December 25: Her Lightness, Christmas Day, "Christmas Roses"

Santiago knows he has to stay strong . . . 

Now, he thought, I must think about the drag. It has its perils and its merits. I may lose so much line that I will lose him, if he makes his effort and the drag made by the oars is in place and the boat loses all her lightness. Her lightness prolongs both our suffering but it is my safety since he has great speed that he has never yet employed. No matter what passes I must gut the dolphin so he does not spoil and eat some of him to be strong.

No matter what, the old man realizes he has to eat in order to finish the battle with the fish.  He has to be stronger than his adversary.  That's what life's all about, I guess.       

 For the past two days, my adversary was a Christmas blizzard.  It started on December 23 and pretty much raged until early Christmas morning.  According to the National Weather Service, we received about 27 inches of snow.  The worst part, however:  the winds.  Sixty to 70 miles per hour at times.  There were hip-deep drifts in my driveway yesterday afternoon.  All the Christmas Eve church services but one were cancelled.  (Catholics never cancel.  They just wrap a rosary around their fingers, get in the car, and let Jesus take the wheel.)

Despite all this, Christmas came.  On Friday, as the storm was really ramping up, my wife's side of the family gathered for an Italian smorgasbord and gift exchange.  Christmas came.  Last night, I drove through the snow-clogged streets of my little hometown and played the pipe organ in the church I grew up in.  My wife and son sang "O Holy Night" together, and one of my best friends came up to the choir loft and celebrated with us.  Christmas came.  And today, it was presents and family and games and Christmas movies.  Christmas came.  

Christmas always comes.

I know that I have been mostly absent from this blog for a good portion of the year.  I have been struggling for many months with sadness and anxiety.  At a time when writing about my thoughts and emotions in blog posts would have been therapeutic, I just couldn't do it.  Most times when I got home at night, I found myself too exhausted from just . . . functioning.

Yet, this December has been full of blessings.  My daughter turned 22 years old at the beginning of the month, and we had a wonderful, late party for her on her birthday.  She has become such a beautiful, caring, poised young woman.  Blessings.  My son has been thriving at his new school, winning awards and maintaining all A's.  I haven't seen him this happy in years.  Blessings.  I have a wife who struggles with mental illness, but she never gives up.  She gets out of bed every morning, goes to work, and loves us all fiercely.  Blessings.  I have a job I love at a library, and friends who care about me deeply.  Blessings.

I did a fundraiser this December for the U. P. Poet Laureate Foundation.  For a donation of seven dollars, I wrote personalized poems for people to give their loved ones for Christmas.  When I conceived the idea, I thought I would receive, at most, ten or 15 requests for poems, mostly from friends and family.  After all, we're talking poetry, the subject that drives fear into the hearts of most school-age kids and causes PTSD (that's Poetry Traumatic Stress Disorder) in adults.  How many people want the gift of poetry for Christmas?

The answer:  44 people.  That's right.  In the space of about 17 or so days, I wrote an entire book of poems.  And it was a blessing.  People entrusted me with their stories of love and loss and grief.  It was both an honor and a huge responsibility.  I'm not sure if I rose to the occasion every time, but I tried the best I could.  And over the last 24 hours, people received my poems as Christmas presents.  Blessings, I hope.

Despite my ongoing struggles, I was able to write those poems.  I was able to write my annual Christmas essay, as well.  I struggled with that project for close to five months.  False starts.  Blazing inspiration that quickly fizzled.  Frustrations.  The essay slowly took shape.  I recorded it on December 13 for Public Radio.  I included it in my annual Christmas letter.  It seems to have had strong impact on many people this holiday season.  Blessings.

As the above passage from The Old Man in the Sea touches on, when facing a difficult adversary (a really big fish, a blizzard, a half-year depression), you just can't give up.  And there are blessings all around you.  

This Christmas night, I give thanks for all the blessings I received this December.  They have been multitude.  We are past the solstice.  The planet is slowly tipping back to light, and I will embrace each extra second of sun in the coming days.  Because darkness never wins.

I wish all of you a blessed Christmas.

Saint Marty's Christmas essay . . . 

Christmas Roses

 Dear Santa,

This letter will not be easy to write.  Or is not easy to write.  Or wasn’t.

I guess it all depends on when you’re reading it, what path of time you’ve traveled in order to receive these words.

Maybe this letter is just a thought, flashing from one synapse in my brain to another as I sit beside my sister Rose’s hospital bed, listening to her lungs take one-two-three-four more bites of air before shutting down quietly, the way autumn shuts down when that first snowfall pixilates the world into winter.

Or maybe I’ve already written this letter, left it on my dining room table next to a plate of thumbprint cookies and mug of eggnog on December 24^th, the hard work of scratching words on a piece of paper done.  Because I can’t imagine a world where you and your sleigh aren’t called to flight by my sister’s belief.  How she would spend hours conjuring you with pen each Christmas Eve, starting with that initial incantation:  “Dear Santa.”

I am surrounded by Christmas Roses.  From eight-month-old Rose in my stubborn mother’s arms:  a baby with an extra chromosome facing a world that doesn’t believe in her.  To the Rose who can barely speak, her brain plaqued with Alzheimer’s, whose Christmas gift to me is a smile after a forkful of baked ham.

I’m shuttling back-and-forth this year, watching Christmas in time lapse, Rose growing old and young again, budding and blossoming, withering and dropping petals, then retreating to seed and promise in the universe of our mother’s belly.

