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

August 5: Tree with the Lights, Conjunctivitis, Olympic Opening Ceremony

When her doctor took her bandages off and led her into the garden, the girl who was no longer blind saw “the tree with the lights in it.” It was for this tree I searched through the peach orchards of summer, in the forests of fall and down winter and spring for years. Then one day I was walking along Tinker creek and thinking of nothing at all and I saw the tree with the lights in it. I saw the backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I stood on the grass with the lights in it, grass that was wholly fire, utterly focused and utterly dreamed. It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance. The flood of fire abated, but I’m still spending the power. Gradually the lights went out in the cedar, the colors died, the cells un-flamed and disappeared. I was still ringing. I had been my whole life a bell and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck. I have since only very rarely seen the tree with the lights in it. The vision comes and goes, mostly goes, but I live for it, for the moment the mountains open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the mountains slam.

Dillard is writing about a girl who was blind.  The girl underwent a surgery which restored her vision.  One of the first things she sees when the bandages are removed from her eyes is a tree "with lights in it."  The girl's perception of light and color was dependent upon her blind life, where she categorized the world in terms of every other sense besides sight.

I use this passage because it has to do with sight, and tonight I found out that my daughter has a case of conjunctivitis, or pink eye.  This comes after my wife and son were diagnosed with conjunctivitis on Thursday.  So, my whole family is walking around with crusty eyeballs.  Tomorrow, my daughter goes to the doctor in the morning to get some eye drops.

My eyes are burning, too.  Not because they are infected.  They're not.  Yet.  My eyes are burning because I just finished five hours of grading.  It feels as though my eyes are about to fall out of their sockets. 

I'm sitting in my living room, watching the Parade of Nations in the Opening Ceremony of the Rio Olympics.  Barely staying awake.  And the torch hasn't even made an appearance. 

Saint Marty is ready for his Olympic event:  sleeping.  He plans to win a gold medal.

Just because it's funny . . . If you know "Star Trek"