April 24: Rainy Sunday, Laptops, Classic Saint Marty

Rainy Sunday.

I just got done with church a little while ago, and now I'm settling down to a day's work of grading and reading.  Lots and lots of grading and reading.  If that was all I had to do this week, I'd be in good shape.  However, because I'm a contingent professor (a temporary, 23-year employee of the university), I also have a full-time job to worry about.  I've said it before:  if I were a tenured full-timer, I don't know what I'd do with all of the extra time I'd have.

My 15-year-old daughter is currently breathing down my neck because I am using my laptop.  It is the only computer in our household, and she wants to play Minecraft with her friends.  I can feel her stare drilling into the back of my head as I sit typing this post.  She is also sighing a lot.

The sad thing is that my day isn't going to get much better after I'm done blogging.  I will be moving from one pile of papers/exams to another.  For the next week, that will be my life.  I'm not complaining.  I love teaching, and I love my daughter.  They both drive me a little crazy sometimes.  That's all.

Three years ago, I was preoccupied with my daughter, as well:

April 25, 2013:  Your Prayers, My Daughter, Last Night

"Well.  Go to sleep.  Give Mother a kiss.  Did you say your prayers?"

Holden's mother appears for a very short time at the end of The Catcher in the Rye.  She's tucking Holden's little sister, Phoebe, in for the night.  Even though, earlier in the novel, Holden says his parents aren't religious at all, Holden's mother asks Phoebe, "Did you say your prayers?"  It's a casual question, like "Did you do your homework?" or "Did you brush your teeth?"  Yet, it highlights a spirituality in the Caulfield home that Holden denies earlier.


Last night, I was pretty tired.  Alright, I was friggin' exhausted.  I was trying to make it through American Idol, and I simply couldn't do it.  I surrendered to sleep at around 9:30 p.m.  Some time later, my twelve-year-old daughter came bouncing into my bedroom and jumped into bed beside me, snuggling into my armpit.

"Daddy?" she said.

I jumped and, without opening my eyes, said, "What, sweetie?"

"Are you going to say prayers with me?"

I sort of grunted.  I sleep with a mask on to blot out light.  I could smell her hair, which was still wet from her shower.  She uses a cherry blossom shampoo.

"Please, Daddy," she said.  "You can say short prayers."

I've prayed with my daughter or for my daughter or over my daughter every day since her birth.  We have developed a fairly complicated prayer routine, praying for family and friends, sick people, cousins, and teachers.  We even pray for her pediatrician.  Then we sing "Hush, Little Baby" three times to her.  We finish it off with the "be-attitudes," starting "Be a good girl for Jesus, Mary, Joseph, you guardian angel, the king and queen angels, the duke and duchess angels, knight angels and worker angels..."  The angel list goes on, developed in detail since my daughter was a toddler.  It takes a good five to seven minutes if the prayer routine is performed in full.

I didn't have the energy for all the prayers last night, so I said short prayers, which is a truncated version of the standard prayers.  General blessings for everybody.  "Hush, Little Baby" once.  And then the be-attitudes, skipping some of the lesser angels.

This morning, I read that little snippet of dialogue from Holden's mother, and I realized how blessed I am to have a daughter who wants to pray with me.  My daughter can't go to sleep until we've gone through some ritual of blessing for the people in her life.  She reminds me how important daily prayer is.  It's not like brushing teeth for her.  It's a completion thing.  Her day isn't over until she has a few words with God.

This post may seem sentimental.  I don't care.  I'm proud of the fact that I have a prayerful, caring daughter.

It's one of Saint Marty's greatest blessings.

I didn't say my daughter was perfect...

October 10: The Brook, Indoor Waterpark, Taylor Fairy Tale

One warm afternoon, Fern and Avery put on bathing suits and went down to the brook for a swim.  Wilbur tagged along at Fern's heels.  When she waded into the brook, Wilbur waded in with her.  He found the water quite cold--too cold for his liking.  So while the children swam and played and splashed water at each other, Wilbur amused himself in the mud along the edge of the brook, where it was warm and moist and delightfully sticky and oozy.

Fern and Avery have a good day at the brook, doing what brothers and sisters normally do when they go swimming.  They play and splash, and probably yell and argue, as well.  Because that's what siblings do.  They love each other, and they annoy the crap out of each other.


I am posting tonight from the Kalahari Resort in the Wisconsin Dells.  We just returned from the indoor waterpark, and both my son and daughter are pretty exhausted.  My daughter is arguing with me right now, begging my for my laptop.  She says she has homework.  I think she has some hot game of Minecraft waiting for her.

It has been a really good day, aside from my surly teenage daughter.  The trip went fast, and we didn't get lost once.  Yes, my kids argued and yelled at each other a few times, but, as I said, that's what siblings do.  The love each other, and they annoy the crap out of each other.

Once upon a time, a sister and brother named Taylor and Taylor lived in the kingdom of Taylor.  (I'm a little bit tired, not feeling very imaginative.)  The Taylors decided one day to go visit their Aunt Taylor in the neighboring town of Taylor.

