October 30: "Poem on the Three Hundreth Anniversary of the Trinity School," Things We Celebrate, Wife's Birthday

There are things we celebrate every year--Halloween, Christmas, New Year's Eve, wedding anniversaries, birthdays.  These days can fill us with nostalgia, joy, sadness, hope, and/or despair.  They're place markers, reminding us to pause, reflect, give thanks, pray, eat cake, buy presents, dress up.  

Billy Collins celebrates an milestone . . .

Poem on the Three Hundreth Anniversary 

of the Trinity School

by: Billy Collins

When a man asked me to look back three hundred years
Over the hilly landscape of America,
I must have picked up the wrong pen,
The one that had no poem lurking in its vein of ink.

So I walked in circles for days like a blind horse
Harnessed to an oaken pole that turns a millstone,
A sight we might have seen so many years ago--
Barley being ground near a swift and silent millrace--

Which led to other sights of smoky battlefields,
The frames of houses, then a tall steeple by a thoroughfare,
Which I climbed and then could see even more,
A nation being built of logs and words, ideas, and wooden nails.

The greatest of my grandfathers was not visible,
And the house I live in was not a pasture yet,
Only a wooded hillside strewn with glacial rock,
Yet I could see Dutch men and women on an island without bridges.

And I saw winding through the scene a line of people,
Students it would seem from their satchels and jackets,
Three hundred of them, one for every school year
Walking single-file over the decades into the present.

I thought of the pages they had filled
With letters and numbers, the lifted bits of chalk,
The changing flag limp in the corner, the hand raised,
The learning eye brightening to a spark in the iris.

And then I heard their singing, all those voices
Joined in a fluid chorus, and all those years
Synchronized by the harmony of their anthem,
History now a single chord, and time its key and measure.

My wife celebrate a milestone today--another successful trip around the sun.  We have been together, as a couple, for about 34 years, married for 29.  That's a long time of togetherness.  Yet, she can still surprise me, make me laugh, drive me up a wall, remind me that I'm loved.  

We went out to eat tonight--a Cajun restaurant that is my wife's favorite.  Our kids were with us, and we sat at the table, eating, drinking, and laughing for almost two hours.  We didn't rush.  Everyone set aside their cell phones (a remarkable feat) and basked in the joy of just being together.  

It was a wonderful time, honoring my beautiful, courageous, hard-working wife.  We have seen each other at our bests and our worsts.  That's sort of what happens in a marriage.  Despite all kinds of challenges, we have endured as a couple.  And that is something else to celebrate.

Her name is Beth, and she is the love of Saint Marty's life.

October 30: Smiled More Warmly, Wife's Birthday, Peace and Love

"Hi, honey," [Zaphod] said to her.

[Trillian] flashed him a quick tight smile and looked away.  Then she looked back for a moment and smiled more warmly--but by this time her was looking at something else.

This little exchange takes place just minutes before Zaphod and his girlfriend, Trillian, steal the Heart of Gold spaceship, with its Improbability Drive.  Having spent this year living with Hitchhiker's and these characters, I can pretty confidently say that their relationship is a little complex.  Not the standard Earth girl meets alien at a party in England, alien sweeps girl off her Earthling feet, girl escapes Earth with alien who turns out to be the President of the Imperial Galactic Government story.  Most true love isn't simple.

Today is my wife's birthday.  I could say many things about our love and life together, but I cannot say that it has been simple.  In the almost 30 years that we have been together, we have experienced tremendous joys and tremendous sorrows.  Tremendous ups an tremendous downs.  I have been pretty honest about our marriage in the eight or so years that I've been writing this blog.  Tonight will be no different.  I will be honest.

Through all the good times and hard times my wife and I have experienced, my love for her has never wavered.  We were separated for a year, and my love never wavered.  Through mental illness and addiction, my love has stayed the same.  When I see her at the end of a long day of work, my heart still skips a beat, the way it did when I first laid eyes on her close to 30 years ago.

I am still made about my wife, on this birthday night, the thirtieth one I have shared with her.  Beth, you are complicated, frustrating, beautiful, funny, stressful, sexy, heart-ful, hurtful, exciting, lost, and found.

Saint Marty wishes for his wife a soul filled with peace and love.

