July 12: "I Ask You," Calumet, Veterans

Billy Collins finds some peace . . .

I Ask You

by: Billy Collins

What scene would I rather be enveloped in

than this one,

an ordinary night at the kitchen table,

at ease in a box of floral wallpaper,

white cabinets full of glass,

the telephone silent,

a pen tilted back in my hand?

It gives me time to think

about the leaves gathering in corners,

lichen greening the high gray rocks,

and the world sailing on beyond the dunes--

huge, oceangoing, history bubbling it its wake.

Outside of this room

there is nothing that I need,

not a job that would allow me to row to work,

or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4

with cracked green leather seats.

No, it is all right here,

the clear ovals of a glass of water,

a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin,

an odd snarling fish in a frame on the wall,

and these three candles,

each a different height, singing in perfect harmony.

So forgive me

if I lower my head and listen

to the short bass candle as he takes a solo

while my heart

thrums under my shirt--

frog at the edge of a pond--

and my thoughts fly off to a province

composed of one enormous sky

and about a million empty branches.

This poem is about nothing much.  A crate of oranges.  A pen.  Burning candles.  Yet, it's also a poem of profound depth.  One enormous sky filled with a million empty branches.  

I think we've all probably experienced moments like the one Collins is describing.  Static and tranquil, they fill you with a sense of how small you are in a vast and beautiful universe.  The smallness isn't a bad thing.  It simply puts everything into perspective.

Greetings from Calumet, Michigan.  I rolled into town around 7 p.m., checked into my hotel, and immediately went to a rehearsal for the show in which I'm performing tomorrow night--The Red Jacket Jamboree.  When I got back to the hotel, my wife and I took a walk around the downtown area.  

I've been a part of the regular cast of this show for over seven years now.  What started out as a fun diversion in December 2017--an invitation to read some poems on a radio variety show--has become an important part of my life.  The Red Jacket performers and musicians have become family to me.

One of the things Calumet does every summer is hang banners on the light posts of the main thoroughfares.  The banners display pictures of and details about the city's military veterans, from World War I to Afghanistan.  I find the displays incredibly moving.  These individuals from a tiny hamlet in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan changed the world.  Some came home.  Some did not.

On our walk this evening, my wife and I stopped under each banner, read them, studied the young faces (most of them look like babies).  I'm sure none of these people considered themselves special or heroic.  They were simply Johnny and Jane from the Keweenaw Peninsula.  Yet, they put themselves in harm's way to fight for a cause in which they believed.  

Something small (a frog at the edge of a pond) becoming something large (an enormous sky filled with a million branches).

Saint Marty is so thankful for the sacrifices of all of the veterans from all the Calumets across the planet.  

December 18, 19, 20: It's Just Life, Christmas Craziness, Red Jacket Jamboree

For thousands more years, the mighty ships tore across the empty wastes of space and finally dived screaming on to the first planet they came across--which happened to be the Earth--where due to a terrible miscalculation of scale the entire battle fleet was accidentally swallowed by a small dog.

Those who study the complex interplay of cause and effect in the history of the Universe say that this sort of thing is going on all the time, but that we are powerless to prevent it.

"It's just life," they say.

Yes, this sounds about right when it comes to the cause and effect in the history of my universe, as well.  This kind of stuff goes on all the time in my life.  Battles, large and small, end with the snap of a terrier's jaws and a swallow.  Sometimes, problems that seem very large are actually minuscule in the grand scheme of things.

Yes, I have once again taken an extended hiatus from posting because of Christmas craziness.

So, here is a quick run-down of my last few days:

• Wednesday, December 18:  Up at 4:30 a.m.  Arrived at medical office by 6 a.m.  Christmas work potluck.  Secret Santa.  Ornament exchange.  Ate a lot of food I shouldn't have eaten.  Listened to my Christmas essay broadcast on the local Public Radio station.  Cleaned the church in the evening.  (The cleaning took much longer than usual, because it's winter and the marble floors needed to be mopped.  Still sporting some blisters from that one.)  Then I met with my musician friend, Linda, to talk about the music for a poetry reading I'm doing on Saturday.  Home.  Packed for trip to Calumet, Michigan, tomorrow afternoon.  Wrote my annual Christmas letter for my Christmas cards.  Ordered the pictures to go inside the Christmas cards with aforementioned letter.  Bed.
• Thursday, December 19:  Up at 4 a.m.  Got ready for work.  Arrived at medical office at 6 a.m.  Worked until 1 p.m.  Got copies of my annual Christmas letter.  Drove home.  Finished packing.  Took a very short nap.  Picked up by my friend, Harry.  Drove to Calumet.  (Probably the most relaxing time I've had this week.  Good, deep conversation with a friend I care a lot about.  He's a good guy.)  Arrived at the bed and breakfast around 5:30 p.m.  Ate some.  Talked some.  Wrote some.  Rehearsed some for the show tomorrow.  Went to nap some.  Didn't wake up until 5:30 this morning.

