October 4: "Tension," Saint Marty's Day Eve, Suddenly

I'm not a big fan of things happening suddenly.  I prefer a more gradual pace, giving me plenty of time to adjust to any changes or revisions in my universe.  As I've said in many prior posts, I don't like anything that even smacks of the unexpected.

Billy Collins, on the other hand, is often taken by surprise . . . 

Tension

by: Billy Collins

Never use the word suddenly just to 

create tension.

— Writing Fiction

Suddenly, you were planting some yellow petunias
outside in the garden,
and suddenly I was in the study
looking up the word oligarchy for the thirty-seventh time.

When suddenly, without warning,
you planted the last petunia in the flat,
and I suddenly closed the dictionary
now that I was reminded of that vile form of governance.

A moment later, we found ourselves
standing suddenly in the kitchen
where you suddenly opened a can of cat food
and I just as suddenly watched you doing that.

I observed a window of leafy activity
and beyond that, a bird perched on the edge
of the stone birdbath
when suddenly you announced you were leaving

to pick up a few things at the market
and I stunned you by impulsively
pointing out that we were getting low on butter
and another case of wine would not be a bad idea.

Who could tell what the next moment would hold?
another drip from the faucet?
another little spasm of the second hand?
Would the painting of a bowl of pears continue

to hang on the wall from that nail?
Would the heavy anthologies remain on the shelves?
Would the stove hold its position?
Suddenly, it was anyone's guess.

The sun rose ever higher in the sky.
The state capitals remained motionless on the wall map
when suddenly I found myself lying on a couch
where I closed my eyes and without any warning

began to picture the Andes, of all places,
and a path that led over the mountains to another country
with strange customs and eye-catching hats,
each one suddenly fringed with colorful little tassels.

I took today off from my job at the library.  That doesn't mean I sat around contemplating the hairs on my toes.  I kept myself insanely busy, working on a book tour for November, shopping for ice cream cake, practicing music for church services, taking my puppy for a long walk.  None of those things, by the way, were surprises, in case you were wondering.

It is Saint Marty's Day Eve.  I hope you've all bought your Saint Marty's day presents, baked your Saint Marty's Day cookies, trimmed your Saint Marty's Day trees, and watched How the Grinch Stole Saint Marty's Day.  Maybe you even pulled up an album on iTunes of Bing Crosby singing some Saint Marty's Day carols like "White Saint Marty's Day" and "I Heard the Bells on Saint Marty's Day."  And don't forget to make a pot of the traditional Saint Marty's Day treat--tapioca pudding--for tomorrow's celebrations.

The sky blazed orange at dusk tonight.  No surprise there, though.  For the last week or so, the sunrises and sunsets have been stunning.  I've finished all my work for the day.  Now, mamma in her kerchief and I in my cap are just settling our brains for a long autumn nap.  Barring anything unforeseen, I will soon brush my teeth and get ready for bed, where visions of tapioca will dance in my head.

No suddenly this Saint Marty's Day, which exactly the way that Saint Marty likes it.

October 4: Saint Marty's Day Eve, Annual Reading, "'Twas the Night Before Saint Marty's Day"

Greetings on this Saint Marty's Day Eve!

It is late, I know.  All of you are probably setting out trays of Saint Marty's Day cookies and maybe eating some warm tapioca.  Possibly, you're watching a Saint Marty's Day TV special, like A Charlie Brown Saint Marty's Day or How the Grinch Stole Saint Marty's Day.  I will probably stay up late to watch Pope Francis celebrate the midnight Saint Marty's Day Mass at Saint Peter's Basilica online.

I'm wishing all of you a peaceful Saint Marty's Day Eve.

And now for the annual reading of . . .

'Twas the Night Before Saint Marty's Day

'Twas the night before Saint Marty's Day, when all through the house,

not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

in hopes that Saint Marty soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

while visions of tapioca danced in their heads.

And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

had just settled our brains for a long autumn's nap.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen leaves

gave the luster of midday to shadows by the eaves,

when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

but a kind, saintly figure, full of good cheer.

With a laugh so infectious, so lively and hardy, 

I knew in a moment it must be Saint Marty.

More rapid than eagles, his coursers he came,

and he whistled and shouted and called saintly names:

"Now Peter!  Now John!

Now, Francis and Paul!

On, Theresa!  On, Bernadette!

On, Good Old John Paul!