October 30: I Don't Know, Wife's Brithday, a Lot of Reminders

Professor Rumfoord said frightful things about Billy within Billy's hearing, confident that Billy no longer had any brain at all.  "Why don't they let him die?" he asked Lily.

"I don't know," she said.

"That's not a human being anymore.  Doctors are for human beings.  They should turn him over to a veterinarian or a tree surgeon.  They'd know what to do.  Look at him!  That's life, according to the medical profession.  Isn't life wonderful?"

"I don't know," said Lily.

Rumfoord talked to Lily about the bombing of Dresden one time, and Billy heard it all.  Rumfoord had a problem about Dresden.  His one-volume history of the Army Air Force in World War Two was supposed to be a readable condensation of the twenty-seven-volume Official History of the Army Air Force in World War Two.  The thing was, though, there was almost nothing in the twenty-seven volumes about the Dresden raid, even though it had been such a howling success.  The extent of the success had been kept a secret for many years after the war--a secret from the American people.  It was no secret from the Germans, of course, or from the Russians, who occupied Dresden after the war, who are in Dresden still.

Rumfoord is not a nice guy.  He's cruel to Billy, and he treats his wife like she's a child.  Of course, Rumfoord is used to being in charge--in the military, the classroom, his marriage, and, now, his hospital room.  He's the kind of person who likes to tell everyone what's wrong with the world because he is an expert on just about every subject.  And his young wife's response to his mini-lectures:  "I don't know."

There is obviously not a whole lot of love between Rumfoord and Lily.  If the term "trophy wife" existed when Vonnegut wrote Slaughterhouse, that is exactly what Lily would be called.  She's like a medal on Rumfoord's uniform.  Something to prove his masculinity and intelligence and desirability.  I hate to say it, but I kind of picture Donald and Melania Trump when I read this passage. 

Today is my wife's birthday.  She never makes a big deal about it.  She doesn't compose present wish lists.  Or draw stars on October 30th on random people's calendars.  Or send out e-mail reminders to her friends and family.  Or insist on wearing a tiara from the moment she wakes up.  She doesn't do anything  to draw attention to herself. 

She is so unlike me.

I'm not saying that I'm like Rumfoord or Donald Trump.  Or that my wife is Lily of Melania Trump.  I'm saying that my wife is beautiful and humble.  She didn't even want me to remind our sixteen-year-old daughter about her birthday.  I told my wife that the only way a sixteen-year-old teenager remembers any occasion is through reminders.  A LOT of reminders.

So, happy birthday to my partner in life.  She is a wonderful wife, loving mother, good editor, and, most of all, a kind and gentle human being.  Unless I do something to piss her off.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for his wife.

October 30: Wife's Birthday, Carving Pumpkins, Classic Saint Marty

Today was my wife's birthday.  We celebrated it.  Sort of.  We went out to lunch at one of my wife's favorite restaurants.  Carved pumpkins with our kids.  Had dinner at my parents' house.  And I worked.  Finished my lesson plan for Tuesday's class, since tomorrow is Halloween and I will be busy prowling the streets in search of candy with my son in the evening.

Right now, I'm watching a movie with my daughter.  Kolchak:  The Night Stalker.  She's loving it.  Of course, she knows that it is one of my favorite television films and series.  Perhaps she's indulging me a little bit.

By the way, Bob Dylan has finally indulged the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy.  He called her, and they spoke for 15 minutes.  Told her that he was "speechless" over the news of the award.  So, Dylan will be taking a trip to Sweden this December.

And I will be sneaking Milky Ways from my son's Halloween candy tomorrow night.

Today's Classic Saint Marty first aired four years ago.  So much has changed.  So much is still the same.

October 30, 2012:  At This Time, Rolling Year, All Soul's Day

"At this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "I suffer most.  Why did I walk through crowds of fellow beings with eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode!  Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted me?"

I know I have used this passage before, but on this first episode of "Saint of the Week," it is particularly apt to touch upon Marley's penance as a ghost.  Marley wanders the world, seeing all the suffering and anguish he could have helped alleviate while he was living.  It is a terrible eternal punishment, to be in a constant state of regret and mourning.