No matter what theory of time travel you believe or don’t—Einstein at the speed of light stretching a second into a century, Rod Taylor saving Yvette Mimieux from the clutches of the Morlocks in The Time Machine, or Emily Webb haunting her childhood in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town—we’re all subject to the passage of minutes and hours and days and years.  Our lives all episodes in The March of Time newsreels, Westbrook Van Voorhis narrating each breath and war, each plague and Christmas ginger snap. 

I know in these Santa letters, authors usually proclaim how good they’ve been over the past 365 days and then provide catalogues of Christmas wishes, from the material to the ethereal.  New iPhones and Nintendo DS5s.  World peace.  Good health for an ailing mother.  That’s how it works.  Has worked.  Will work.  Wishes are just alternate universes for each wisher.  Ones where the wisher has traveled backward or forward to change some string of time.  Stop grandpa from smoking two packs a day.  Say “yes” to that boy in high school who asked you to the Holiday Formal.  Buy your son that God of War computer game.  Hold your dead sister’s hand one last time.

Santa, I know that, in one of these threads of time, you’re reading a note left for you by one of these Roses on Christmas Eve.  She’s been a good girl.  She always is.  Was.  Will be.  And she wants new ballpoint pens to write letters with.  Stationery.  Hubba Bubba bubblegum, as many packs as you can spare.  Another Santa reads that Rose misses our father and mother, hopes God is letting them win a few hands of gin rummy.  To a third Santa she writes that I wouldn’t let her drink another Diet Coke after dinner, and maybe he should take one present away from me.

In all of these Christmases, you exist/did exist/will continue to exist for me because all the Roses still exist—providing the plutonium for Marty McFly’s DeLorean, phone number for Bill and Ted’s next excellent adventure.  Through all the years of her life, Rose’s belief in you never failed.  Never fails.  Will never fail.  There was/is/will be cookies and milk left on the dining room table for you every Christmas Eve as sure as the moon turns Teal Lake silver on August nights and geese chase the sun across the country when frost pinches the air toward winter.

In the play Our Town, the main character, Emily Webb, dies in Act III, ending up in the town cemetery, surrounded by ghosts.  One of those ghosts is her mother-in-law, Mrs. Gibbs.  When Emily declares she’s going to travel back to a happy time in her life, Mrs. Gibbs tries to talk her out of the idea.  Emily remains determined, so Mrs. Gibbs cautions her:  “At least choose an unimportant day.  Choose the least important day in your life.  It will be important enough.”

I’ve reached that point in my letter where I’m supposed to tell you what I want for Christmas.  I want a time machine, like the one Rod Taylor rode, past to present to future to present again, with its upholstered Victorian chair, spinning sundial, flashing lights, and throttle stick capped in crystal.  So I can return like Emily to the least important day of my life.  Emily chooses her twelfth birthday.  Maybe I’ll choose my twelfth Christmas.

It had been snowing for several days, but the snow stopped that morning.  The sun came out, making the world so white it was hard to look at.  My dad, young and flinty as steel, sat in his chair, sipping his third cup of thick, black coffee.  My mother, her hair only slightly peppered with gray, was in the kitchen, pulling the ham from the oven, its back studded with cloves.  On the couch, Rose ogled the gigantic pile of presents spilling across the living room floor, trying to find ones with her name on it.  Slowly, my other siblings appeared, pulled by the smell of the ham or the voice of Willie Nelson on WJPD, twanging, “Pretty papers, pretty ribbons of blue . . .”

They all look so young and beautiful and happy.  Yet, they don’t know it.  It’s just another Christmas for them.  Another of my mother’s gingered hams.  Another December filled with snow.  Another December 25^th when Rose asks over and over, “Can we open presents now?”  Just like Emily in Our Town, I can’t look at everything hard enough.

Part of me wants to hold each one of them for a long, long time.  Tell them how this life we know goes so fast, and we never really look at each other or notice all the little things of each and every day. 

But Rose.  Somehow, she saw and knew what we all didn’t or couldn’t know.  The smell of coffee.  Our mother’s homemade bread.  The clock chiming on the dining room wall.  Old Hank Williams songs on the radio. Dad spreading mustard on his ham sandwich.  Mom humming along to Judy Garland.  The furnace ticking one, two, three times before rumbling to life.  The poinsettia from Midnight Mass sitting in the middle of the dining room table, surrounded by plates of spritz cookies and snickerdoodles.  Going to sleep at night, and waking up to the gift of another day.  The tinsel and wrap of each and every moment.  Rose knew.  Believed in a world where reindeer can fly faster than starlight. 

Perhaps that’s my real Christmas wish this year.  I don’t need an H. G. Wells time machine.  A nuclear-powered DeLorean.  An omnipotent Stage Manager with a pocket watch.  I just need a Christmas Rose to remind me how truly wonderful the world was.  Is.  Will always be.

And a cookie.  The good kind—peanut butter with a Hershey’s kiss pressed into its center.  They were always her favorite.  I’ll sit down, put that cookie in my mouth, feel Rose’s arms reach across time to wrap around my shoulders.  I’ll hear her voice in my ear, asking if she can have one more Diet Coke.  Because it’s Christmas Eve.  And Santa is coming to take her to the North Pole, where our mother and father are waiting for her to open presents.

With love,

Martin

January 12: My Big Fish, Blessings, Hope

Santiago holds on to hope . . .

He watched the flying fish burst out again and again and the ineffectual movements of the bird. That school has gotten away from me, he thought. They are moving out too fast and too far. But perhaps I will pick up a stray and perhaps my big fish is around them. My big fish must be somewhere.

The old man never gives up.  He's been without a fish for 84 days.  Not so much as a nibble.  Yet, his spirit doesn't diminish.  Hope is still out there, just waiting to be hooked or speared.  