To the top of the porch!

To the top of the wall!

Now bless away!  Bless away!

Bless one and all!

As dry leaves that before a wild hurricane fly,

when they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky,

so up to the housetop the courser's he flew,

looking like Brad Pitt, and George Clooney, too!

And then, in a twinkling, I heard up above me

saintly feet walking and dancing, so help me!

As I drew in my head and was turning around,

down the chimney Saint Marty came with a bound!

He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,

and his clothes were all dusted with ashes and soot.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his shoulders,

And he looked like a vision--a good, Christian soldier!

His eyes--how they sparkled!  His smile, how white!

His face, so angelic this Saint Marty's night!

His demeanor was gentle, peaceful and quiet.

He looked so handsome that he could cause a riot.

His halo and wings shone in the moonlight,

his robes were like snow, brilliantly bright.

He raised his hands in a blessing, filled with such grace,

that even the pope would hang his head in disgrace.

He was pleasant and smart, a saintly good fellow,

and I laughed when I saw him, and offered him Jell-O.

But a wink of his eye and a shake of his head

soon gave me to know he wanted tapioca instead.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work.

and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk,

And laying a finger aside of his nose,

and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to the roof, and took to the wind.

I watched him with awe ascend and ascend.

But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he flew out of sight,

"Happy Saint Marty's Day to all, and to all a good night."

Joe Biden celebrating Saint Marty's Day . . . 

October 4: Saint Marty's Day Eve, Hectic Couple of Days, Blessed

I am settling in for a long, autumn's nap.  It has been a very hectic couple of days, and I am quite tired.

However, I want to take a moment to say how blessed I am by the people in my life.  My friends and family have made this day wonderful for me, and I am overwhelmed by the kindness and love I've been gifted with today.  It has been a Saint Marty's Day Eve that I will never forget.

And now, the annual reading of . . .

'Twas the Night Before Saint Marty's Day

'Twas the night before Saint Marty's Day, when all through the house,

not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

in hopes that Saint Marty soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

while visions of tapioca danced in their heads.

And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

had just settled our brains for a long autumn's nap.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen leaves

gave the luster of midday to shadows by the eaves,

when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

but a kind, saintly figure, full of good cheer.

With a laugh so infectious, so lively and hardy, 

I knew in a moment it must be Saint Marty.

More rapid than eagles, his coursers he came,

and he whistled and shouted and called saintly names:

"Now Peter!  Now John!

Now, Francis and Paul!

On, Theresa!  On, Bernadette!

On, Good Old John Paul!

To the top of the porch!

To the top of the wall!

Now bless away!  Bless away!

Bless one and all!

As dry leaves that before a wild hurricane fly,

when they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky,

so up to the housetop the courser's he flew,

looking like Brad Pitt, and George Clooney, too!

And then, in a twinkling, I heard up above me

saintly feet walking and dancing, so help me!

As I drew in my head and was turning around,

down the chimney Saint Marty came with a bound!

He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,

and his clothes were all dusted with ashes and soot.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his shoulders,

And he looked like a vision--a good, Christian soldier!

His eyes--how they sparkled!  His smile, how white!

His face, so angelic this Saint Marty's night!

His demeanor was gentle, peaceful and quiet.

He looked so handsome that he could cause a riot.

His halo and wings shone in the moonlight,

his robes were like snow, brilliantly bright.

He raised his hands in a blessing, filled with such grace,

that even the pope would hang his head in disgrace.

He was pleasant and smart, a saintly good fellow,

and I laughed when I saw him, and offered him Jell-O.

But a wink of his eye and a shake of his head

soon gave me to know he wanted tapioca instead.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work.

and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk,

And laying a finger aside of his nose,

and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to the roof, and took to the wind.

I watched him with awe ascend and ascend.

But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he flew out of sight,

"Happy Saint Marty's Day to all, and to all a good night."

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.

October 4: Saint Marty's Day Eve, Tapioca, "'Twas the Night Before Saint Marty's Day"

Allow me to put aside Annie Dillard on this Saint Marty's Day Eve to share one of the most famous Saint Marty's Day poems ever written.  Get that tapioca made and those presents wrapped.  It's almost time to raise your cups of Diet Mountain Dew in honor of Saint Marty.

