October 28: "A Question About Birds," Puppy's Favorite Toy, Universal

When I throw my puppy's favorite toy, I see her joy when she snatches it out of the air.  When I sit on the couch in the living room at night, I hear my son's joy as he plays video games with his friends.  When I walked across campus to teach this morning, I passed two young men walking together, holding hands, joyful in each other's closeness and love.  When I ate a blueberry muffin my wife made this afternoon, I tasted joy.

Joy needs no translator.

Billy Collins goes birdwatching . . . 

A Question About Birds

by: Billy Collins

I am going to sit on a rock near some water 

or on a slope of grass 

under a high ceiling of white clouds, 

and I am going to stop talking 

so I can wander around in that spot 

the way John Audubon might have wandered 

through a forest of speckled sunlight, 

stopping now and then to lean 

against an elm, mop his brow, 

and listen to the songs of birds. 

Did he wonder, as I often do, 

how they regard the songs of other species? 

Would it be like listening to the Chinese 

merchants at an outdoor market? 

Or do all the birds perfectly understand one another? 

Or is that nervous chittering 

I often hear from the upper branches 

the sound of some tireless little translator?

Of course, the catalyst for joy is different for all creatures.  I can't feel joy over a fat earthworm, but a robin can.  I will sing Billy Joel's "Captain Jack" at the top of my lungs every time I hear it, but my son makes me turn off my music when I drop him off at school in the morning.  Some evenings, I watch rabbits graze joyfully on the grass in my backyard, the antennae of their ears twitching for danger.

Some afternoons, I walk down to Lake Superior to listen to waves as I eat my lunch.  That brings me joy.  Tonight, I listened to an arrow of geese flying overhead, and their joyful blats and honks sounded like a New Year's Eve party.  Even autumn leaves spinning in whirlwinds look like kids on a merry-go-round, dizzy with joy.

While Collins wonders if birdsongs need translation from one feathered chanteuse to another, I think joy is pretty universal--I recognize it everywhere.  That doesn't mean that I'm perpetually joyful.  However, it does mean that joy is as abundant as oxygen.  Take a deep breath, and you can taste it.

Saint Marty is now going to joyfully brush his teeth and watch a little Hocus Pocus on Disney+.

December 29: Utter Blackness, New Year's Eve Party, Snowstorm

Out of the utter blackness stabbed a sudden point of blinding light.  It crept up by slight degrees and spread sideways in a thin crescent blade, and within seconds two suns were visible, furnaces of light, searing the black edge of the horizon with white fire.  Fierce shafts of color streaked through the thin atmosphere beneath them.

Douglas Adams is describing the twin sunrises on the planet of Magrathea.  It's all about light piercing through the darkness, burning away night.  It's an image that is quite moving, especially for a book that, for the most part, is all farce.  Something is on the horizon.  Something bright and clear.

I have spent most of today preparing for the coming new year, which is on the horizon in about two days.

Every December 31st, since I was in sixth grade, I have organized a New Year's Eve party at my parents' house.  I started the tradition because, as a child,  I was jealous of my mother and father and older siblings going out for New Year's Eve, returning home in the wee morning hours, slightly inebriated and sporting party hats and noisemakers.  I started collecting their party favors until, one year, I had enough supplies to throw my own Auld Lang Syne get-together.  Eventually, all of my family decided that my party, with its games and food and prizes, was better than the drunken debauches of the outside world.  Thus, the annual Saint Marty Family New Year's Eve Bash was born.

We've had balloon drops at midnight, featuring about three hundred balloons.  One year, we had a pina colada bar.  (Just one year.  I got so drunk that year that I still can't smell coconut with getting nauseated.)  The guest list has grown and shrunk, expanded and contracted.  Family members have died and married and moved away.  Boyfriends have come and gone.  Close friends have migrated to places like Florida and New Zealand.  Yet, the party goes on, every year.

I am excited to be out of 2019, which has not been kind to me, as most of you know.  There are no guarantees that 2020 will be any better, but there is the possibility of more joy than heartache.  Possibly even a happily ever after.   Who knows?

In the mean time, tomorrow, December 30, my little corner of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is bracing for a winter storm.  If the National Weather Service predictions are accurate, by tomorrow night at this time, there may be an additional ten to twelve inches of snow on the ground.  I am praying that is not the case.  In my old(er) age, I have grown to dislike most winter weather events, unless they involve warming trends and lots of melting.

And tomorrow evening, I'm doing a poetry reading at my home church, if the weather cooperates.  I think it's going to be wonderful.  Lots of food and wine.  Music provided by some friends of mine.  And Christmas poems and a Christmas essay.  As the song goes, these are a few of my favorite things, minus the impending snowstorm.  Any day that involves poetry is a good day.