So, that's my life, in a very large nutshell, for the past two days.  Currently, I'm sitting in the kitchen nook of the bed and breakfast.  Two of the musicians' cars were impounded early this morning because they left them parked on the street.  For those of you not living in northern climes, there's this little thing called a winter parking ban that all cities in the Upper Peninsula put into effect during the snowy months.  If you leave your car parked overnight on a street, there will be one of two results:  1) you will receive a fairly hefty parking ticket, or 2) your car will be towed away and you will receive a fairly hefty parking ticket.  Option two was put into effect by the police patrolling the mean streets of Calumet last night.  Currently, my two friends are walking to the impound yard to retrieve their vehicles and pay the $125 impound fee.

Things are never boring in my life.  Ever.  I kind of would like boring every once in a while.  No drama.  No imminent catastrophes.  Just normal, day-to-day stuff like who's picking my son up from school, where are my eyeglasses, and I wonder if I left the iron on?  (Yes, that is a reference to the movie Airplane!)  This year, I seem to have been rolling from one crisis to another, with barely enough time to congratulate myself on surviving one crisis before the next one hits.  And this Christmas season has been particularly stressful, money-wise.  Last night, I had exactly $4.24 left in my banking and checking accounts combined.  I'm not sure what the definition of "working poor" is, but if I look it up in the dictionary, I'm afraid I'd find my picture next to it.

This whole day is going to be a whirlwind of show preparations.  I'm performing in the Red Jacket Jamboree this evening.  It has been two years since I've been involved with this radio show, and I've really grown to love all the people involved in it.  They've become family to me.  This morning, it will be script work.  This afternoon, it will be rehearsal in the theater (this time at the Rozsa Center on the campus of Michigan Technological University--a huge venue).  This evening, the performance.  It's kind of a scramble all day long from one deadline to another.

About now, you're thinking to yourself, "What is he getting at with this post?  What's his point?"  My first point is this:  my problems seem huge at the moment ($4.24 in my accounts, impounded cars), but they're really small in comparison to homelessness and hunger and war.  My second point is this:  if anybody has a little boring they're willing to loan me, I'll take it.  Sorry, I can't afford the down payment.  You'll have to extend me a boring credit line.

Saint Marty will be able to pay you back in about . . . five boring years.  It's just life.

June 14-17: Red Jacket Jamboree, Daughter's Grad Party, Open Heart

Zaphod and crew are dealing with a computer whose feelings have been hurt . . .

"Come on," said Eddie sternly.

"Computer . . ." began Zaphod.

"I'm waiting," interrupted Eddie.  "I can wait all day if necessary . . ."

"Computer . . ." said Zaphod again, who had been trying to think of some subtle piece of reasoning to put the computer down with, and had decided not to bother competing with it on its own ground, "if you don't open that exit hatch this moment I shall zap straight off to your major data banks and reprogram you with a very large ax, got that?"

Eddie, shocked, paused and considered this.

Ford carried on counting quietly.  This is about the most aggressive thing you can do to a computer, the equivalent of going up to a human being and saying Blood . . . blood . . . blood . . . blood . . .

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

An icy wind ripped into them, they hugged themselves warmly and stepped down the ramp on to the barren dust of Magrathea.

"It'll all end in tears, I know it," shouted Eddie after them, and closed the hatchway again.

A few minutes later he opened and closed the hatchway again in response to a command that caught him entirely by surprise.

Greetings from the planet of Magrathea!

Just kidding.  I am currently in a hotel room in the city of Calumet.  I am starting this post in the morning on June 14, before I get in the car with my family and drive home.  It has been a hectic couple of days, and this morning is the first time I've had to sit down, relax, and think about anything besides performing at the Calumet Theatre.

The Red Jacket Jamboree performance was last night, and I spent most of yesterday prepping and rehearsing and waiting and rehearsing again.  That's pretty much the way any show of which I've been a part goes.  It can be quite stressful at times, but, somehow, everything comes off with very few hiccups.

And now, for the rest of the weekend, my focus is going to be on my daughter's graduation party, which takes place on Sunday.  Lots of prep work to do for that.  In some ways, it's sort of like getting ready for a show, except that it involves a lot of cooking and crafting and decorating.

I am now going to pause for several hours while I drive home, go to work, and then hit Walmart . . .

Well, as you can tell by the date stamp on this post, it is not several hours later.  It is several days later.  For the last three days, I have been more than a little consumed with my daughter's graduation part, which was yesterday afternoon.  By the time I got home last night, I was more than a little brain dead.  I sat down in one of my living room chairs and promptly fell asleep for an hour or so.

Last night, we had a campfire.  It was my daughter's last night at home before she got on a plane for Washington state this morning to visit her cousins.  So, we played some games, visited, and inhaled a lot of smoke (the winds kept shifting on us).  It was a nice ending to both a day celebrating my daughter and also Father's Day.

Now, sitting here on Monday evening, with some time to contemplate the weekend, my daughter, and life in general.