The start of 2022 has been rough.  I won't say that it couldn't get much worse, because it always can.  However, I have had blessings, as well.  Lots of them.  My wife and I recovered from COVID.  My furnace didn't need to be replaced.  And, when my tire slipped off my car, I wasn't going down the highway at 60 miles per hour, and I found help from an unexpected angel working at Superior Express Care.

So, the big fish is out there.  Somewhere.  Hope.

Saint Marty is going to trust Santiago on this.

August 6: Conkers, Living in the Moment, Miraculous Day

Ford tells a story of something crazy Zaphod did as a child . . .

"What's all this?" said Trillian.

"Ancient history," said Ford, "when we were kids together in Betelgeuse.  The Arcturan megafreighters used to carry most of the bulky trade between the Galactic Center and the outlying regions.  The Betelgeuse trading scouts used to find the markets and the Arcturans would supply them.  There was a lot of trouble with space pirates before they were wiped out in the Dordellis wars, and the megafreighters had to be equipped with the most fantastic defense shields known to Galactic science.  They were real brutes of ships, and huge.  In orbit round a planet they would eclipse the sun.

"One day, young Zaphod here decides to raid one.  On a trijet scooter designed for stratosphere work, a mere kid.  I mean forget it, it was crazier than a mad monkey.  I went along for the ride because I'd got some very safe money on him not doing it, and didn't want him coming back with fake evidence.  So what happens?  We get in his trijet which he had souped up into something totally other, crossed three parsecs in a matter of weeks, bust our way into a megafreighter I still don't know how, marched on to the bridge waving toy pistols and demanded conkers.  A wilder thing I have not known.  Lost me a year's pocket money.  For what?  Conkers."

I think we've all done crazy things as kids.  Probably not as crazy as storming onto the bridge of a megafreighter with a toy gun, demanding conkers.  For those of you who don't know what conkers is, it is, according to Google, "a children's game in which each child has a conker on the end of a string and takes turns trying to break another's with it."  It's a British thing.  A conker is the seed of a horse chestnut tree.  So, basically, one kid is trying to smash the other kid's horse chestnut on a string.

I don't know about you, but that game sounds like it's the recipe for some bruises and smashed knuckles.  Of course, kids really don't care.  It's all about the thrill of the game.  Living in the moment.  No concerns about visits to the ER or eye injuries.  Just smashing conkers.

Today was all about following that rule--living in the moment.  At this moment, I am sitting in a hotel room in Mackinaw City, almost in the shadow of the Mackinac Bridge.  We just got back from a day on Mackinac Island.  First stop on the island this morning was the Butterfly House and Insect Museum.  Imagine walking through a room where all different types of butterflies are zooming and fluttering around you--blue and orange and yellow.  It took my breath away.  Then I toured Fort Mackinac with my kids.  After that, my daughter pushed me through a Haunted Theater while behind me my son kept yelling, "I don't want to do this!  I do NOT want to do this!"  And then, to make it a true Mackinac Island experience, we stopped and bought some fudge.

I really tried to live in the moment today, pushing all of my worries and fears away.  I had a wonderful time, and the three biggest joys of the day were:  1) seeing my son marching at Fort Mackinac with the soldier actors; 2) hearing my daughter laughing in my ear as she pushed me toward an immense haunted rat; and 3) holding my wife's hand on the ferry ride back to Mackinaw City.  Those are going to be core memories for me.  Ones to which I will return on days when happiness is in short supply.

I have to thank both of my sisters for these moments.  They are the ones who made this whole trip possible.  My summer vacation this year would have consisted of me driving to McDonald's, buying a pop (that's soda for all my non-Yooper disciples), and sitting in a corner booth to write in my journal and read.  Both of my sisters, Bev and Ruth, have seen me through some hard times, and, when the chips are down, they provide blessings to raise me up.

Those are my lessons of wisdom for today.  Living in the moment.  Pushing away the worries of tomorrow.  Loving the people in your life.  Knowing there are people who will always go the extra mile for you.  All of these things.  Miracles.  All of them.

Saint Marty had a miraculous day.

June 27: Two Suns Set, My Day in Pictures, Blessings

Arthur has enough of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy . . .

Arthur read this, and put the book down.

The robot still sat there, completely inert.

Arthur got up and walked to the top of the crater.  He walked around the crater.  He watched two suns set magnificently over Magrathea.

He went back down into the crater.  He woke the robot up because even a manically depressed robot is better to talk to than nobody.

"Night's falling," he said.  "Look, robot, the stars are coming out."

From the heart of a dark nebula it is possible to see very few stars, and only very faintly, but they were there to be seen.

The robot obediently looked at them, then looked back.

"I know," he said.  "Wretched, isn't it?"

"But that sunset!  I've never seen anything like it in my wildest dreams . . . the two suns!  It was like mountains of fire boiling into space."

"I've seen it," said Marvin.  "It's rubbish."

"We only ever had the one sun at home," persevered Arthur.  "I came from a planet called Earth, you know."

"I know," said Marvin, "you keep going on about it.  It sounds awful."

"Ah, no, it was a beautiful place."

"Did it have oceans?"

"Oh yes," said Arthur with a sigh, "great wide rolling blue oceans . . ."

"Can't bear oceans," said Marvin.

"Tell me," inquired Arthur, "do you get on well with other robots?"

"Hate them," said Marvin.  "Where are you going?"

Arthur couldn't bear any more.  He had got up again.

"I think I'll just take another walk," he said.

"Don't blame you," said Marvin and counted five hundred and ninety-seven billion sheep before falling asleep again a second later.

