April 7: Speckles, Newness in the World, Happiness

Anything can happen; any pattern of speckles may appear in a world ceaselessly bawling with newness.  I see red blood stream in shimmering dots inside a goldfish's tail; I see the stout, extensible lip of a dragonfly nymph that can pierce and clasp a goldfish; and I see the clotted snarls of bright algae that snare and starve the nymph.  I see engorged, motionless ants regurgitate pap to a colony of pawing workers, and I see sharks limned in light twist in a raised and emerald wave.

Yes, Dillard is pointing out the newness of the world.  The possibilities that exist in goldfish and dragonfly and ant and shark.  As she says, anything can happen.  Blood moons.  August snowstorms.  Double rainbows.  Each day brings the possibility of the miraculous.

I am writing about miracles again.  It is almost 11 p.m., and the snow has started falling.  By tomorrow morning, there is supposed to be a fresh seven inches on the ground.  That means that I will be rising at around 4:30 in the morning to shovel.  If things play out the way I expect, my children will not be going to school tomorrow.

Across the Upper Peninsula, girls and boys are going to bed tonight filled with hope.  On the news tonight, the entire map was a blob of purple weather advisories . . . 

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Yes, I started this post on Tuesday night.  Since that time, my kids have had two snow days.  No school.  Being cooped up in the house.  My son nearly killed my daughter today.  Twice.  They need to get back to school.  However, there is yet another bout of cold and snow descending upon us.  Another nine inches by Saturday morning.  I am literally running out of places to push the snow.

I am not a happy Saint Marty tonight.  Since Monday, I have been rising at 4:30 a.m. to shovel.  This morning, there was a three-foot wall of snow to move.  It took almost two hours.  I don't think my kids are going to get a miracle tomorrow morning.

There will be school.  There will be work.  And there will be snow.  A lot of it.

And Saint Marty will shovel.  A lot.

Saint Marty needs a little happiness . . .

December 9: Anything Weird, Daughter's Band Concert, Catharine Savage Brosman, "The Camper"

"You ever see anything weird, Pop?  Anything mysterious ever happen to you?"

It's a question Robert asks his dad.  Ives has never spoken about his mystical vision with his son.  Robert confesses that he's had dreams about seeing Jesus.  Later, Ives thinks that Robert already knew his sad fate.  That somehow his son knew he would die young.

I really do not have anything deep to discuss this evening.  I just got back from my daughter's Christmas band concert.  It was wonderful.  The sixth graders played carols that only contained seven notes.  The eighth graders did a Charlie Brown Christmas medley.  The high school band played a complicated piece by the Trans Siberian Orchestra. 

The gym was packed.  Standing room only.  There were plenty of weird things to see.  Lots of ugly Christmas sweaters.  A kid who filmed the entire concert on his iPhone, panning the crowd in sweeping circles every once in a while.  And then there were the football fathers who were simply too cool for yule.  Weirdness abounded.

Now, Saint Marty has papers to grade, and miles to go before he sleeps. 

Another poem from the Poet of the Week:

The Camper

by:  Catharine Savage Brosman

The choice is his alone
to rough it in the woods,
without a telephone
and less of worldly goods.

He has his little tent,
his pack and cooking gear,
and thinks his time well spent
if no one else is near.

He cooks the fish he's caught,
he studies plants and birds,
and cultivates his thought,
economizing words,

and even by the fire,
which warms his pensive mood,
forswearing all desire,
believes in solitude.

Yet winds will sing, and trees
will dance, their leaves unfurled,
when in his dreams he sees
connections with the world.

Yes, I was too lazy to draw my own cartoon

November 8: Family Time, Decorating, Classic Saint Marty

I am seriously exhausted tonight.  After church this morning, my family and I put up our outside Christmas decorations.  Now, that may not sound like a five- or six-hour job, but it was.  My daughter and I cleaned our front porch first.  We went through old winter coats and hats and boots.  Bagged up the castoffs for Goodwill.  My wife and son went through toys.  They bagged up those castoffs for Saint Vinnie's. 