It was amazing to see so many people come to honor my daughter.  Watching her greet people, laugh with her friends, and be so gracious and attentive to everyone at the party was amazing.  It was a glimpse of the woman she is becoming.  She really does care about everyone.  I've known that for some time, but, yesterday, she demonstrated how really open her heart is.  It wasn't an act.  She was genuinely thrilled to see everyone who walked through the door.

And that is the tale of this past weekend, from theater to bonfire, Calumet to Spokane, worried daddy to proud father.  Please forgive my prolonged absences from blogging these past days.  I wasn't ignoring my disciples.  I was trying to show my daughter how much she means to me.

Saint Marty's cup really does runneth over.

October 4: Two Reasons, Prolonged Absence, Saint Marty's Day Eve

I am writing this post for two reasons.

First, I want to apologize for my prolonged absence.  I have had quite a week of busyness, with teaching and work and whatnot.  Every night I got home, I was exhausted.  Last night, at 9:50 p.m. when I parked in front of my house, I actually had to sit in my car for a few minutes before I could work up the energy to move.  I was beat.  Today, I traveled to Calumet early, helped write some radio scripts, rehearsed for the Red Jack Jamboree, the radio show that records at the Calumet Theatre, and then had a two-and-a-half hour show.  I am back in my hotel room.  Most of my family is asleep.  I know these are all excuses, but it's all I got.

Second, I want to wish all of my disciples a Merry Saint Marty's Day Eve.  That's right.  Tomorrow is the big day.  Hope you have all of your shopping done and your Saint Marty's Day cookies baked.  You have officially run out of time.

If you were expecting anything of depth or substance today, you are out of luck.  What I have just typed has used up the rest of my brain cells tonight.

Saint Marty is thankful to be able to sleep in tomorrow morning.

June 20: Lenelle Moise, "children of immigrants," Trump America

children of immigrants

by:  Lenelle Moise

When I am a toddler, a child, a tween, a teen, and a young adult, I am called an ancestral soul, a ti gran moun, a little old person.

Adults study me and decide that I am wise beyond my years, mature for my age, emotionally ripe. I am told it is unusual to meet a five-ten-fifteen-year-old girl who does not slouch or mumble or speak in monosyllables.

When I do the things that come naturally to me—when I hold my spine up erect, when I wait my turn to speak, when I speak having listened, carefully, when I enunciate, when I look grown-ups in the eye—I am told I must have “been here before.”

"How do you know?" one college professor asks me after she has seen a psychologically violent play I have written at age nineteen. "How do you already know?”

In high school, I charm my teachers. They encourage me to write speeches about feminism that I recite for International Women's Day at City Hall or deliver as part of conference panels at local universities. “If you were older," they tell me, "we would probably be friends.” One of them even flirts with me.

Among my peers I exist somewhere between amicably mysterious and irrevocably dorky. The popular kids greet me in the hallways, but they never invite me to their beer-drenched parties. I will never play Spin the Bottle. I will never play Seven Minutes in Heaven. My mother tells me she is protecting me from boys, but the truth is, after I do my homework, she wants me to type up another family friend’s résumé or resignation letter. At home, I am a bridge, a cultural interpreter, a spokesperson, a trusted ally, an American who is Haitian too, but also definitely American.

The children of immigrants don't get to be children. We lose our innocence watching our parents' backs bend, break. I am an old soul because when I am young, I watch my parents' spirits get slaughtered.

In Haiti, they were middle class. Hopeful teachers. Home owners. They were black like their live-in servants. They donated clothes to the poor. They gave up everything they knew to inherit American dreams. And here, they join factory lines, wipe shit from mean old white men's behinds, scrub five-star hotel toilets for dimes above minimum wage. Here, they shuck and jive and step and fetch and play chauffeur to people who aren't as smart as they are, people who do not speak as many languages as they do. In the 1980s, they are barred from giving blood because newscasters and politicians say that AIDS comes from where they come from: Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, a black magic island that spawns boat people and chaos, a place of illiterate zombies, orphan beggars and brazen political corruption.

When I am a child, my childhood is a luxury my family cannot afford. Their dignity is not spared, so my innocence is not spared. They are humihated and traumatized daily, so I become a nurse to their trauma. I am told too much, so I know too much, so I am wise beyond my years.

When I am six, my mother tells me she found out she was pregnant with me at age nineteen, she “tried to kill the baby." She says "the baby," as if it isn’t me she’s talking about; as if I am not the expensive, scandalous daughter who forced my way into her world despite the abortion-inducing herbal teas she drank and her frantic leaps off of small buildings.

When I am sixteen, my father calls me on the phone to, inevitably, weep. He says, "Living in this country, I have learned not to hope for things. Only you are my hope. Only you."

So—yes, I grow up fast.

__________________________

Greetings from Calumet.  I am in town to perform in the Red Jacket Jamboree, an old-fashioned radio program that's taped at the Calumet Theatre.

I'm pretty tired tonight after a day of traveling and rehearsal.  However, I found this poem that I thought said a lot about immigrants and children.  Pretty appropriate for Trump America.

Saint Marty is still mightily disappointed in his country.