Arthur slapped his arms about himself to try and get his circulation a little more enthusiastic about its job.  He trudged back up the wall of the crater.  

Because the atmosphere was so thin and because there was no moon, nightfall was very rapid and it was by now very dark.  Because of this, Arthur practically walked into the old man before he noticed him. 

A good portion of this passage is simply Arthur's thoughts and observations.  I thought that, today, I'd do the same thing.  I've been taking pictures during my day, and I thought I'd share them.

First, the sunrise, which I see every day in the summer since I drive to work so early.  It's not double suns, but it's still beautiful:

Then there's my station at work in the cardiology office.  Here's what I stare at for most of eight hours:

And a couple of my coworkers/friends who make my days go by a lot faster:

At the end of the day, I prepare the assignment board for the following day.  I always add an artistic flair to it:

At the end of the day, I come home to the people I love most.  The reason I do what I do every day.  Here are two of them.  My beautiful wife and my hilarious son:

Then, I usually write my daily blog post(s), depending on what I have going on in the evening:

This evening, I'm getting together with some poet friends to do a little impromptu Walt Whitman poetry workshop.  Two of my favorite people in the world.

And that is my day in pictures.  I am full of blessings.

Saint Marty is a work in progress.

November 16: Tim Nolan, "Thanksgiving," Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving

by:  Tim Nolan

Thanks for the Italian chestnuts—with their

tough shells—the smooth chocolaty

skin of them—thanks for the boiling water—

itself a miracle and a mystery—

thanks for the seasoned sauce pan

and the old wooden spoon—and all

the neglected instruments in the drawer—

the garlic crusher—the bent paring knife—

the apple slicer that creates six

perfect wedges out of the crisp Haralson—

thanks for the humming radio—thanks

for the program on the radio

about the guy who was a cross-dresser—

but his wife forgave him—and he

ended up almost dying from leukemia—

(and you could tell his wife loved him

entirely—it was in her deliberate voice)—

thanks for the brined turkey—

the size of a big baby—thanks—

for the departed head of the turkey—

the present neck—the giblets

(whatever they are)—wrapped up as

small gifts inside the cavern of the ribs—

thanks—thanks—thanks—for the candles

lit on the table—the dried twigs—

the autumn leaves in the blue Chinese vase—

thanks—for the faces—our faces—in this low light.

_________________________

I'm going to focus on thankfulness for the next few days.  It feels as though I haven't been really appreciating the blessings in my life recently.  My wife and kids.  My work.  Teaching.  The beauty of first snows.  Laughter.  A good ham sandwich.

So, tonight, I want to say thanks to everyone who reads this blog.  I don't know who you are (or maybe I do).  Whatever the reason, however you stumbled upon this particular post, thanks for spending some time with me.

Saint Marty is blessed by your time and your attention.

July 15: Blessings, Classic Saint Marty, Blueberry Picking

I have felt very blessed today.  Church in the morning.  This afternoon, I drove out to some great friends' house to pick blueberries with my daughter and her boyfriend.  My friends have ten acres of prime blueberry country along Lake Superior.  We had a wonderful time, despite it being close to 102 degrees in the patches where we were picking.  And then, to cool off, we went swimming in Lake Superior for about an hour.

Like I said, it was a day full of blessings.

Four years ago, I was focusing on my blessings, as well:

July 15, 2014:  A Whole Noodle, Finding Blessings, Giving Thanks

Wilbur ate heartily.  He planned to leave half a noodle and a few drops of milk for Templeton.  Then he remembered that the rat had been useful in saving Charlotte's life, and that Charlotte was trying to save his life.  So he left a whole noodle, instead of a half.

Wilbur struggles with his feelings for Templeton.  After all, the rat doesn't do a whole lot to make himself likeable.  He steals food and prowls the garbage dump.  Templeton is a rat, and E. B. White didn't have a great fondness for rats.  But White makes Templeton a hero.  Wilbur knows that Charlotte would have ended up in Avery's bug collection if it hadn't been for Templeton's buried rotten goose egg.  The little pig recognizes that the rat has been a blessing, and Wilbur gives thanks.

Sometimes it's hard to recognize blessings, especially if you're a natural pessimist, like me.  Right now, I could complain that I'm tired, that I don't have enough money to pay for my daughter's braces, that I just received another shut-off notice from a utility company.  I'm great at complaining, because modern society is geared toward making people feel inadequate.  I'm not thin enough.  My house isn't big enough.  My car isn't new enough.  I don't look like Brad Pitt or George Clooney.

Yet, blessings are all around me.  I have a job.  I work with good people.  My kids are healthy.  My car is in good shape.  My house doesn't have mice.  There's food in my refrigerator.  I sometimes get to do things I love--read my poetry, play in a band, have friends over to talk about books.  Eat an occasional brownie.  So, I really am blessed.  I have enough.  Just enough.

My prayer focus this week is giving thanks, every day.  Thanks for the good things and the bad things, because bad things (like rats) can sometimes be the catalyst of grace.

Repeat after Saint Marty:  "I am blessed.  I am blessed.  I am blessed."

A blessing for a disease-carrying, filthy rodent.

Tonight, I'm going to be working on poems for a Bigfoot Poetry Reading that I'm giving tomorrow night.  

Saint Marty is the most blessed person in the world tonight.

June 23: Falling from Airplanes, Absence Yesterday, Blessings

I think that the dying pray at the last not "please," but "thank you," as a guest thanks his host at the door.  Falling from airplanes the people are crying thank you, thank you, all down the air; and the cold carriages draw up for them on the rocks.  Divinity is not playful.  The universe was not made in jest but in solemn incomprehensible earnest.  By a power that is unfathomably secret, and holy, and fleet . . .

