, Icebergs

Mary Oliver contemplates the unpredictability of life . . . 

Night Herons

by:  Mary Oliver

Some herons                              and that was the end of them

were fishing                               as far as we know--

in the robes                                though, what do we know

of the night                                except that death

at a low hour                             is so everywhere and so entire--

of the water's body,                   pummeling and felling,

and the fish, I suppose              or sometimes,

were full                                   like this, appearing

of fish happiness                      through such a thin door--

in those transparent inches      one stab, and you're through!

even as, over and over,            And what then?

the beaks jacked down            Why, then it was almost morning,

and the narrow                         and one by one

bodies were lifted                    the birds

with every                                opened their wings

quick sally,                               and flew.

The scene Oliver paints is lyrical and dark, the herons gobbling up fish in shallow tide pools.  As with most of her poems, Oliver doesn't ascribe any negative or positive connotations.  The fish are doing what fish do, and the herons are doing what herons do.

Oliver does meditate a little on the unpredictability of life and death, in an Emily Dickinson way.  Because the fish could not stop for Death, Death kindly stops for them.  The fish have no idea they are about to become heron bedtime snacks.  They are just full of fish happiness as they are plucked one by one out of the water.

None of us know what the future holds.  We like to think we do.  That's why we plan trips one or two or three years in advance.  There's no guarantee that any of us will be around in one or two or three years.  Or even one or two or three days.  We are just full of fish happiness, enjoying the moon-shot shallows, not worrying about night herons.

I'm not saying we should approach every day as an iceberg ready to sink our Titanics.  No.  But we should approach every day as a gift.  Another chance to breathe lilac air.  Eat an ice cream sandwich.  Walk along a beach, hunting for agates.  Or simply do everyday things, but take the blinders off and celebrate butter on a bagel or sunlight in a field of goldenrod.  Even a blister on a foot or papercut on a thumb is a gift.  Because those small wounds are reminders that we are alive in this messed-up world.

As I said earlier, the future isn't guaranteed.  Today was the thirtieth anniversary of the death of my wife's mother.  A wonderful woman who was taken away far too soon.  She loved her family fiercely, especially her three daughters.  Had a laugh that could melt a glacier.  I had the privilege of knowing her only five or six years.  Not enough time.  But I learned something really important from her in those days:  never pass up a chance to say "I love you."  Because love (not money or fame or success or music or poetry), above everything else, can change the world.

That is the one guarantee that Saint Marty is sure of.

November 21-22: This Relationship, Annual Observation, Mutual Friend

Finally Eddie said quietly, "I can see this relationship is something we're all going to have to work at," and the hatchway opened.

A little paragraph about Eddie, the on board computer of the Heart of Gold spaceship, who seems to be taking issue with some of its crew members.  Of course, Eddie is correct.  Relationships do require a LOT of work.

For those of you who are worried that I have withdrawn from public life, I have not.  I am still here, still willing to open up about what's happened these past two days.  I just haven't had the opportunity to sit down and reflect much.  I still don't have much time, because I'm pretty exhausted, and my mind is fading fast at the moment.

So, in brief, I survived the annual colleague observation of my teaching.  Per usual, it wasn't nearly as nerve-wracking as I thought it would be,  In fact, after about ten minutes, I almost forgot that my colleague was in the room, taking notes.  Every once in a while, I would glance over to see him writing in his notebook or watching what was going on intently.  After about an hour of listening to our discussion of the film Brokeback Mountain, he excused himself quietly.  When I got home after teaching, I e-mailed him, thanking him for taking the time to visit my class.  His response, which I received the next morning, was very kind and encouraging.  I don't think I have anything to worry about.

Yesterday evening, I did a whole lot of poetry stuff.  Went to a reading.  (Fantastic.)  Went to an open mic.  (Inspiring.)  I didn't get home until almost 10:45 p.m.  After being stressed out all week long, it was a welcome relief and fed my soul on a deep level, as poetry always does.  I returned to my house last night filled with the desire to write.  Haven't felt that pull for some time.  I think, this weekend, I will get some good work done in my journal.  Maybe a poem.  Maybe an essay.

At the end of a very long week, I sit here, at my kitchen table, thinking about all the people that I love deeply.  Wife.  Son.  Daughter.  Friends.  There are fallow and stormy seasons in relationships sometimes.  Times when the best you can do is say "I love you" and just leave it at that.  My semester of teaching is almost over.  A few more weeks, and it will simply be notations in a virtual grade book.  This week's observation will be a report submitted to the head of the English Department, words in a file.  And tonight will be this blog post, tapped out on a keyboard and then sent into the Internet ether.  Everything draws to a close.