In these waning days of 2019, Saint Marty has been pretty blessed.

December 31: Forever and Ever, New Year's Eve Party, Ebola and Amen

With pained but transcendent eyes, bearded and regal, He would come down the central aisle toward Ives, and placing His wounded hands upon Ives' brow, give His blessing before taking him away, and all others who were good in this world, off into His heaven, with its four mysterious winds, where they would be joined unto Him and all that is good forever and ever, without end.

The last paragraph of Mr. Ives' Christmas.  The last day of 2015.  Ives is in church, an old man.  He may be dreaming, or he may be entering into his eternal reward.  There is a certain finality in the passage.  A Second Coming, as it were.  The end and the beginning.  Alpha and omega.

Happy New Year's Eve.  I am at my family's annual get-together.  We have had weenies wrapped in crescents.  Cheetos.  Peanut butter M&Ms.  Cheeses.  Crackers.  And now that everyone has eaten their fill, we have moved on to board games.  So far, we have played Apples to Apples and Mad Gab.  We are now moving on to a game called Times to Remember.

This afternoon, on my way home from work, I stopped by the cemetery to visit my sister's grave.  Her stone was buried under a few inches of fresh snow.  I brushed it off so that her name was visible in the cold air.  Then I stood there and said a little prayer.  Told my sister that she would be missed at the New Year's party.  You see, she was always in the thick of things.  Cooking in the kitchen.  Playing games with the kids.  Making sure that everyone was having a good time.

The party's a little quieter this year.  My parents went to bed around 7:30 p.m.  The kids are older, less rambunctious.  The two older ones (my daughter and her friend who's a boy) are texting and laughing.  My son is watching videos on my sister's iPhone.  And the Christmas tree is flashing and rotating in front of the window.

The crowds are gathering in Times Square, huddled in the cold, waiting for midnight.  In some parts of the world, it is already 2016.  The countdowns have been chanted.  The fireworks shot off.  Champagne drunk.  Kisses exchanged.

Last year on New Year's Eve, I made the mistake of saying that 2015 had to be better than 2014.  I was wrong, of course.  Let's do a greatest hits of 2015:

• my sister died of lymphoma of the brain
• my kitchen ceiling collapsed
• my teenage daughter is in high school
• my teenage daughter is dating (I think)
• my job as Poetry Editor of the university's literary magazine ended

At midnight tonight, I will not say that 2016 will be better than 2015.  If I do that, I will probably end up contracting Ebola or mad cow disease.  Instead, I will raise my glass of sparkling juice and simply say, "To those we love, to those we lost, we raise our cups for happiness and peace."

Saint Marty is ready for a new year.  A leap year.  A year of goodness.  A year of blessings.  Amen.  Alleluia.

December 30: Italian Cold Cuts, New Year's Eve Party, Letter of Recommendation, Calvin and Hobbes

Earlier in the day Ives had walked over from the office to Ninth Avenue during lunchtime, to buy boxes of Italian cold cuts and pastries, and these were set out on a table as a buffet...

Ives is buying Italian cold cuts and pastries for his annual Christmas tree decorating party.  Family and friends and children come to his apartment, and, while the adults eat and drink, the kids decorate his Christmas tree.  It's an Ives' family tradition.

This evening, I went shopping with my sister for our annual New Year's Eve party.  We have been having this party at my parents' house since I was a twelve or thirteen.  I sort of started the tradition because I got tired of seeing my parents and older siblings disappearing on December 31st and coming back well after midnight wearing party hats and blowing horns.  I was missing out on something.  So I decided that, if I couldn't go to the party, the party was going to come to me.

It used to be a much bigger shindig, with almost fifteen or so people attending.  But, because of relocation and choice and death, the party tomorrow night will be a much smaller affair.  Seven adults and three kids.  There will be food and games.  At midnight, we will put on hats and blow horns and gather around the piano to sing "Auld Lang Syne."  It will be a good time.

This evening, I had to write a letter of recommendation for a former student of mine.  She is applying to graduate schools, and my recommendation was due on January 1.  I really didn't want to take time out of my New Year's Eve party to write my recommendation, so I did it tonight.  Just submitted it.

Now, I am going to take some Nyquil and go to bed.  Long day.  Long night.  Short time to sleep.

Don't forget to vote in Saint Marty's book poll.

What will next year's book be:

• The Road  by Cormac McCarthy?
• The Color Purple by Alice Walker?
• Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard?
• The World According to Garp by John Irving?

Are you perfect?