A sort of comforting paragraph.  There is praise and gratitude.  However, there is also people hurtling through the air toward rocky ends.  God doesn't mess around, Dillard seems to be saying.  There's nothing casual about the universe.  It is mysterious, sacred, and nimble. 

Hi, I'm back.  Sorry for my absence yesterday.  I have been working on putting together the online class I'm teaching this summer, and last night I had some technical issues.  Actually, after five, frustrating hours, I was ready to take a sledgehammer to my laptop.  I was in no mood to try to be reflective.  I barely wanted to be around my family.

Today, I'm better, and I have a lot to be thankful for.  Good things.  First, yesterday morning I heard from my editor.  He loved my poems and is going to use them in the anthology that he's putting together.  That was blessing number one.

Second, I have found a new car to buy.  It is a Subaru Impreza.  Much smaller than my Ford Freestyle, but it has low mileage and will probably last for about ten years.  I drove it all last night and today, and I'm convinced that it will be a good choice.  And the price is right.  Blessing number two.

Finally, when I got home today, there was a letter waiting for me.  It was from the Dean of the College, congratulating me.  It seems that I have been awarded the promotion for which I applied.  Now, instead of Contingent Assistant Professor Saint Marty, I shall be called Contingent Professor Saint Marty.  It made me really happy, and it also means that I will be able to make more money in the fall when classes start.  Blessing number three.

However, as Dillard points out, as you are soaring through the air, saying "thank you," the rocks are quickly approaching.  My daughter just had a major meltdown in front of me, telling me how miserable she is.  She doesn't have anything to do, and I am one of the main causes of her misery.  Rocks, ahoy.

Blessings or not, Saint Marty always has his daughter to bring him back to reality.

March 4: Blessings Today Part 2

Yesterday, I spoke of blessings I'd received, but I was too tired to go into details.  Tonight, I'd like to expand the story a little bit.

The saga of the brakes (or lack thereof) on my wife's car continued yesterday.  We found out that it's going to take over $600 to fix them.  However, the immediate, must-be-done-NOW portion of that estimate comes to around $350.

Yesterday morning, that $350 seemed as out of reach as a Nobel Prize in Literature.  Then, things started changing.  Through the good will of our church and an unexpected gift from some very kind people, the Nobel Prize is within reach.

On top of that, late yesterday morning, my wife got a phone call for a job interview.  She interviewed in the afternoon, and now she's waiting for a final meeting with the regional manager next week.  I'm not saying it's looking good, but, considering where we started at the beginning of the day, it felt like God was raining blessings on us.

We have an appointment at the garage on Friday morning to get part one of my wife's brakes taken care of.  Next Monday or Tuesday, my wife will have another interview.

It's almost enough to make Saint Marty believe that things are going to be alright.  Almost.

Hope is on the way

March 3: Blessings Today

Again, I don't have a lot of time tonight, but I wanted to let you know that I've received many blessings today.  Friends and family being so kind and compassionate.  I'll talk more about it in a day or so, when I have time to tell you how blessed I am.

God is on my side.  I know that, but I have to keep reminding myself of it.  God is on my side.  God is on my side.  God is on my side.

God is on Saint Marty's side.

I need a tattoo of this

November 26: A Big Deal, Pies, Another Prayer of Thanks

We always had the same meal on Saturday nights at Pencey.  It was supposed to be a big deal, because they gave you steak...

Holden isn't too impressed with Pencey's Saturday night steak dinners.  He's not impressed with the steads.  They're hard and dry, he claims.  Of course, Holden never seems satisfied with any part of his life.  Pencey could be serving filet mignon, and he would say it was overcooked or undercooked.  Nothing is a big deal for Holden.


I made two pecan pies tonight.  They're for Thanksgiving.  The whole house smells like vanilla and sugar right now.  When I took them out of the oven, they were bubbling and brown.  We go to two Thanksgiving dinners--one at my parents' house and once at my sister-in-law's house.  Usually by the end of the day, I'm so full I could vomit.  Don't misunderstand me.  I'm not complaining.  I'm not Holden.  Thanksgiving is probably my second-favorite holiday of the year (right behind Christmas).

I like giving thanks, reflecting on the year's blessings.  Yes, 2013 has been a rough year for me and my family.  Lots of challenges.  But those challenges make me appreciate the blessings even more.

Dear God,

Yes, this year has sucked in many ways.  My jobs have sucked.  My finances have sucked.  My son's first three months of kindergarten have pretty much sucked, as well.  I've been handed a lot of lemons these last 365 days.

However, there are always blessings.  Pecan pies.  Poems.  Christmas essays.  New couches.  Warm blankets.  Cool pillows.  Healthy children.  Friends.  Family.  More lemonade than lemons.

Thank you, Lord, for all the lemonade.

Your grateful child,

Saint Marty

I'll take my filet medium rare...

September 15: Classic Saint Marty, Better Day, October 12, New Cartoons

First, you will be happy to note the inclusion of two new Confessions of Saint Marty cartoons.  Sorry I didn't get a cartoon to you yesterday.  My daughter had my iPad, and my wife was working on my laptop until quite late in the evening.  I was lucky to get my poem posted last night.

I do owe you guys a Classic Saint Marty today.  This particular episode originally aired on October 12, 2011.  To be honest, I'd almost forgotten the poem in this post.  However, the reason I chose to rebroadcast this post is that it's about life getting better, unexpected blessings.  I need a little of that right now.

Saint Marty hopes you enjoy this little rerun.

