December 25, 2025: Merry Christmas, Gatherings, "World War Tree: A Semi-True Ghost Story"

Merry Christmas to all my faithful disciples!

My wife and I are still on the mend from our recent bouts of illness.  I'm feeling about 90% better, and my wife is probably hitting about 75%.  (Yes, I'm pulling those numbers out of my ass.  They are certainly not based on any empirical evidence aside from the fact that neither one of us had to take a prolonged nap to survive the day.)

In the morning, my wife, son, and I attended Christmas Mass.  My wife was able to sing, although we had to make some last-minute musical substitutions.  My wife simply couldn't perform some of the pieces because of her illness.  Those high notes were just out-of-reach.  Yet, it was a beautiful worship experience, especially when my wife sang one of my favorite songs of all time--"Jesus Messiah" by Chris Tomlin.  Puts me in the weeds every time.

My daughter and her significant other came over in the afternoon, and we had lunch, opened presents, watched some Christmas movies, played some games, and then binged two of the new episodes of Stranger Things (along with probably most of the English-speaking world).  It is now almost 11:30 p.m., and I'm ready for a long winter's nap.

I've been thinking a lot about the meaning of Christmas today.  All those traditions that people hold dear.  This Christmas was nothing like past Christmases.  When I was younger and newly married, my wife and I shuttled between three and four family gatherings each December 25th.  It was exhausting and really didn't allow a whole lot of time for us to truly enjoy the holiday.  

Don't get me wrong.  I love loud, boisterous family gatherings.  In fact, loud and boisterous pretty much describes almost every family Christmas I remember.  My parents loved the chaos that accompanied our holidays.  But most of my blood relatives who truly reveled in yuletide joy have died.  (My sister, Sally, in particular, loved Christmas almost as much as she loved Diet Coke, and she REALLY loved Diet Coke.)  So, Christmas is just . . . different now.

But there will be chaos tomorrow night at my house.  It is our turn to host Christmas for my wife's family.  So, it's turkey with all the fixings, pecan pie, spiked hot chocolate and eggnog, and loudness.  It will be much more like the Christmases I remember.  My wife and I have been married 30 years, and we have been together for 35 years.  My wife's family IS my family.  They've seen me through lots of very difficult times in my life, and I'm very thankful for them.

Yes, I'm feeling a little haunted by Christmases past this year.  Last night, as I was wrapping some of my final presents, I started thinking about my mother and how much I miss her.  Spent a good 20 minutes crying while surrounded by rolls of wrapping paper, scissors, and scotch tape.  That's part of the holidays, too--yearning for lost loved ones.

Saint Marty wrote an essay for public radio this year, a little ghost story to scare up some Christmas spirit in you.

World War Tree:  A Semi-True Ghost Story

by: Martin Achatz

Barbie was dead, to begin with.  This has to be completely understood, or nothing wonderful will come of the story I’m about to relate.  Berton attended Barbie’s burial and sent a card to her only living relative—a great nephew from Frankenmuth who didn’t even come to her funeral.

 Barbie was as dead as a doornail.

 Berton knew she was dead?  Of course he did!  He’d shared an office with Barbie at Iron Town Arts for over ten years.  Together, they’d overseen jazz concerts, productions of Our Town and South Pacific, poetry readings by Billy Collins and Joy Harjo, parades for Picasso Days (Barbie’s brainchild) every July.

 Barbie had been Programmer in Chief for 40 years.  In fact, for most residents of Iron Town, Barbie was simply the “Art Lady.”

For that reason, Berton, who inherited the Programmer in Chief title, never had Barbie’s name removed from Iron Town Arts’ front door.  Year after year, there it stood in flaking gold letters:  Barbie Bradley, PIC.  Sometimes artists still left voice messages for her, seven years after her passing.  Berton never corrected them, and he never touched Barbie’s cluttered desk, leaving it as she had left it the night she died.

Berton also inherited something else from his long-dead partner in art:  the annual Tiny Timathon.  Another brainchild of Barbie (the first, as a matter of fact, in her 40-year reign), the Timathon belied its nom de plume.  Rather than an inspirational amble through a forest of decorated Christmas trees, the Timathon had morphed into what Berton privately referred to as “World War Tree.”

