July 29: My Brother, Poet Sister, Birdlight

Santiago and his brother fish . . . 

I wish I could feed the fish, he thought. He is my brother. But I must kill him and keep strong to do it. Slowly and conscientiously he ate all of the wedge-shaped strips of fish.

He straightened up, wiping his hand on his trousers.

It's not surprising that Santiago feels a certain kinship to the fish.  They are both, in a way, old men of the sea--Santiago above, the fish below.  They are siblings of water and salt.

Today was the birthday of one of my best friends.  A sister in poetry.  In a lot of ways, she's the yin to my yang.  I tend to darkness in my moods and thoughts.  My friend runs to the sun, physically and spiritually and emotionally and artistically.  We text each other new poems frequently.  Her poems are full of sunlight and flowerlight and birdlight.  Mine are . . . not.  Yet, we hold each other up through difficult times.  And we sing each other in joyful times.

Today, I went to an artist/poet reception for a poetry broadside exhibition.  I saw many close poet friends and listened to them read their beautiful words.  My sister in poetry was there.  So, we ate chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies, drank some flavored waters, and soaked in the poetry around us.  It was a perfect way to mark the occasion of the day of her birth.

And I felt uplifted, as I always do when I'm with her.  We know each other so well.  She has seen me through some pretty rough times, and I hope that I've been able to do the same for her.  She is facing some struggles right now, being the child of aging parents with health problems.  Because she works in healthcare (as I did for almost 25 years), she and I have similar reactions to these kinds of situations.  We hold onto hope, but we also deal with the reality.  In our friendship, we allow each other to celebrate and grieve.  Without judgement.

Being with my friend for an hour or so this afternoon was like taking a deep breath.

And that was Saint Marty's blessing today.

May 2: Gurgled and Cooed, Little Maudlin, My Brother

An unseen hand turned a master valve.  Out of the showerheads gushed scalding rain.  The rain was a blowtorch that did not warm.  It jazzed and jangled Billy's skin without thawing the ice in the marrow of his long bones.

The Americans' clothes were meanwhile passing through poison gas.  Body lice and bacteria and fleas were dying by the billions.  So it goes.

And Billy zoomed back in time to his infancy.  He was a baby who had just been bathed by his mother.  Now his mother wrapped him in a towel, carried him into a rosy room that was filled with sunshine.  She unwrapped him, laid him on the tickling towel, powdered him between his legs, joked with him, patted his little jelly belly.  Her palm on his little jelly belly made potching sounds.

Billy gurgled and cooed.

A movement in time, Billy transported from a moment of naked vulnerability as an adult to a moment of naked vulnerability as a baby.  Billy is not in charge of himself.  The decision of whether he lives or dies, is happy or sad, rests in the hands of higher powers.  His German captors.  His mother.  God.  Billy is just along for the ride.

I'm going to be a little maudlin this afternoon.  This passage about birth and life and death comes on a day where my brother is in the hospital.  Last night, he was taken to the ER where he was diagnosed with sepsis.  Sometime--either before he got to the hospital or while he was there, I'm not sure--he suffered a heart attack.  This is his second heart attack.  So, they put my brother in an ambulance and brought him to the hospital here in Marquette, Michigan, where there are cardiologists on staff.  That was last night.

All day long today, I have been waiting for news about my brother's condition.  My sister just called me.  The cardiologist performed a heart catheterization on my brother.  He has lost another 27% of his heart tissue, and the cardiologist told him that he will have to go on permanent disability.  His heart won't take the strain of daily work.

This news was difficult for me to hear.  My brother is a big man--the tallest in the family--and strong.  He was always the muscle in my family's plumbing business, hauling water heaters and furnaces out of basements, digging up sewer lines, soldering pipes in crawlspaces.  He's larger than life.

Now, he's going to be greatly diminished.  Probably unable to do things that most of us take for granted, like climbing stairs or rearranging furniture or carrying groceries.  On top of that, I would imagine the length of his life will be shortened by this event, as well.  His heart is severely damaged.

So, forgive me if I have no wisdom today.  This is one of those times where I truly am at a loss.  I feel like Billy in the passage above, powerless and vulnerable.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for his brother's life.

November 2: A Run, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

I went for a run this afternoon, testing to see what kind of shape I'm going to be in for Thanksgiving morning's Turkey Trot.  I went two miles, and it nearly killed me.  Losing those three months of summer training really messed things up.  The injury has pretty much mended.  However, my body doesn't really like running at the moment.  Now, the question is whether I register for the two mile Turkey Trot or the 10K.

There's still snow on the ground, but the temperature has climbed into the 40-degree range.  There's slush and puddles.  A few patches of ice.  Some piles of white stuff.  By Wednesday, I'm sure we'll be back to typical November weather.  Cold.  Crisp.  Gray with occasional bursts of sunlight.  And, every once in a while, rain mixed with thicker, whiter rain. 

Today is All Souls' Day.  The Day of the Dead in Mexico.  A time to celebrate loved ones who are no longer with us.  I've been thinking a lot about my brother who passed away in May.  This time of year was his favorite.  He loved the Thanksgiving holidays.  Turkey.  Pumpkin pie with Cool Whip.  I'm not particularly sad.  It's more complicated than that.  It feels like he's on a long trip and soon he'll phone me with one of his terrible jokes.