December 28: Post-Christmas Exhaustion, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

Well, it finally caught up with me.  For the past two weeks, I've been running on about four to five hours of sleep a night.  Stressing over Christmas presents and cards and poems and CDs.  Christmas church services.  And, of course, the ever-present money worries.  This afternoon, I sat down in a chair and fell asleep.  I slept for a good two hours.  A long winter's nap.

I still have Christmas things to finish up.  I've got Christmas poems to deliver to friends.  This Thursday, my book club is coming over for a discussion of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.  I've got to get my house in some kind of order before that night.  Tomorrow, I have a funeral to attend.  Plus, I have a New Year's Eve party to put together.  I love the holidays, but, when they're done, I usually need a vacation to recover.

As 2014 draws to a close, I have many things for which to be grateful.  My kids are great.  My wife has a job.  I'm teaching poetry next semester.  I've been nominated for the post of U. P. Poet Laureate again.  Yes, this year has had more than its share of challenges.  There has been so much upheaval and change, I barely recognize my current life.  To be frank, I will not look back on these past 365 days fondly.  However, God has given me the strength to endure and succeed in the face of a great deal of hardship.

Saint Marty's still standing, still laughing, still blogging. 

Today's classic episode comes from the first season of Saint Marty:

December 28, 2010:  The Holy Innocents

I hope you had a great Christmas, full of peace, joy, and enough baked goods to clog an artery.  After all, that's what Christmas is supposed to be about--families gathered around fireplaces, toasting marshmallows, and singing "Away in the Manger" or "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer," depending upon your spiritual inclinations.  Really, Christmas is a time to celebrate and reflect upon all the blessings in your life.  I believe most people don't do this enough.

But there's another side to Christmas, and today's feast is a reflection of it.  Today, the church celebrates the feast of the Holy Innocents.  It's a day that's meant to honor all of the babies who were killed in Bethlehem by Herod's soldiers after the birth of Christ.  In the whole Christmas narrative, this portion of the story doesn't get dwelled on too much.  It's ugly, brutal, bloody, and sorrowful.  It doesn't fit into the modern image of Christmas.  Now, some historians and archaeologists will say that, outside of the gospels, there is not physical, verifiable proof that Herod's slaughter of the innocents ever took place.  My response to that:  it doesn't matter.  This part of the story is as important a matter of faith as the donkeys, angels, shepherds, and kings.

This year, I was reminded over and over that Christmas wasn't meant for the "perfect" families and people of the world.  It was meant for people who, like the mothers and fathers of Bethlehem, are dealing with inconceivable loss and pain.  One family I know is dealing with the sudden death of its father/grandfather/husband.  His loss came on the day we were supposed to celebrate the church's Sunday School Christmas program.  When I showed up for worship December 24, I found out that the father of one of our choir members had died just an hour-and-a-half earlier.  It was a heavy night.

Myself, I've been struggling to maintain my yuletide spirit, as well.  As a worship leader, I kept losing musicians and singers through Advent.  Some moved.  Some had other commitments.  On December 22, I lost my main guitarist.  Band members kept dropping out like Republicans at a universal health care convention.  It wasn't pretty.  On Christmas day, I was trying to extricate one of my daughter's new toys from its box.  In the process of sawing through a plastic clip with a serrated knife, I stabbed myself in the wrist.  The knife sank in, came out, and the blood started pumping.  A LOT of blood.  So I ended up at the local ER, getting stitches and feeling like a stupid ass.  My mashed potatoes got burned for dinner that night, filling the kitchen with smoke.  On the following evening, a shelf collapsed in my mother's kitchen cupboards, sending all of the Corelle plates and bowls crashing down on top of me.  I found myself standing in my stocking feet in a pile of glass shards.  Later, as I was leaving to go home, I put on my brand new, L&L Bean winter coat and tried to zip it up.  The zipper broke.

By December 27, I was ready to heave my tree out the window and shred the Christmas cards I'd received.  I know Christmas is a celebration of the birth of Christ, but all I'm celebrating right now is the half bottle of Baileys Irish Cream in my cupboard at home.  I'm ready to join George Bailey on that bridge.

That's what Christmas was for me this year.  Death.  Disappointment.  Self-mutilation.  Destruction.  I felt more kinship to the wailing mothers and fathers of Bethlehem than the shepherds or magi.  In some ways, I think that's really appropriate. 

Christ didn't come into the world to save the "perfect" people.  He came into the world to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable, as a friend likes to remind me.  He came into the world for dumbasses with serrated knives.

Christmas is about the music of angel choirs in the heavens.

But Christmas is also about the weeping of the heartbroken in cold, dark streets.

Confessions of Saint Marty

VOTE FOR ME FOR U. P. POET LAUREATE (voting ends December 31):

U. P. Poet Laureate Voting