 Local businesses, organizations, and individuals jockeyed for the prime spots in Iron Town Arts’ art gallery, which had been rechristened the Barbie Bradley Salon.  The Jolly Gingers—a group of red-headed hair dressers—insisted on central placement in the Salon to combat institutional ginger bias.  The Moonshine Pluckers—27 amateur banjo players who tortured local assisted living facilities with bluegrass concerts—refused to be placed by the Polka Dots—13 women accordionists who all happened to be named Dorothy.  And Girl Scout Troop #2341 wanted their tree as far away from Girl Scout Troop #3409 as possible due to some longstanding feud regarding cookie territory.  It went on and on and on every year.

Yet, Berton had never seen Barbie lose her yuletide cool ever, even when the Fraternal Order of Caribou threatened to pull their financial support of the Tiny Timathon because of the inclusion of a tree by the Christmas Queens, a local posse of drag performers.  Berton had watched Waino Riintala, Exulted Ruler of the Caribou, lecture Barbie about family values for over 45 minutes.  Then Barbie folded her hands on her desk, smiled, and said sweetly, “Isn’t Miss Ginger Ale, the head of that group, your nephew, Waino?”  Barbie 1, Caribou 0.

Berton didn’t have Barbie’s patience or Christmas spirit.  His first years as Programmer in Chief, Berton tried to convince Iron Town Arts’ Board of Directors to discontinue the Tiny Timathon.  He wanted to replace it with something younger, hipper.

“I’m thinking an Eggnog Dash,” Berton argued, “a 10K race with spiked eggnog stations along the route.”

“I think,” Board President Alma Henderson said, “it’s a bit premature to discuss chloroforming the Tiny Timathon.  Barbie’s only been gone two months.”

“Plus,” Dr. Bingley, another board member, cleared his throat, “people love it.  It’s a tradition.”

Berton saw the writing on the wall.  He was fighting a losing battle.  He gave it one more shot, though.  “You know, slavery was a tradition in this country until Abraham Lincoln came along.”

Alma pressed her lips together and sighed.  “Let’s table this discussion until next year.”  Alma 1, Berton 0.

And next year came and went.  And the next.  And the next.  And the next.

Seven tabled-discussion years later, Berton sat at his desk on Christmas Eve.  He was exhausted.  The Tiny Timathon had occurred two days prior, with its expected array of petty squabbles, broken ornaments, and bruised feelings.  But the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back for Berton:  the “Hallelujah Chorus” played in four-part harmony on kazoos by Iron Town’s fifth grade chorus under the direction of Theta Creed.  Berton had gone home with a migraine, put a frozen pizza in the oven, fallen asleep, and woken to a firefighter pounding on the door of his smoke-filled apartment at 2 a.m.  Berton made his decision that night.

The programming office was adjacent to the Barbie Bradley Salon, and Berton had just strolled through the Christmas trees (57 in total this year), unplugging lights, flipping switches, sweeping up cookie crumbs and stray tinsel.  He was looking forward to his one week of vacation between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Day, his time to take a long winter’s nap devoid of trees, lights, banjos, accordions, and kazoos.  (Berton hadn’t put up a Christmas tree in his place for almost ten years.  He was simply Christmas tree-ed out.)  On January 2, he would send an email to the Board of Directors:  either the Tiny Timathon goes, or he does.

Berton sighed, logged off his computer, and turned off his desk lamp.  He noticed a strange glow creeping under the doorframe into his dark office.  Because he’d just made a sweep of the Salon, the entire building should have been black as the grave.

Berton got up, crossed to his door, and opened it.

Directly outside his office stood the Barbie Bradley Memorial Tree.  The Board of Directors purchased the tree seven Christmases before to keep Barbie’s spirit alive for the Timathon.

Berton clearly recalled tapping the toe button on Barbie’s tree that night, plunging its branches into darkness.  It was always the last thing he did before going home.

The Barbie Bradley Memorial Tree blazed before him.

Berton glanced around the gallery.  “Hello?” he called out, thinking a board member had stopped by without telling him. 

Silence.

He shook his head, trying to convince himself that he’d forgotten to turn off the lights due to CTSD (Christmas Tree Stress Disorder); he tapped the tree’s button with his toe, and the faux evergreen blinked to darkness.

Berton went back into the programming office, shutting the door behind him.

The lamp on Barbie’s cluttered desk, which hadn’t been used for seven years, was switched on, casting a moon of light onto a stack of reports.

Berton walked over to the desk, stared down at the spotlighted papers.  They were just spreadsheets of budgets several years out-of-date.  He looked around to make sure he was alone.  He was.  Shaking his head again, Berton reached down and turned off the lamp.  As he headed back to his desk, his gaze returned to the office door, and he froze.