The episode of Classic Saint Marty is from an All Souls' Day three years ago.  Not surprisingly, it's about loss and life, as well.



November 2, 2011:  Day of the Dead, All Souls' Day

Today is the Day of the Dead (Dia de los Muertos) in Mexico and other Latin American countries.  On the Christian calendar, it's All Souls' Day.  In Mexico, people dress up as skeletons, eat skulls made out of sugar, hold skeleton parades, and visit cemeteries to leave goodies (candy, tequila, whatever) at the graves of the dearly departed.  All Souls' Day isn't quite as much fun.  No costumes.  No All Souls' Day chocolate souls.  No parades.  Just a church service where the people who died during the year are named, remembered, and prayed for.

Granted, the Day of the Dead sounds a little more colorful because of its pagan roots.  However, both versions of this day honor the memories of people who have gone to their eternal reward (or otherwise, if you get my meaning).  I find a day dedicated to honoring the dead very sacred, even if you are dancing around in a Jack Skellington costume.

Get me to a cemetery!

This past year, I've lost a few people from my life.  Most closely, I recently lost an aunt and an uncle.  However, throughout the year, many members of my church family have also passed.  And, at the university, I had two of my students die unexpectedly during the course of two semesters.  As I sit here, typing this post, I'm thinking about these individuals, calling up their faces in my mind, recalling the last time I saw or spoke with them, and saying a prayer for each.  I pray that they have found happiness and peace.  I pray that they left this world with no regrets.  I pray that God gave them a room with a view of the swimming pool.

Perhaps I'll have a drink to honor them tonight, as well.  I'm not a big fan of tequila, but a little spiked hot chocolate will do in a pinch.  Then I'll dig into my kids' Halloween candy and try to find something that approximates a sugar skull.  A Gummi eyeball?  A white jawbreaker?  I could carve a giant Tootsie Roll into the shape of a bone, I think.

All kidding aside, however or whatever you celebrate, the Day of the Dead or All Souls' Day, today you should remember what a gift life is.  Every morning you are able to get out of bed, brush your teeth, hug your significant other, and embarrass your children is a huge gift.  That's the great lesson of this holiday.  In the burial rite in the Book of Common Prayer, there is a line that reads, "In the midst of life, we are in death."

On this day that celebrates the dead, Saint Marty reaches out and gives thanks for the living.

I prefer my skulls to be almond-flavored

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 14: My Brother, Oliver de la Paz, "Mind-Swimming"

I was paging through Oliver de la Paz's poetry collection Names Above Houses when I came across the poem "Mind-Swimming."  The poem made me think of my brother, Kevin, who passed away in May.

My brother was a stroke survivor.  For the five years following his stroke, he never really let his challenges slow him down.  He still was really active in his church.  He never forgot anyone's birthday.  At Thanksgiving, he begged for my mother's pumpkin pie.  And jokes.  He always had a bad joke to share.

My brother wasn't a saint.  He made a lot of mistakes.  He had diabetes and didn't manage it well.  For a long time, he didn't take insulin because it was too expensive.  Yet, he still had the money to buy cartons of cigarettes.  It really was only a matter of time before his choices caught up to him.

I still can't believe he's gone.  I half expect him to call me on my birthday and tell some horrible pun.  At my parents' house, two framed pictures of my brother now hang on the wall, a constant reminder of him.

Saint Marty is a little melancholy this evening.

Mind-Swimming

by:  Oliver de la Paz

A stroke is like that, according to Domingo.  Pulling up on nets, he suddenly felt heavy.  Close attention to things make them strange.  He felt his leg disappear.  He could smell ink from newspapers.  He could hear the flint struck in a lighter miles away.  And like that quick strike of a flame, Domingo fell to the deck of the boat, watching the horizon before him open like the widening pupil of an eye.

He was a flawed, good guy

May 7: A Class by Herself, My Brother, Smiled and Laughed

Wilbur never forgot Charlotte.  Although he loved her children and grandchildren dearly, none of the new spiders ever quite took her place in his heart.  She was in a class by herself.  It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer.  Charlotte was both.

My brother passed away today.  He was 58 years old.  Five years ago, he suffered a stroke, but he was able to regain his ability to walk (with the assistance of a walker) and drive.  In the past year, he'd been suffering from terrible headaches and chest pains.  A few weeks ago, he told my other brother and father that he was tired of hurting all the time.

This morning, he simply didn't wake up.

My sister asked me to write something for his obituary.  Below is my contribution:

Kevin loved to make people laugh.  He always had a new joke, or an old one that was even funnier when he told it again.  He enjoyed spending time with his family, never forgetting a birthday or anniversary.  His mother’s pumpkin pie was his favorite, and he received one from her on his birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and any other day he could talk her into making one.  Kevin loved his children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews, always looking forward to their visits.

My brother, Kevin, was in a class by himself.  Even in his suffering, he smiled and laughed.

Saint Marty will never forget him.

 

Some Brother