'Twas the Night Before Saint Marty's Day

'Twas the night before Saint Marty's Day, when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes that Saint Marty soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of tapioca danced in their heads.
And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
had just settled our brains for a long autumn's nap.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen leaves
gave the lustre of midday to shadows by the eaves,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a cheerful, saintly figure, full of good cheer.

With a laugh so infectious, so lively and hardy,
I knew in a moment it must be Saint Marty.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers he came,
and he whistled and shouted and called saintly names:

"Now Peter! Now John!
Now, Francis and Paul!
On, Theresa! On, Bernadette!
On good old John Paul!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
Now bless away! Bless away!
  Bless one and all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so up to the house-top the coursers he flew,
looking like Brad Pitt, and George Clooney, too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard up above me
Saintly feet walking and dancing, so help me.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down the chimney Saint Marty came with a bound. 

He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all dusted with ashes and soot.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his shoulders,
and he looked like a vision--a good, Christian soldier.

His eyes--how they sparkled!  His smile, how white!

His face, so angelic this Saint Marty's night!
His demeanor was gentle, peaceful and quiet,
he looked so handsome that he could cause a riot.
His halo and wings shone in the moonlight,
his robe was like snow, brilliantly bright.
He raised his hands in a blessing, filled with such grace
that even the pope would hang his head in disgrace.

He was pleasant and smart, a saintly good fellow,
and I laughed when I saw him, and offered him Jell-O.
  But a wink of his eye and a shake of his head
soon gave me to know he wanted tapioca instead.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 

He sprang to the roof, and took to the wind,
  I watched him with awe ascend and ascend.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he flew out of sight,

"Happy Saint Marty's Day to all, and to all a good night!"

October 1: Tree With the Lights, Wise Men, Bill Watterson, "Saint Marty's Day Eve"

And then occasionally the mountains part.  The tree with the lights in it appears, the mockingbird falls, and time unfurls across space like an oriflamme.  Now we rejoice . . .

Dillard could be describing Saint Marty's Day morning, with the parting mountains and glowing tree and rejoicing.  In just four days' time, all the people of the world will be gathering around their decorated tree to bask in the love and warmth and worship of Saint Marty.  Excitement is building.  I can feel it.

Which reminds me of the story of the three wise men of Saint Marty's Day.  They traveled from a far eastern university--an assistant wise man, an associate wise man, and the chair of the Wisdom Department.  They'd received a grant to seek out and adore Saint Marty.  They crossed interstates and rivers.  Ate at greasy spoons in Mississippi and Burger Kings in Illinois.  They followed the star app on their iPhones until they came to Saint Marty's house, where they worshiped him and presented him gifts--Amazon gift cards and Moleskine journals and tapioca pudding.  And when they left, they returned to their university, proclaiming the good news of Saint Marty.  After submitting their report, they all attained tenure and lived happily ever after.

Now you know the full legend of Saint Marty.

Saint Marty's Day Eve

by:  Bill Watterson

On the window panes the icy frost
Leaves feathered patterns, criped and crossed
But in our house the Saint Marty's Day tree
Is decorated festively
With tiny dots of colored light
That cozy up this autumn night.
 Saint Marty's Day songs familiar, slow
Play softly on the radio.
Pops and hisses from the fire
Whistle with the bells and choir.
Trying now to fall asleep
On my back and dreaming deep
Tomorrow's what I'm waiting for,
But I can wait a little more.

Rockefeller Center's Saint Marty's Day tree

September 27: Abba Moses, Abba Marty, Anne Sexton, "Saint Marty's Day Eve"

I have been reading the apophthegmata, the sayings of fourth- and fifth-century Egyptian desert hermits.  Abba Moses said to a disciple, "Go and sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything."

Yes, Dillard knows a lot about the sayings of desert hermits, how those hermits found, in their solitude, the answers to the big questions about life and happiness and sin.  I am also drawn to a certain desert monk, Abba Marty, who made this proclamation from his cave:  "Hallelujah!  Saint Marty is the greatest of the saints, and the very stones of the desert proclaim his name."

It is one week until Saint Marty's Day Eve, when children kiss their parents goodnight, go to bed, and have visions of tapioca pudding dancing in their heads.  Hopefully, all of my faithful disciples have begun their preparations, because time is running out.  The Saint Marty's Day decorations have been on the shelves at Walmart since the end of June.