October 12, 2011:  Better Day, New Poem, Comments

My day has steadily improved.  I saw several good friends unexpectedly today.  Blessings.  I had a really good teaching day.  Blessing.  Yesterday, a friend loaned me a book of poems by Sarah Vap titled Faulkner's Rosary.  It's amazingly good.  Blessing.  I got another poem written today that I think is satisfactory.  Another blessing.  Yes, that's right.  I'm doing the Oprah thing:  I'm counting my blessings today, cuz tallying up my problems ain't been workin' so good lately.

I have also solved the whole dilemma of some people not being able to leave comments on my blog.  Here's what you have to do if you're having problems commenting on any blog:  enable third party cookies.  Having said that, I don't know what the hell third party cookies are, but I told my friend Keith to try it this morning.  He left a comment for me this afternoon.  Yeah for technology.  Another blessing, although I still don't know what a cookie is, unless it's got chocolate chips or oatmeal in it.

As I said above, I do have a new poem for today.  It is inspired by the catastrophes of yesterday.  I've also used Greek mythology again.  Get used to it.  I'm teaching mythology this semester, so it's going to creep into my work.  I would actually venture to say that it is enriching my already rich output of poetry.  Alright, I may have taken that a little too far.  But I do enjoy having the myths to play around with.

Tonight, it's choir practice and band practice.  The usual.  I'm not sure if I'm sticking around for band practice, though.  It depends on whether or not we're going to practice anything for two Sundays hence, since I will be Wisconsin Delling it this weekend.  We'll see.

Saint Marty is going to go read some more Sarah Vap now.

Time Between

I love this time between cloud and rain,

My student says as he walks with me,

Talks about Hades and the Greek dead.

We’ve had this discussion before, how

The underworld of Athens and Sparta

Wasn’t filled with lakes of sewage or

Infinite planes of ice.  No, Hades

Was simply a place to go

After hard childbirth or fatal sword thrust,

A place of not life, the shadows of was.

All these people, accustomed to wine and grain,

Orgy and oracle, reduced to divine breath

And waiting, just waiting, like corn in a silo.

I drive home tonight with medicine on the seat

Beside me for my daughter’s eardrum.

My wife tells me how the nurse

At school looked in my Celeste’s ear,

Saw something like a cloud, a bright rib

Or jar, formed, ready to unleash

Rain and wind.  But not yet. 
Not yet.  I drive

Toward the coming storm, stare at the sky

As it darkens, the way my father’s face

Darkened before he shoved my sister

Into a wall.  I move through this time

Between work and home,

A wreck of clouds and bullets of rain.

The mutter of water.  I stand

On the shores of Styx, watch, wait

As Charon paddles across the waves toward

My unthreshed stalk.

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 21: More Than Generous, Food Bank, Blessings

"You've been more than generous," she said.  "You're a very sweet boy."  She certainly was nice.  She reminded me a little bit of old Ernest Morrow's mother, the one I met on the train.  When she smiled, mostly.  "We've enjoyed talking to you so much," she said.

Holden meets two nuns at a lunch counter, and he has breakfast with them.  When they leave, Holden pays for their food and gives them a ten dollar donation.  That's why one of the nuns thanks him for his generosity.  And after the pair leave, Holden feels bad that he didn't give them more money for their charity.


It really is a humbling experience to be the recipient of unexpected generosity.  My wife and I have been financially struggling these past two weeks.  We hardly had any food in our cupboards this morning.  So my wife decided to go to the local food bank to ask for a few staples to tide us over until Friday's paycheck.

Well, my wife came away with more than peanut butter, jelly, and bread.  She came home with two boxes full of groceries.   Milk and juice and pasta and bread.  My son got to eat a Rice Krispie treat tonight.  I have breakfast food to take to work tomorrow morning.  We have the makings for spinach lasagna.  So many blessings.

I'm not going to talk about any worries this Wednesday.  My kitchen is full of too many things for which to be thankful.  I am so grateful for the generosity my family received this evening.  And to start complaining about something right now would be so wrong, like biting the hand that fed us.  Literally.

I will not forget tonight.  I will not forget the relief I feel tonight.

Saint Marty is a pretty lucky guy.  Plus, he's got pretzels.

Counting my blessings tonight

April 4: Sadistic, Not Unkind, Express More Love

I started groping around in front of me, like a blind guy, but without getting up or anything.  I kept saying, "Mother darling, why won't you give me your hand?"  I was only horsing around, naturally.  That stuff gives me a bang sometimes.  Besides, I know it annoyed the hell out of old Ackley.  He always brought out the old sadist in me.  I was pretty sadistic with him quite often.  Finally, I quit, though.  I pulled the peak around to the back again, and relaxed.

Holden can be pretty mean, especially to people who he considers to be phony or annoying.  Ackley is guilty on both counts, and Holden takes advantage of every opportunity to bait him.  In this little passage, he's trying to get Ackley to leave his dorm room.  It doesn't work.  Besides being phony and annoying, Ackley is also incredibly obtuse.  He doesn't take Holden's hints at all.

I'm a lot like Holden in this way.  I was brought up in a house with three brothers and five sisters.  Sarcasm was like oxygen.  We teased each other mercilessly.  This upbringing has served me well as an adult.  As a child, it was all about fending off my siblings' ribbing.  As an adult, it's all about being charming and funny.  I often tell coworkers and friends, "I tease you because I love you."  And everyone laughs.

However, I am well aware of the fact that sarcasm can be very wounding at times.  There's a very fine line between being witty and being cruel.  I walk that line constantly.  In fact, some of my friends consider me to be a fairly negative person.  I'm always making fun of ridiculous and/or just plain stupid situations and people I find myself around sometimes.  And now that I've typed that sentence, I realize how callous and shallow I sound.