To get to Taylor, the brother and sister had to take Taylor Street to Taylor Court.  Then they turned left onto Taylor Way, which merged with U.S. Taylor.  They stayed on U. S. Taylor for almost 50 miles, and then they took Exit 4 to Taylor, where they drove to 1313 Taylor Lane, their Aunt Taylor's address.

They got out and knocked on their aunt's front door.  Nobody answered.  Their aunt was on vacation in Walt Disney World.

The Taylors went home.

Moral of the story:  always call ahead before you decide to visit somebody.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Sorry, peeps, my daughter's offline tonight

September 1: Lazy Day, Rainy Day, "Web" Dip Day

It's a lazy day.  I actually slept in 'til almost 10 a.m.  I never sleep that late.  There's a part of me that feels like I've wasted a good portion of my day if I stay in bed that long.  Obviously, my cold got the better of me.  It's amazing how an over-abundance of mucus can screw up your entire system.

It's also a rainy day.  An all-day soak, I think.  I'm sitting in Hardee's at the moment, having lunch with my wife and son.  My teenage daughter is taking advantage of her last day of summer vacation.  She's awake, but not really energetic.  She opted to stay home and do what teenage girls do with computers and iPods and cell phones.  Watch videos.  Text friends.  Play Minecraft.  OK, maybe not all teenage girls play Minecraft.  Mine does.

I pretty much did all of my class preparation yesterday, so I have no pressing work to do this Labor Day.  I have one little task to complete for the university's literary magazine.  As the new poetry editor, I have to submit a short bio for the magazine's website.  Something that says "Here's who I am and here's what I've done and please be impressed."

Well, I'm in a fairly positive mood right now.  My health is improving (I don't feel like I'm a cast member of The Walking Dead any longer).  I'm pretty much set for work for the week (just a little lesson planning and quiz making left).  And I know what I'm doing for dinner tonight (barbecue at my parents' house, if the rain lets up).

My question for this Web dip day is pretty simple:

Am I going to have a good week?

And the answer from Mr. White is:

"Is this true?" he asked.  "Is this appetizing yarn of yours true?  I like high living, and what you say tempts me."

"It is true," said the old sheet.  "Go to the Fair, Templeton.  You will find that the conditions at a fair will surpass your wildest dreams.  Buckets with sour mash sticking to them, tin cans containing particles of tuna fish, greasy paper bags stuffed with rotten..."

OK, so Templeton is going to rat Nirvana at the Fair.  That's a fairly definitive answer.

Saint Marty's week is going to be filled with sour mash and rancid tuna fish.  Fantastic.

I'm feeling better than this guy

January 27: Nothing to Say, Bert Lahr, "Gone With the Wind"

My daughter is waiting impatiently for me to finish typing this post.  She wants to do something called Minecraft on my laptop.  She's been stomping and whining for about an hour.  Thank God she's quieted down a little.  She's watching Minecraft videos on my iPad, I think.

I don't really have anything left to say today.  I just saw a guy on Antiques Roadshow (who happens to be the great grandson of actor Bert Lahr--the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz) have the Oz script used by his great grandfather appraised at $150,000.  I nearly crapped myself.

None of my stuff is that important or valuable.  I have a few signed additions of books, but nothing of real importance.

Saint Marty wishes his great grandfather was Clark Gable.  Then Saint Marty would have a Gone With the Wind script that could get his kids college educations.

This guy can send his kids to college because of his great grandfather's script

January 9: Killing Some Time

At the moment, I'm killing some time with my son at the office, waiting for my daughter to get done with her dance class.  It is a strange and violent expression, "killing some time."  It calls to mind images of stalking, hunting, and execution.  It also calls to mind the idea that this time is something useless and unwanted.  It is true that I'm sort of in limbo right now, unable really to do anything productive besides type this blog post.  I can't go to Wal-Mart to buy a needed item for my medicine cabinet; I don't have enough time for that.  I can't go visit my friend, Keith, and his wife, Gloria; by the time I had my son's winter jacket was off and my shoes unlaced, I'd have to lace them back up and dress my son again.  Once more, not enough time.  So, in many ways, I'm time's hostage this evening.

As I watch my son play on my i-Pad, I realize that his concept of time is completely different from mine.  The time he is spending playing some game called Minecraft of Mind Craft or Mined Craft right now probably seems infinite to him.  I could tell him, "Ten more minutes and we have to go pick up Sissy," and he would probably say "Okay" without even really knowing the difference between ten minutes and ten hours.  He just knows that in some segment of time from now, we will have to leave to pick up his sister at the dance studio.  I imagine all of his days are adventures in time.  The time from when he wakes up to the time he gets on the school bus.  The time from when he arrives at school to the time he eats his breakfast.  The time from when he eats his breakfast to the time his bladder tells him he has to go to the bathroom.  Those are his measurements of time.

I think I prefer his concept of time.  It's friendlier.  Less stressful.  No time clock to punch.  No looking at the calendar and thinking, "I have only five more days of vacation left."  No deadlines to meet.  Just Minecraft and waffles and bus rides and cheese cubes and baths.

Saint Marty has a lot to learn from his son.

Not killing any more time