Last night, I came across one of my favorite Saint Marty's Day poems, and I thought I'd share it this evening:

Saint Marty's Day Eve

by:  Anne Sexton

Oh sharp diamond, my mother!
I could not count the cost
of all your faces, your moods--
that present that I lost.
Sweet girl, my deathbed,
my jewel-fingered lady,
your portrait flickered all night
by the bulbs of the tree.

Your face as calm as the moon
over a mannered sea,
presided at the family reunion,
the twelve grandchildren
you used to wear on your wrist,
a three-months-old baby,
a fat check you never wrote,
the red-haired toddler who danced the twist,
your aging daughters, each one a wife,
each one talking to the family cook,
each one avoiding your portrait,
each one aping your life.

Later, after the party,
after the house went to bed,
I sat up drinking the Saint Marty's Day brandy,
watching your picture,
letting the tree move in and out of focus.
The bulbs vibrated.
They were a halo over your forehead.
Then they were a beehive,
blue, yellow, green, red;
each with its own juice, each hot and alive
stinging your face. But you did not move.
I continued to watch, forcing myself,
waiting, inexhaustible, thirty-five.

I wanted your eyes, like the shadows
of two small birds, to change.
But they did not age.
The smile that gathered me in, all wit,
all charm, was invincible.
Hour after hour I looked at your face
but I could not pull the roots out of it.
Then I watched how the sun hit your red sweater, your withered neck,
your badly painted flesh-pink skin.
You who led me by the nose, I saw you as you were.
Then I thought of your body
as one thinks of murder--

Then I said Marty--
Marty, Marty, forgive me
and then I touched a present for the child,
the last I bred before your death;
and then I touched my breast
and then I touched the floor
and then my breast again as if,
somehow, it were one of yours.

Children in Sweden celebrating Saint Marty's Day

October 4: Saint Marty's Day Eve, Tapioca, Classic Saint Marty, Confessions of Saint Marty

It is Saint Marty's Day Eve.  The day before the most important holiday of the calendar year.

This evening, I will be celebrating with my family.  We will partake in the traditional bowl of warm, freshly-made tapioca pudding, join hands, and sing some Saint Marty's Day carols, as people all over the world will be doing.  Here are some images of recent Saint Marty's Day celebrations:

Pope Francis celebrates Saint Marty's Day

The Obamas celebrate Saint Marty's Day

Putin celebrates Saint Marty's Day

Justin Bieber celebrates Saint Marty's Day

Well, you guys get the idea.  Everybody celebrates Saint Marty's Day, in his or her own way.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired a year ago on Saint Marty's Day Eve.  I'm going to go and sample the tapioca now.

October 4, 2014:  One Evening, Saint Marty's Day Eve, Lisel Mueller, "Monet Refuses the Operation"

...One evening, just before Christmas, snow began falling.  It covered the house and barn and fields and woods.  Wilbur had never seen snow before.  When morning came he went out and plowed the drifts in his yard, for the fun of it.  Fern and Avery arrived, dragging a sled.  They coasted down the lane and out onto the frozen pond in the pasture.

There is a lot of snow in this passage.  I don't mind snow just before Christmas.  In fact, I love snow on Christmas Eve.  A little, not a blizzard.  A Martha Stewart dusting, just enough to make the world look fresh and white.

It's cold enough in the Upper Peninsula this Saint Marty's Day Eve for snow to start falling.  In fact, it's in the forecast.  It's pretty much been raining all day long, and, now that the sun has set, the rain is becoming a little...thicker.  I wouldn't be surprised if I woke up to a white Saint Marty's Day.  The rain and wind today have already stripped bare most of the trees on my street.  There are carpets of yellow, red, and orange in front of almost every house.

That's one thing I love about living in this place.  No matter what time of year it is, I can look outside my window and see an impressionist landscape.  So much light and color and beauty.  Claude Monet would have felt right at home in my neighborhood.  If I were a painter, I would be outside with my easel every day.  Instead, I'm a poet.  So, I sit in my living room and describe what's outside.

Lisel Mueller has a great poem about Claude Monet.  It's about light and lilies and color and aging.

Perfect for this cold, windy Saint Marty's Day Eve.

Monet Refuses the Operation

by:  Lisel Mueller

Doctor, you say there are no halos
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Routen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors:  fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria, separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolve
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent.  The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases.  Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.