This morning, in my devotional, I received the following piece of advice:  "If I experience disharmony in my life; if I have difficulty getting along with others; if I can be gossipy, critical or unkind, I begin right where I am to express more of God's love toward others."  Basically, the whole meditation is about opening up my heart to love.  I read it to one of my coworkers, and she said, "Mart, I think that's spectacular advice."

So I have been trying to be nice this morning.  Or at least not unkind.  Because, as the devotion said, "As I sincerely seek to express more love, opportunities present themselves."  That means I get something out of this love experiment.  Opportunities.  Blessings.  I have no idea what these opportunities will be, but I'm open to anything that improves my lot in life.  Maybe somebody will buy me chocolate or a Diet Mountain Dew.  Maybe I'll get a poem published with a good magazine or journal.  Maybe I'll be offered a full-time job at the university.

Or maybe Saint Marty will simply go to bed tonight knowing that he's made somebody feel a little better today.

Sarcasm is soul food

January 10: Three Inches of Snow, Pretty as Hell, Blessings

It was nice, though, when we got out of the dining room.  There were about three inches of snow on the ground, and it was still coming down like a madman.  It looked pretty as hell, and we all started throwing snowballs and horsing around all over the place.  It was very childish, but everybody was really enjoying themselves.

I love this moment in The Catcher in the Rye.  Holden and his friends finish dinner in the school's dining hall, and they go outside and do what all kids do in a snowstorm.  They play like three-year-olds.  Throwing snowballs.  Probably chasing and tackling each other.  This morning, while we were waiting for my son's school bus to arrive, my son started a game of hide-and-seek.  He was stomping through snowbanks and laughing his head off, his breath fogging in front of his face.  That's  what Salinger is describing in the above passage.  Pure and utter childish joy.

I don't think I get enough times like that in my life.  I allow myself to be ruled by schedules and commitments.  If I step outside and it's snowing, I don't usually stop to admire the beauty.  I usually curse and start clearing the snow from my windshield.  I certainly don't start up a game of hide-and-seek.  Snowstorms are a blessing, though.  They remind us to slow down, to remember Who's in charge of things (note the capital "W").

While I was making my breakfast this morning, I stood by my kitchen window and looked out at my backyard.  The sun was just cresting over the roof of my garage, and a blade of light splashed across the snow.  The white flashed and sparked.  It was completely and totally tranquil.  A moment of true beauty. I just stood there, in my pajamas, staring, for a couple of minutes.  It was like looking out at a prayer.

Saint Marty needs more moments like that in his life.

Take a moment.  Say a prayer.  Enjoy a blessing.

November 22: Come to Dinner, Turkey Trot, Happy Thanksgiving

"It's I.  Your Uncle Scrooge.  I have come to dinner.  Will you let me in, Fred?"

One of the last stops Scrooge makes on Christmas Day is his nephew Fred's home.  Scrooge isn't sure whether Fred will welcome him or not.  The day before, Scrooge made it very clear to Fred that he had no intention of attending Fred's Christmas party.  The redeemed Scrooge craves the company and love of his only blood relative.  He wants to share the holiday with his nephew and niece.  Break bread with them.  Give thanks for his second chance.

Today, it is Thanksgiving Day in the United States.  It's a day when families sit down to turkey dinners and count their blessings.  I have two Thanksgiving dinners to attend.  One at my parents' house.  One at my wife's sister's house.  That's a lot of turkey and mashed potatoes and pecan pie.  There's not very many holidays during the year that focus on thanks.  Halloween has costumes and candy.  Christmas has presents and cookies.  Valentine's Day has hearts and chocolates.  Easter has hard-boiled eggs and baked ham.

Thanksgiving has food, too.  A lot of food.  But, above all, this day is a reminder to stop, think about all the abundance of love in your life, and say a little prayer of thanks to God.

One of my personal traditions on Thanksgiving morning is running a 10K race.  I have participated in the Turkey Trot for the past six or so years.  I started with the 5K and graduated to 10K a few years ago.  I was a little worried this year because I haven't been running a whole lot recently.  I thought I was going to be sucking wind by the first half mile.  Instead, I had a great time.  The weather was perfect, almost fifty degrees.  I ran the entire race with one of my best friends, and I didn't struggle at all.  In fact, I felt like I could have run another 6.2 miles when I crossed the finish line.

I give thanks for a great race this morning.  I give thanks for my wife being at the finish line, cheering me on.  I give thanks for my son, standing next to me right now, saying over and over, "Are you almost done with the iPad?  Are you almost done?  Are you almost done?"  I give thanks for turkey.  I give thanks for family.  I give thanks for love.  I give thanks for each and every blessing in my life.  Small and large.

Even if you aren't from the United States, take a few moments today to give thanks.  You won't regret it.

Saint Marty wishes everyone a "Happy Thanksgiving."

Saint Marty gives thanks for Turkey Trot friends

November 8: Bred in This Place, Boy, Parent/Teacher Conferences

Hopefully, we won't get any surprises

"Good Heaven!" said Scrooge, clasping his hands together, as he looked about him.  "I was bred in this place.  I was a boy here!"

One of the first places the Ghost of Christmas Past takes Scrooge is to his childhood school.  Scrooge revels in seeing his boyhood friends, calling out to each of them as their shadows pass by.  It's the first time in the entire book when Scrooge is happy, and it has nothing to do with money or rancor.  It's like he's a boy again, and he can't hold his emotions in check.