A strange glow was creeping under the doorframe.

Berton held his breath, calculating his next move.  Grab his winter coat and run out the back entrance?  Lock the door and call the police?  Or march across the room to confront the practical joker?

Berton was not a person who indulged in flights of fancy.  Right before her last Tiny Timathon, Barbie said to him, “Christmas is a time to be haunted by love.”  Berton had laughed and said, “The Taco Bell I ate last night is the only thing that’s haunting me right now.”

He crossed the dark office and opened the door.

The Barbie Bradley Memorial Tree blazed before him.

Berton took a step back, jaw slack with surprise.  Glancing around the dark Salon, he called out, “Whoever is doing this, it’s not funny.  I’m calling the police.”  He leaned over and unplugged the tree from the outlet.  Darkness ate its branches again.

Berton slammed the door and spun around, intent on dialing 911.

The lamp on Barbie’s desk was back on, casting the same moon on the same pile of papers.  However, now sitting on top of the pile was a box no bigger than Berton’s fist.  Berton approached Barbie’s desk, fingers of dread squeezing his throat.

The box was wrapped in brown paper, and Berton could see lettering beneath a thick layer of dust.  He picked up the box and blew on it.  The dust fogged the air briefly then settled.  Berton squinted at the writing.

It was an address.  Barbie’s address. Each letter was blocky and large, as if traced onto the paper by a kindergartner.  Instead of her name, however, the sender had just written “Auntie Barbie” above the street number, in the same clumsy script.  In the lefthand corner was a name (Tim Bradley) and a Frankenmuth return address.

“The long-lost great nephew, I presume,” Berton said under his breath.

Berton paused a moment, feeling as if he was back in high school spying on girls changing in the locker room.  He tore the brown paper off the box and opened its lid.  A photograph tumbled out.

In the picture, a man about 45 years of age was sitting on Santa’s lap, his smile so large it looked like it was eating his face.  The man’s eyes were almond-shaped; his ears, small and low-set.  Berton could tell the man had Down Syndrome.  On the back of the photo, in the same block letters, was an inscription:  Timmy loves Santa!

Berton set aside the photo and reached into the box, removing a plastic Christmas tree ornament.  Someone had drawn a green triangle on the ornament and peppered the triangle with shiny gold star stickers.  On the ornament’s opposite side was another handwritten message:  Tiny Tim ♥ Auntie Barbie! 

Berton stood holding the ornament in his palm.  Understanding flushed his cheeks and forehead.  “Tiny Timathon,” he whispered.  He heard, or thought he heard, Barbie’s words again, softly, like snow falling in the night:  Christmas is a time to be haunted by love.

Berton looked back at his office door. 

The strange glow was again creeping under the doorframe.

Berton carried the ornament across the room to the door and opened it.

The Barbie Bradley Memorial Tree blazed before him.  It was still unplugged, but all the lightbulbs in its branches were glowing like winter constellations.

Berton walked to the tree and hung Timmy’s ornament on it.  He stood there unmoving.  One by one, all the trees in the Salon blinked on until the entire room looked like it was on fire.

Berton watched all this happen calmly, as if he was waiting for a traffic signal to change.  When the final tree came to life, Berton nodded his head almost imperceptibly.  He opened his lips to speak, but then closed them again without saying a word, as if he didn’t want to break the spell.

Finally, he took a deep, deep breath.  “I surrender,” he said.  “God bless us, everyone.”

December 25: "When the Roses Speak, I Pay Attention," Christmas Day, "Joy to the World"

Mary Oliver learns about joy from roses . . .

When the Roses Speak, I Pay Attention

by:  Mary Oliver

"As long as we are able to

be extravagant we will be

hugely and damply

extravagant.  Then we will drop

foil by foil to the ground.  This

is our unalterable task, and we do it

joyfully."

And they went on.  "Listen,

the heart-shackles are not, as you think,

death, illness, pain,

unrequited hope, not loneliness but

lassitude, rue, vainglory, fear, anxiety,

selfishness."

Their fragrance all the while rising

from their blind bodies, making me

spin with joy.

Merry Christmas to all my loyal disciples!

Today has been all about family and spinning with joy like Oliver's roses.  We spent the morning opening presents and having breakfast quiche with our kids.  Then I took a little nap before heading to my sisters' house for lunch and more present opening.  Ham and cookies.  After the last gift was unwrapped, we sat down to play board games.