Confessions of Saint Marty

October 4: One Evening, Saint Marty's Day Eve, Lisel Mueller, "Monet Refuses the Operation"

...One evening, just before Christmas, snow began falling.  It covered the house and barn and fields and woods.  Wilbur had never seen snow before.  When morning came he went out and plowed the drifts in his yard, for the fun of it.  Fern and Avery arrived, dragging a sled.  They coasted down the lane and out onto the frozen pond in the pasture.

There is a lot of snow in this passage.  I don't mind snow just before Christmas.  In fact, I love snow on Christmas Eve.  A little, not a blizzard.  A Martha Stewart dusting, just enough to make the world look fresh and white.

It's cold enough in the Upper Peninsula this Saint Marty's Day Eve for snow to start falling.  In fact, it's in the forecast.  It's pretty much been raining all day long, and, now that the sun has set, the rain is becoming a little...thicker.  I wouldn't be surprised if I woke up to a white Saint Marty's Day.  The rain and wind today have already stripped bare most of the trees on my street.  There are carpets of yellow, red, and orange in front of almost every house.

That's one thing I love about living in this place.  No matter what time of year it is, I can look outside my window and see an impressionist landscape.  So much light and color and beauty.  Claude Monet would have felt right at home in my neighborhood.  If I were a painter, I would be outside with my easel every day.  Instead, I'm a poet.  So, I sit in my living room and describe what's outside.

Lisel Mueller has a great poem about Claude Monet.  It's about light and lilies and color and aging.

Perfect for this cold, windy Saint Marty's Day Eve.

Monet Refuses the Operation

by:  Lisel Mueller

Doctor, you say there are no halos
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Routen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors:  fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria, separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolve
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent.  The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases.  Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.

Confessions of Saint Marty

October 3: Done For, Doctor's Appointment, Shingles Fairy Tale

"I'm done for," she replied.  "In a day or two I'll be dead.  I haven't even strength enough to climb down into the crate.  I doubt if I have enough silk in my spinnerets to lower me to the ground."

Okay, so I'm not quite as bad off as Charlotte.  However, I have been feeling really poorly this last week.  Pressure in my ear.  Pain on the top of my head.  Difficulty when I swallow.  I thought it was some kind of sinus infection, so I made an appointment to see a doctor this afternoon.

When I got to the appointment, the doctor looked in my ear.  She turned off the lights in the exam room and checked out my eye.  Then, she ran her hand lightly over the side of my scalp that's been giving me trouble, saying, "Does this hurt?"  It did.

Well, the doctor didn't come up with a definitive diagnosis, but she's hasn't ruled out...shingles.  No, I haven't had any rashes.  No, I don't have any oozing sores.  However, to be on the safe side, the doctor prescribed me a prophylactic shingles medication.  "It won't do any harm," she said.

So, here I sit, the day before Saint Marty's Day Eve, feeling a little like a leper.  I'm not done for, like Charlotte, but I feel itchy all over my body.  I can't stop scratching.  I know it's all psychological, but it's driving me crazy.

Once upon a time, a handsome, young carpenter named Job lived on the outskirts of the kingdom of Shingles.  Job built barns for the farmers, stools for the pub, windmills for the local green energy hippies.  Job had everything he wanted.

Then, one day, Job's house burned down, his tools disappeared, all his teeth fell out, hair sprouted on his palms, and pus wept from his pores.

The whole kingdom of Shingles stopped hiring Job for carpentry work, and Job's friends shunned him.  When Job went shopping at the farmer's market, he had to ring a cowbell and shout, "Unclean!  Unclean!"

Moral of the story:  if your name is Job, change it.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Does this guy have shingles?

October 4: Saint Marty's Day Eve

Well, the stockings are hung by the chimney.  The Saint Marty's Day cookies are on the dining room table with a mug of Saint Marty nog.  I've just finished reading 'Twas the Night Before Saint Marty's Day to my kids.

That day is almost upon us.  Tomorrow morning, I will turn on the TV to watch the Macy's Saint Marty's Day Parade.  I can hardly wait to see the 40-foot tall Saint Marty balloon floating down the streets of New York City.  It will be an awe-inspiring sight.  And at the end of the parade, Al Roker, dressed as Saint Marty, will roll into Times Square on a float.

I have no poem for you tonight.  I'm too excited about tomorrow's festivities.

Saint Marty hopes you all get him wonderful presents tomorrow.

A picture from last year's Saint Marty's Day parade