February 7: Childhood, Ballet Recital, "Sleeping Beauty," New Cartoon

Now, Ives watched one year turning into another and had already begun to miss Robert's and Caroline's childhood, perhaps more than they did themselves...

If you haven't noticed, Ives is kind of a melancholy guy.  He loves his kids, and, as they become teenagers, he mourns for their childhoods.  He and his wife lived to make their Christmases joyful.  But, these moments are slipping away now, and Ives, the doting father, is having a difficult time letting go.

I am sitting in the auditorium of a theater right now, waiting in the dark for my daughter's ballet rehearsal to begin.  It's going to be a Sleeping Beauty kind of day.  And night.  My daughter has the part of the prince.  That means, as she told me in early fall, "I get my own curtain call, daddy!"  I remember her first day of ballet when she was five.  I thought she was going to be frightened and want me to stay with her.  Nope.  She walked into the dance studio like it was her second home.  She didn't even look back at me.  Now, nine years later, she has a solo and her own curtain call.  Like Ives, this doting father is having a hard time letting go of his little girl.

I am the only father at this rehearsal.  Generally, I'm always the only father at rehearsals.  The only time fathers usually show up is for actual performances, and then they sit in their seats, saying things like, "I wonder how long this thing is going to go?" and "Did you see that game last night?"  Once, before a dance recital, I had a father try to engage me in a conversation about the Green Bay Packers or the Detroit Tigers.  Some sports team.  I just sat there.  The only competitions to which I pay attention involve movies, television shows, plays, music, and books.

Like Ives, I dote.  My daughter is dancing on stage right now.  She's gorgeous and graceful, like blue mist on a morning lake.  Of course, I think she's the best of the ballerinas.  That's my job.  I'm her daddy.  I think she should get all of the solos, lead parts, and duets.  In fact, she should be the whole company.  Sleeping Beauty.  Prince.  Fairies.  Dragon.  Whatever.  It should all be my daughter.

That's why I'm not a dance instructor.  Well, that and the fact that my signature move is a little something I call the Marty.  I hold my hands together in front of me, circle them like I'm stirring a kettle, all the while thrusting my hips back and forth.  It ain't pretty.

Now my daughter is done dancing, so I don't have to pay attention any more.  Don't get me wrong.  The other girls are wonderful dancers.  They're just not my daughter.  I tend to be a hyper-critical person, if you can believe that.  I focus more on what's wrong than what's right.  (I do that with myself, as well.  I've had poems published with lines that stab me between the eyes now when I read them.)  I wish I could lose myself in the moment.  Simply enjoy the music and grace.  It's not in my make-up.  Except when it comes to my daughter.

It doesn't help the situation that I've directed plays and musicals.  I watch everything with a director's eye.  Good staging.  Bad staging.  Good lighting.  Bad lighting.  Dancers that move before the fade to black is complete.  Costume malfunctions (not the Janet Jackson kind).  All that kind of technical stuff.  Of course, my daughter never makes any mistakes, never has any problems.

Perhaps Saint Marty should just close his eyes whenever his daughter isn't on stage.  Imagine his five-year-old ballerina, running and spinning in a dance studio.

Confessions of Saint Marty

September 5: A Famous Pig, Daughter's Audition, Fairy Tale Fame

"Of course," said Charlotte.  "You are a famous pig and you are a good pig.  Tomorrow you will probably win a prize.  The whole world will hear about you.  Zuckerman will be proud and happy to own such a pig.  You have nothing to fear.  Wilbur--nothing to worry about.  Maybe you'll live forever--who knows?  And now, go to sleep."

Charlotte is trying to reassure her friend that he is safe, that Zuckerman is not going to turn him into Christmas dinner.  Of course, everything she says comes true, except for the part about Wilbur living forever.  Although, in a way, Wilbur has achieved a kind of immortality through E. B. White's little book.  Fame and immortality, that's a pretty tall order for such a small, humble pig.


Tonight, my daughter is auditioning for a ballet at her dance school.  Sleeping Beauty.  Of course, she goes into the auditions with no preconceptions.  She doesn't care if she's Sleeping Beauty or Ballerina #1 in the chorus.  My daughter just loves to dance, and she loves her dance friends.  Her goal is to simply have fun.  She doesn't care about fame or immortality.

As a writer, I care about fame and immortality.  I want people to read what I write.  I want to achieve a brand of immortality through my words.  It probably isn't going to happen.  I've written over two thousand posts now.  My blog has racked up over 200,000 pageviews (224,348 to be exact).  When I walk down the street or across campus, people do not point at me or whisper to their friends, "There goes Saint Marty."

I'm not like my daughter.  I have preconceptions.  Humility is not one of my stronger attributes.  If I audition for Sleeping Beauty, I want to be Princess Aurora Rose, not some nameless background dancer.  That's just who I am.  Unfortunately, this character trait is the cause of much disappointment in my life.  Each letter of rejection from a publisher feels personal, as if my entire life has just been judged and deemed worthless.

Maybe I should take a few lessons from my thirteen-year-old daughter.  Focus on the fun.

Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Lot, there lived a painter named Cam.  Cam was not a great artist.  In fact, in kindergarten, his teacher took away his paints and paper and told Cam he'd better go into a trade better suited to his abilities.  Like sheep herding or pig farming.  But Cam would not be discouraged.

Cam painted every day.  And every day, he washed his brushes at night and went to bed happy, dreaming sweet dreams of artistic glory.

One day, as Cam was painting a seascape on a beach near his cottage, a knight rode by on a horse.  The knight stopped beside Cam and gazed at what was on the canvas.

"May I ask," said the knight, "what you are painting?"

Cam looked up at the knight.  "This is a picture of the Sea of Lot on a stormy day," Cam said proudly.

"I have been to the shores of the Sea of Lot," the knight said.  "I have seen waves the size of elephants crashing on the beach.  The wind sounded like a great battle between sea monsters.  And the very air was full of foam and salt."

Cam nodded at his painting.  "How did I do?"

"Have you ever thought of taking up pig farming?" the knight said.

Cam shook his head.  "I was born to paint," he said.

"Says who?" the knight said.

"Says I," Cam replied.

The knight shook his head.  "Mayhaps you should paint something you know, sir," he said.  "Something from your own experience."

Cam smiled.  "Every Saturday, a group of dogs comes over to my cottage to play poker."

The knight laughed.  "Dogs playing poker?" he said.  "Nobody will buy a painting of that."  The knight spurred his horse and trotted away.

Moral of the story:   The knight didn't care for Cam a lot.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

I'd buy this painting