I like to think that there is some kind of permanence in relationships with people you love.  That they will be more than a handful of poems or blog posts.  That their roots go deeper than that.  I hope.  I received a text message from a friend of mine an hour so ago.  It was about a mutual friend who I haven't seen in quite some time.  The message read, "He had no idea who I was.  I am so sad . . . this must be his new normal."

You know, all my stress over being observed in class this week seems pretty silly right now.  All I can think about is our friend--one of kindest, most loving individuals I've ever had the privilege to know.  Every once in a while, he'd call me on the phone with a joke or stop by my office with chocolate or a book he thought I'd like.  When we parted, he pretty much always said the same thing to me, "You take care, my friend, and tell those ladies I love them."  (The ladies were my coworkers from the Surgery Center where I used to be employed.)  This man's roots go deep in a lot of people.

Tonight, Saint Marty wants to say, "Take care, my friend.  Those ladies send you their love."

September 17-18: What Happened, Fresh Starts, Words

Our heroes are about to be Kill-O-Zapped to death . . .

But the end never came, at least not then.

Quite suddenly the barrage stopped, and the sudden silence afterward was punctuated by a couple of strangled gurgles and thuds.

The four stared at each other.

"What happened?" said Arthur.

"They stopped," said Zaphod with a shrug.

"Why?"

"Dunno, do you want to go and ask them?"

"No."

They waited.

After reading Tuesday night's post, many of you might be thinking, "What happened?"  Usually, I avoid engaging in political discussions.  My only answer is that it was late, and I was tired and cranky.  For those of my disciples who were turned off, I am tempted to apologize.  But I stand by what I said.  The United States has become a society that has legitimized bullying.

That being said, I promise not to talk in this post about Donald Trump and the criminal acts he's committed since taking over the Oval Office.  If there's one thing that I've learned about bullies in my life, it's this:  bullies love being the center of attention.  Therefore, I will not waste any more energy on Donald Trump.

In fact, I am so tired at this moment that I'm going to have to turn this into a two-part post.  Everyone has gone to bed in my house, my ten-year-old son a little reluctantly.  I am surrounded by night sounds--a clock ticking, the wind rattling my windows a little, and deep sleeping breaths.  Every day is a new beginning, a chance for fresh starts . . .

And this is a new day.  Thanks for hanging in there with me.  This week is turning into one of those weeks where many little and bigger things are encroaching on my time.  Projects and bills and work.  By the time I sit down in the evening, I'm one of two things--exhausted or busy.  Neither is conducive to writing blog posts.

It's strange, but, when I don't write at least one blog post a day, I feel a little off center.  The balance of my day is thrown awry.  Writing is the thing that keeps me in touch with my inner artist, which doesn't always get a chance to come out and play during the work week.  These blog posts are sometimes my only creative outlet.  They force me to pay attention to what's going on inside my head and heart.  Thus, if I don't blog, I neglect an important part of myself.

Tonight, I'm feeling anxious for various reasons.  Being away from my wife and kids does that to me.  When I'm present at home, I can sort of maintain the illusion of control.  I know it's an illusion, but it keeps my mind at ease.  I sort of thrive on that illusion.  It allows me to sleep on sleepless night.

So, I give thanks for these few minutes of writing on my laptop, sending my thoughts out into the world.  Even with these small paragraphs, I am more grounded, until I can get behind the wheel of my car, drive home, and walk through my front door.  See my wife.  Son.  Daughter.  They remind me why words were invented.  To say, "I love you."

Words have saved Saint Marty, over and over and over.

April 2: Cheap Commodity, Monster Energy Drinks, Billy Collins, "I Love You"

We all say it.  When I leave for work in the morning, I kiss my wife goodbye, whisper, "I love you."  After I'm done saying bedtime prayers with my son, I say, "I love you, bud."  As my daughter leans over me, presents her head for me to kiss before she disappears into her room for the night, I say, "I love you."

I often wonder if saying "I love you" so much lessens its meaning.  My son, when he gets a new computer app, says, "I loooooove this game."  I'm teaching Cormac McCarthy's The Road in my good books class currently; I told my students, "I love this book."  My daughter loves drinking Monster energy drinks.  My wife loves taking naps.