Long story short, as the sun was on its way to the other side of the horizon, our decorations were up.  The lights were twinkling, and the Christmas bells were caroling.  It looked great, and we had lots of donations for the holiday season.  It was a good afternoon/evening.

The best part about the whole day was having some family time.  My daughter really threw herself into the project.  She organized and cleaned, decked the halls and hung the balls.  My son was all about the ornaments and garland.  And my wife came up with our theme this year:  "Just like the ones I used to know."  (Okay, we couldn't afford to buy any new decorations.  So, we recycled old ones--the ones we used to know.)

So, today, I'm thankful for Christmas lights and ornaments.  Time with my family.  A warm autumn day.  And white fudge-covered Oreos.

The following episode of Classic Saint Marty aired exactly one year ago on a Saturday night.  Saint Marty and his daughter were decking the halls again, and A Christmas Story was on the TV.

November 8, 2014:  Ten Below Zero, Galway Kinnell, "The Man Splitting Wood in the Daybreak"

After Christmas the thermometer dropped to ten below zero.  Cold settled on the world.  The pasture was bleak and frozen.  The cows stayed in the barn all the time now, except on sunny mornings when they went out and stood in the barnyard in the lee of the straw pile.  The sheep stayed near the barn, too, for protection.  When they were thirsty they ate snow.  The geese hung around the barnyard the way boys hang around a drug store, and Mr. Zuckerman fed them corn and turnips to keep them cheerful.

Yes, when the weather turns cold on the Zuckerman farm, the animals basically do what humans do:  nothing.  They stay inside, where it's warm and safe, venturing outside only when necessary.  To drink water or add to the fertilizer pile, if you know what I mean.


It's been pretty cold today.  Windy and snowy.  There's a couple of inches on the ground now, and there's a winter storm watch in effect for Monday night into Tuesday.  Six inches on the way.  I am not down with winter yet.  I'm still in autumn mode.  Give me piles of leaves, not snow.  At least until after Thanksgiving.

I spent the evening putting up Christmas decorations with my daughter.  Our tree is glowing in the corner of the living room, and our front porch is decked out with candy canes.  Tomorrow night, we will put the garland and decorations on the tree.  Soon, our neighbors will follow suit.  In a couple of weeks, there will be lights up and down our street.  But we were the first.  Not that it's a competition or anything.

I'm beginning to feel old.  I used to love the dark and cold of this time of year.  Not any more.  I prefer July with its mosquitoes and warmth.  I understand the old people who head south in November.  I hate to admit it, but I have reached middle age.  Actually, I surpassed middle age a couple of years ago.  I'm sliding toward old age.  I can barely stay awake for the ten o'clock news.

That's what today's poem from Galway Kinnell is about:  feeling your age.  Realizing you aren't as strong or healthy as you used to be.  You can't shovel snow as fast.  You can't stay up as late.  You look forward to naps.  And you worry about retirement accounts and Social Security.

Saint Marty even watched the Weather Channel for pleasure.

The Man Splitting Wood in the Daybreak

by:  Galway Kinnell

The man splitting wood in the daybreak
looks strong, as though, if one weakened,
one could turn to him and he would help.
Gus Newland was strong. When he split wood
he struck hard, flashing the bright steel
through the air so hard the hard maple
leapt apart, as it's feared marriages will do
in countries reluctant to permit divorce,
and even willow, which, though stacked
to dry a full year, on being split
actually weeps—totem wood, therefore,
to the married-until-death—sunders
with many little lip-wetting gasp-noises.
But Gus is dead. We could turn to our fathers,
but they help us only by the unperplexed
looking-back of the numerals cut into headstones.
Or to our mothers, whose love, so devastated,
can't, even in spring, break through the hard earth.
Our spouses weaken at the same rate we do.
We have to hold our children up to lean on them.
Everyone who could help goes or hasn't arrived.
What about the man splitting wood in the daybreak,
who looked strong? That was years ago. That was me.

What I always thought Rudolph should have said to Santa...

April 10: Gratitude Thirty-Seven

Tonight, I am grateful for the Mexican food waiting for my consumption when I get home.  And I'm grateful for the following Savage Chicken cartoon, because it made me laugh out loud:

Saint Marty loves a good spoiler.