And the world was green and foggy, nary a snowflake in sight.  One of the warmest yuletides I can ever recall, with temperatures in the forties.  

Now, I'm watching Christmas with the Kranks, still spinning with joy.

It's going to be difficult going to work tomorrow after all this food and family and happiness.

Saint Marty's Christmas essay for Public Radio this year was all about joy . . . 

Joy to the World

 Joy is elusive.

 I have a poet friend who’s been chasing it for years.  Hers is an albino whitetail that haunts the woods and cemeteries and trails around our town on the shores of an arctic inland sea.  Ever since she moved here, she’s longed for a close encounter with this scrap of winter, its marble haunches and swan neck.  I often wonder if, when she sees it, she will burst into blossom, shudder into glory like a peacock.

 Another friend, a physicist, searches the heavens for joy, magnifies with binoculars and telescope the shadows of lunar craters, blurs of comet tails, flashes of Geminids flinting through December stars.  When he finds it, will he blaze like an aurora, an emerald waterfall at the birth of night?

 Still another friend listens for joy in the green cantatas of birds, The whistle of Black-capped Chickadees, rubber-ducky squeaks of nuthatches, weirdo-weirdo-weirdo of cardinals.  I imagine when she finally hears joy, she will bristle into down and plume, leap into flight.

 The poet Mary Oliver once wrote, “We shake with joy, we shake with grief.  What a time they have, these two housed as they are in the same body.”

 I often think of joy and grief as best friends climbing the hills of Croagh Patrick in Ireland, hiking the miles of the Camino through Napoleon Pass in the Pyrenees.  Every once in a while, they sit down and share a lunch of foraged raspberries or blueberries, perhaps at the edge of a field studded with grazing sheep.  They listen to the bleats and baas, fill their mouths with wild, sweet wonder.

 I have known joy in flesh and blood.  Have written poetry with her.  Gobbled kumquats with her.  Sat around a fire with her, telling stories of dying sisters, Bigfoot rambles, Christmas, and cormorants.  Joy’s name was Helen.

Helen was simultaneously tiny and huge, containing multitudes.  The first time I saw her, sitting in her English Department office, legs pretzeled underneath her, speaking with a student about his essay, I thought to myself, “She’s a Sandhill Crane, gawky and graceful.”  When she saw me standing in the hallway, she smiled . . . no . . . she beamed at me, waving both her hands, as if one hand wasn’t enough to communicate her excitement.

 “Troy,” she said to her student, “this is Marty,” pulling my name out of thin air like a magician.  The Great Helini.  We’d never spoken before.  “He’s a wonderful writer and teacher,” she said.  She’d never read my poems or seen me in a classroom.  “And,” she said, “he’s my good friend.”

 That’s what joy does.  It takes you by surprise, appearing like thunder snow or a wedge of Snow Geese in a November sky.  Something so ordinary and so astonishing it stops you mid-breath and, forever more, you are changed.

 Helen always spoke in metaphor.  In a world of calculus and physics, she embraced the unknown, unknowable, transformed them into oceans and moonlight.  When I was struggling with the loss of my mother a few years ago, Helen texted me, “I want to be salt air, wild raspberries, Bigfoot strength.  I want poems to flow . . . I hold you in love . . . I hold your mom in love.”  For Helen, a hummingbird was the finger of God; the Mediterranean, a teardrop.

As I sit writing these words, snow has begun to fall outside my window—big, thick flakes that look like a riot of Snow Buntings.  It will soon stop, I’m sure, because nothing so joyfully beautiful can last long.  It appears, slaps you in the eyes, then vanishes like a comet to the other side of the galaxy.

 In 2020, the comet Neowise returned to our neck of the Milky Way for the first time in 6,800 years.  June and July, it was visible to the naked eye, a cosmic checkmark in the stars. 

 Wonder?  Check.  Beauty?  Check.  Joy?  Check. 

Helen and I became comet chasers.  The first time she saw it, she texted me, “I saw Neowise in the V between the trees across the street.  What a wonderful bedtime blessing it is!”  Eventually, she chased it to the top of Jasper Knob near her home, gazing into the heavens, stunned and undone.

 Me?  I climbed to the top of Sugarloaf Mountain one night with my family.  As I stepped onto the summit, my head pointed upward, I tried to orient myself, searching for the Big Dipper.  I knew that, once I located that constellation, I could easily find Neowise.  It took only a moment.  The sky was milky with stars, and there was the handle and pan of the Dipper.  I imagined a stream of water cascading from the pan in an arc (not hard to do with the sound of Lake Superior's surf in the dark below).  At the base of that arc was Neowise, a smudge of powdery light.