I often wonder if love has become a cheap commodity.  Maybe we should reserve that word for really important people and things--like spouses, children, parents, siblings, and the occasional stuffed crust pizza.  For example, yesterday, I stopped by the cemetery to visit my sister's grave.  I talked to her for a little bit, and, when I left, I put my hand on her headstone and said, "I love you."

Perhaps we should find substitutes for the word "love" when "love" really isn't the correct term.  Here are some suggestions:

• I am grateful for...
• I put up with...
• I don't hate...
• I can stand...
• I accept...
• I enjoy...
• I wouldn't mind...
• I can't avoid...
• I like...
• I get along with...
• I don't get sick by...

Those are just a few alternatives I've come up with.  Try them out.

Here's another Billy Collins poem, because you all know Saint Marty loves Billy Collins.

"I Love You"

by:  Billy Collins

Early on, I noticed that you always say it
to each of your children
as you are getting off the phone with them
just as you never fail to say it
to me whenever we arrive at the end of a call.

It's all new to this only child.
I never heard my parents say it,
at least not on such a regular basis,
nor did it ever occur to me to miss it.
To say I love you pretty much every day

would have seemed strangely obvious,
like saying I'm looking at you
when you are standing there looking at someone.
If my parents had started saying it
a lot, I would have started to worry about them.

Of course, I always like hearing it from you.
That is never a cause for concern.
The problem is I now find myself saying it back
if only because just saying good-bye
then hanging up would make me seem discourteous.

But like Bartleby, I would prefer not to
say it so often, would prefer instead to save it
for special occasions, like shouting it out as I leaped
into the red mouth of a volcano
with you standing helplessly on the smoking rim,

or while we are desperately clasping hands
before our plane plunges into the Gulf of Mexico,
which are only two of the examples I had in mind,
but enough, as it turns out, to make me
want to say it to you right now,

and what better place than in the final couplet
of a poem where, as every student knows, it really counts.

February 14: Love, Valentine's Day, Christmas

"Why did you get married?" said Scrooge.

"Because I fell in love."

"Because you fell in love!" growled Scrooge, as if that were the only thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas.  "Good afternoon!"

I think the reason I chose this little exchange between Scrooge and his nephew, Fred, is pretty obvious.  On Valentine's Day, I think examining Scrooge's ideas about love seems an appropriate thing to do.

Obviously, Scrooge puts love in the same category as Christmas, and I wouldn't argue with that grouping.  Love and Christmas really do go hand-in-hand.  Scrooge eventually learns this lesson by the end of the novel.  Along the way, however, he sees love in several incarnations.  There's Fan, showering Scrooge's younger self with sisterly love.  There's Belle, Scrooge's former fiancee, releasing him from his vow of love.  There's Bob Cratchit, clinging to fatherly hope and love.  There's Fred, blessing his wife and friends with affection and love.  Indeed, in A Christmas Carol, love and Christmas are two sides of the same coin.  One cannot exist without the other.

Therefore, Valentine's Day is another occasion to extend Christmas love throughout the year.  That Scrooge thinks love is ridiculous isn't surprising.  I imagine the words "I love you" are about as foreign to his tongue as "Merry Christmas."  In fact, by the end of the book, Scrooge is wishing everybody"Merry Christmas," but I can't find a single instance in its pages where he utters "I love you."

But real love isn't about chocolates or roses or greeting cards, no matter what Hallmark says.  It isn't about saying "I love you."  Real love is deeper than that.  It's about sacrifice and devotion and humility.  Scrooge learns that.  He sends Bob Cratchit's family a turkey for dinner,  but he does so anonymously.  He takes care of Tiny Tim's health issues and saves the child's life.  He donates a large sum of money to the poor and, by inference, continues to do so for the rest of his days.  And he reaches out to his nephew, Fred, and Fred's wife, begging for their forgiveness and love.  Through his actions, Scrooge embraces the work of love in his life.

Hit me with your best shot!

We all need to embrace love like Scrooge.  We need to show our significant others, children, family and friends that love isn't just a noun, thrown around on special occasions like Christmas and weddings and anniversaries.  Love is a verb.  Active.  Powerful.  Transforming.  Love can cure the sick.  Love can heal the pain.  Love can feed the hungry.  Love can save the world. 

That's real love.  True love.  Christmas love.  Valentine's Day love.

Saint Marty wishes all his disciples a happy Valentine's Day.