On November 2, the Catholic Church celebrates All Souls' Day.  On this day, people on this planet can offer prayers and alms for those who have died who are "being purified in the sufferings of purgatory."  By offering these sacrifices, we can help the Marleys of the afterlife pass through the pearly gates and enter heaven.  Now, whether you believe in Purgatory and punishment or not, most Christian churches at this time celebrate those who have died in the past year.  In Mexico, it's a national holiday.  Dia de los Muertos.  That's the day where everybody dresses like skeletons and makes sugar skulls and goes to visit grandma and grandpa at the cemetery, usually bringing them food and drinks.  It's sort of like Halloween, except the trick-or-treaters are dead.

No matter what tradition you celebrate, the end of October and the first days of November are reserved for remembrance, for reflection on those you have lost.  It can be a solemn time, or it can be a time of celebration.  It depends on the culture and traditions.

So, whether you're eating Milky Ways or sugar skulls, or lighting votive candles, I wish you a peaceful All Souls' Day.

Saint Marty will end with a traditional Catholic prayer for this time:  Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.  May they rest in peace.  Amen, Marley, amen.

My son's jack-o'-lantern

My daughter's jack-o'-lantern

October 30: Creature from the Black Lagoon, Wife's Birthday, Edgar Allan Poe, "Annabel Lee," Pumpkin Fairy Tale

Halloween with my coworkers

He lived for their excursions out.  Trips here and there around the city.  Brought them into the office, showed them the photographer's studio, a television commercial being shot, a printing plate.  Took them to triple-feature movie shows at the Nemo on 110th Street and Broadway (Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Time Machine, Hercules Unchained--in one bill!) and to see the museums:  ostriches posed as if in a gallop at the Museum of Natural History, and Egyptian sarcophagi over at the Metropolitan...

Ives lives for these moments with his son and daughter--taking them to work with him, treating them to movies and museums, trying to give them everything that his foundling childhood lacked.  He is in the business of making memories for his kids because he himself has no memories of his real mother or father.  That is why holidays like Halloween and Christmas, which revolve around family, are so important to Ives.  Abandoned as a child, Ives wants to make sure that his children feel loved and cherished.  Wanted.

Today is my wife's birthday.  Unfortunately, we have not been able to spend much time together.  I worked.  She worked.  Since it is the day before Halloween, I was able to play dress-up for the medical office, as you can see.  It was great fun.  In the afternoon, my wife and I attended my son's elementary school costume parade.  It's an event where all the parents are packed into the gym and each classroom of kids march through in their Halloween costumes.

There were Batmans and Darth Vaders and Spidermans galore.  My son chose to be a white ninja.  He was the only white ninja in the entire school.  My wife and I sat in the bleachers and cheered for him.  He waved at us as he paraded by.  I was easy to spot.  I was the only Cat in the Hat in the building.

And then, my wife and I went out separate ways.  She went to work.  I picked my daughter up from dance class, gave my son a bath, made sure each were fed.  Now, I'm sitting on my couch at home, waiting for my wife to come home.  There isn't going to be cake or ice cream.  No presents.  It will just be me, my wife, and Jimmy Fallon.  A quiet night in preparation for the craziness of All Hallow's Eve tomorrow.

Once upon a time, a pumpkin farmer named Jack grew tired of growing pumpkins.  He was tired of everything that had to do with pumpkins.  He was tired of eating pumpkin soup and pumpkin pie and pumpkin seeds and pumpkin bread.  He was tired of the smell and color of pumpkins.  So Jack decided to become a lemon farmer.

Jack tore up his pumpkin patch and planted lemon trees.  He fertilized and watered.  He covered the trees when there was frost.  He read books about lemons, collected lemon recipes.  When he went to bed at night, he dreamed of lemon bars and lemonade and lemon meringue pie.  For a year, all Jack did was eat, sleep, and breathe lemons.

In October, when Halloween time arrived, people began showing up at Jack's farm to buy their pumpkins.  When they found out that Jack no longer grew pumpkins, they went down the road to the other pumpkin farm.  Jack called after them, "Come back!  I have lemon pudding!"  But nobody came back.

Jack never sold a single lemon and ended up working for the pumpkin farmer down the road.

Moral of the story:  When life gives you pumpkins, don't be a dumbass and make lemonade.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.


Annabel Lee

by:  Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes! - that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Off the Top of My Head