 It was a moment almost 7,000 years in the making.  I stood there, mouth open.  I felt connected to something much larger than myself.  The last time Neowise appeared in the sky was roughly 5,000 years before the nativity of Christ.  The wheel had just been invented.  Farming was a fairly new innovation—having only started in Mesopotamia around two millennia prior.  The woolly mammoth could have seen Neowise, but not any of the pharaohs.  The Egyptian civilization wouldn't appear for another 1,800 years.  No pyramids.  No mummies.  Hammurabi and his code weren't even a twinkle in the universe's eyes.  The Trojan War hadn't been fought.  Homer wasn't singing.  And Rome wouldn't be built for almost 5,000 years.

 And there I stood, in the middle of a global pandemic, gaping at Neowise the way, I imagine, those mammoths 7,000 years ago never did.  They simply went about the business of eating, sleeping, moving, and mating.  Meanwhile, that smear of light kept climbing away and away.  The mammoths disappeared, and humankind took over, with its stupid need to explain and dissect and define.

 Helen was a magi that summer.  So was I.  Following a star.  Filled with hope and joy.

 The snow has stopped outside my window now, those icy Snow Buntings settled into hungry flocks, eating the ground and sidewalks.  As I said, nothing with such beauty and joy lasts forever.

Helen died a year-and-a-half ago, on a late August Sunday filled with light and warmth.  Two weeks before, she’d phoned me one last time.

 “Marty,” she said, her voice both weak and strong, “I’m ready.”

 I sat with the phone at my ear, took a deep breath.  I told her I loved her.  Told her how much joy she’d brought into my life.  How she would always be a shining part of me.  A piece of polished sea glass.  A gift.

 “I love you, too,” she said.  “I’ll be with you.  Always.”

 This Christmas, winter is late in coming.  The maple across the street is still clothed in rust-colored leaves; patches of green grass, still visible beneath a thin dust of white.  As the days grow shorter and shorter, solstice approaching, I think of a snow-white deer in alder and pine.  The flash of cardinal against a sky so blue it hurts the eyes. 

 And I think of Helen, shaking with joy, shaking with grief, dancing through the constellations, following Neowise to some distant Bethlehem on the other side of the universe.

November 28: Powerful Speaker, Parliament, Worry Wednesday

"...You're quite a powerful speaker, Sir...I wonder you don't do into Parliament.."

Yes, Scrooge admires his nephew's facility with words.  Fred can talk.  He gives good speech.  In some way, I think Fred is closest to Dickens' real voice and ideas.  Certainly, Fred eloquently points out the shortcomings of Scrooge's beliefs about Christmas.

Public speaking is the number one fear for almost everyone on this planet.  Given the choice between death and talking in front of a group of strangers, the "normal" person would select the grave.  That's a serious fear.

I have never had a problem with speaking.  I've been doing it for so long that it simply doesn't phase me any more.  There is only one time of the year when I have an issue with opening my mouth and talking.  Tomorrow is that one time.

I finished my Christmas essay the day after Thanksgiving.  Now I have to go to the local Public Radio Station and record it for a series of Holiday Readings that's going to air in December.  In the past, I've been able to complete this task in one take.  I have never had to repeat my performance.

However, when I sit in front of that microphone, I get a little anxious.  Actually, I get a lot anxious.  I only have one hour to accomplish this feat this year.  I scheduled my recording session for 2 p.m.  I have to teach at 3 p.m.  That doesn't leave a whole lot of wiggle room for making mistakes.  I've practiced and rehearsed.  I've read the essay twice aloud without stuttering or swearing.  That means absolutely nothing.  I've also read it three times, messing up the same sentence each and every time..

That is Saint Marty's worry this Wednesday.  He wants to sound like Fred the nephew, not Porky the Pig.

Th-th-th-th-that's all, folks!!

November 16: A Visitation, Bell Tolled One, P.O.E.T.S. Day

Scrooge lay in this state until the chimes had gone three quarters more, when he remembered, on a sudden, that the Ghost had warned him of a visitation when the bell tolled one.  He resolved to lie awake until the hour was passed; and, considering that he could no more go to sleep than go to Heaven, this was perhaps the wisest resolution in his power.

Scrooge is awaiting the appearance of the first of the yuletide spirits.  He's not sure what he's in for.  Marley's Ghost was not a pleasant apparition, wrapped in chains and bellowing at the top of his vapory lungs.  This second ghost could be anything, and Scrooge is a little terrified, I think.

Today is P.O.E.T.S Day.  Some time in these next 24 hours, I vow to post a new, original poem.  The problem is that I'm sort of like Scrooge right now.  I'm waiting for my poem to appear.  I have no idea what shape or form it's going to take.  It could be a sonnet or haiku.  It could be free verse or iambic pentameter.  It could come screaming into my head, fully formed, or it could approach like a mouse, nibbling away until it is revealed or trapped.

Scrooge isn't sure the next spirit is even going to show up.  I, on the other hand, will post whatever crap I'm able to get down on paper.  Even if it's a bad poem, it will appear on this blog.  It's that threat that keeps me focused.  I do not want to be embarrassed by whatever I come up with.

I have another writing project to complete this weekend, as well.  It's my annual Christmas essay.  I've already got a strong start, but I haven't had a chance to return to it in the last day or so.  I have to record this essay for the local Public Radio station soon, so I must get it done.  The goal I have set for myself:  Sunday night it will be finished.

For now, though, Saint Marty is all about poetry.  He wonders if posting a poem by Robert Frost would be cheating.  Something obscure, not having to do with snowy woods or broken walls or forking roads.

I didn't write this.

November 18: Radio Station, More Decorating, Not Freaking

This morning, I have to go the our local Public Radio station to record my Christmas essay.  That's right.  I received an e-mail and a phone call yesterday/last night to confirm my time.  At 9 a.m., I will be sitting in a sound-proof booth, reading my little piece.  I've practiced it a few times and think I can get through it without a problem.  It's a difficult essay for me.  A little painful and dark.  However, I think it's a side of Christmas not too many people know.  That's why I wrote it.

Saint Marty , on the air

This morning, at work, I also have to do some more Christmas decorating, if I'm going to remain on schedule.  It shouldn't take me too long.  The hardest part of the whole process is taking down the old decorations and dragging out the boxes of Christmas finery.  That will take me a while.  After that's done, I'll be able to throw things together fairly quickly.  But it's a lot of work.  My whole goal with decorating at work is to have it all finished by the day before Thanksgiving.  That way, when I show up for work on Black Friday, I can just sit back and bask in the Christmas glow.  And eat a lot of chocolate.

I was cataloging all of things I have to accomplish by next weekend.  Grading.  Reading.  Decorating.  Writing.  Organizing a church service.  Rehearsing music.  I'm trying not to freak out.  However, freaking out is one of my specialities.  I need to keep myself in check.  With my personality, that's kind of tough.

Wish Saint Marty luck at the radio station this morning.  He needs to be in fine voice.

November 7: Laptop, Problems, Monday Blahs

Yes, I am blogging on my laptop for various and sundry reasons too complicated and annoying to dwell on.  It's going to take me a while to get used to this new keyboard and screen.  I'm used to a desktop.  Bigger screen.  Better keyboard.  However, that's not an option at the moment.

I had several problems trying to get this little ThinkPad to work for me.  Regardless of the fact that I have a blog, I'm not a very technologically advanced person.  I know enough to get around.  This morning, however, I had to figure out how to connect to the Internet with this bastard.  It brought me to a complete halt for about a half hour.  Obviously, I figured it out, but what a pain in the ass.  I'm kinda proud of myself for working through it instead of doing what I normally do, which is throw myself on the mercy of my computer savvy coworker (she has an iPad) or call my friend from IT.

I have a definite case of the Monday blahs today.  Didn't really want to get out of bed when the alarm went off.  Of course, I did drag myself to the shower, can of Diet Coke in hand.  I did manage to shave, wash, and get dressed.  I barely remember the drive to my office.  I was on complete autopilot.  Then I ran into my little laptop issue.

Lots of work to accomplish today.  If you're wondering why I didn't post any poems last week, it's because I'm working on a Christmas essay for the local Public Radio station.  It's going to take me a few more days, so please be patient with me.  I promise that as soon as I'm done with the essay, the poetry will return.  And I will post the essay, but not until Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.

Well, I'm no longer alone in my office.  People are showing up, and my time of solitude is at an end.  I actually have to start being a productive employee.

Saint Marty has to play it the company way.  For a while, anyway.

Yup, this says it all