Today is Blessing Thursday, and I'm going to write about something not too many parents think of as a blessing:  parent/teacher conferences.  This evening, I get to talk to each of my daughter's teachers and find out how well/poorly she's doing in their classes.  I'm not too concerned about receiving bad reports.  My daughter's report card wasn't too bad.  She did get a C+ in Science, but she got A's in Math and Band and Chorus.  She's doing great.

I've always enjoyed talking with my daughter's instructors, from the time she was in preschool.  I admire these people, because they are on the front lines of education.  They work hard for very little money, and I like having the chance to tell them how much I appreciate their efforts.  That may sound    naive, but it's the way I've always felt about elementary and middle school teachers.  They have the hardest, most important jobs in the world.

That's why I think of parent/teacher conferences as a blessing.  Perhaps, when I've been at this father thing a little longer, I'll become jaded.  I'll start making excuses in order to get out of meeting my children's teachers. I have some friends who never go to parent/teacher conferences for their children.  I hope I never reach that point.

Maybe Saint Marty is still the over-achieving, straight-A student who still wants to impress his teachers.

October 18: Heaven, and the Christmas Time

"...Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this!..."

Scrooge says this little ejaculation of praise on Christmas morning, right after the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come returns him to his the "real" world.  Scrooge is grateful to be alive.  He is grateful for the cold, snowy morning.  He is grateful for his dark, dusty apartment.  He is grateful for everything in his life.

Last night, I found myself in a very dark place.  I was contemplating a few issues in my life, and I just couldn't shake off the negative thoughts.  Therefore, I have decided this morning to focus on the blessings in my life.  I know I have done this exercise several times already on this blog.  However, I think it's a good thing to repeat.

Thus, on to the blessings:

My son, who is funny and healthy and full of energy.  (Maybe a little too full of energy, but that's OK.)

My daughter, who is smart and beautiful and graceful as a swan.

My wife, who is smart and beautiful and employed.  (That's a double blessing.)

My house, which keeps my family warm and comfortable.

My car, which runs and gets me to work.

My job in the medical office, where I'm surrounded by people I love.

My job at the university, where I get to talk about things that I love.

Cheetos, because I love them.

Diet Mountain Dew, because I love it.

My friends, who bring me so much joy.

My family, because they're crazy and loving.

My wife's family, because they're crazy and loving.

My health, which is good.

Poetry, which makes me see beauty in everything.

God, Who is the source of all of the above.

Saint Marty's cup overflows.

October 2: W-E-A-R-Y

i AM W-E-A-R-Y TONIGHT.  i'M TIRED OF GETTING UP AT 4 A.M.  iT DOESN'T HELP THAT MY COWORKER IS ON MATERNITY LEAVE.  iT DOESN'T HELP THAT i CAN'T SEEM TO GET INTO THE SWING OF THIS FALL SEMESTER.  iT DOESN'T HELP THAT, EVERY OTHER DAY, i HAVE SOME NEW KIND OF WORRY TO ADD TO MY MENU OF WORRIES.

i NEED A NEW WAY TO LOOK AT THE WORLD.  i NEED ANOTHER WAY OF THINKING ABOUT LIFE.  tHAT'S WHY i'M TYPING THIS POST IN REVERSE CAPITALIZATION.  i'M HOPING IT WILL MAYBE HELP ME SEE THINGS A LITTLE DIFFERENTLY.  nO, i'M NOT YELLING THROUGH THIS ENTIRE ENTRY.  i'M JUST TRYING TO GET MYSELF OUT OF THE RUT OF NEGATIVITY i'M STUCK IN.  tHAT'S MY GOAL, ANYWAY.

sO, MONEY, JOBS, HEALTH, HAPPINESS.  i AM A BLESSED MAN.  i HAVE GREAT KIDS.  i HAVE A LOVING WIFE, WHO SUPPORTS ME IN MY CRAZY LIFE AS A POET AND TEACHER AND MUSICIAN AND FATHER AND HUSBAND.  bLESSINGS FALL ON ME EVERY DAY.

sAINT mARTY JUST NEEDS TO OPEN HIS EYES AND SEE THINGS IN A NEW LIGHT.  tHE LIGHT OF HOPE.

TRYING TO EMBRACE CHANGE, SORT OF

May 9: Very Rich, No Use, Real Wealth

"I'm sure he is very rich, Fred," hinted Scrooge's niece.  "At least you always tell me so."

"What of that, my dear!" said Scrooge's nephew.  "His wealth is of no use to him.  He don't do any good with it.  He don't make himself comfortable with it.  He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking--ha, ha, ha!--that he is ever going to benefit Us with it."

So speaks Fred, Scrooge's nephew, about his uncle.  And what he says is very true.  Scrooge doesn't benefit from his wealth at all.  He lives in a dusty, old house he inherited from his dead partner.  He has no friends.  The only social interaction he has in his life is harassing his poor clerk on a daily basis.  Scrooge may be very rich in assets, but he's a pauper when it comes to the important stuff.

I'm around a lot of people who have a lot of money.  I work with doctors and surgeons on a daily basis during the week.  Almost every single one of them (not all)  are cranky misers.  The more money they have, the more they worry about not having enough money.  Their wealth, as Fred says, is of no use to them.  They're not happy, and they don't believe in making other people happy.

The old saying really is true.  Money can't buy happiness.  Money may be able to alleviate stress and worry, but happiness is a little more ephemeral.  One of the most miserable people I know is quite wealthy, and yet his main pleasure in life is complaining about the taxes he has to pay, the public schools he has to support, the welfare patients he has to treat.  He is a man with enough means to be supremely satisfied with his life, and to make a whole lot of other people supremely better off, as well.  But he doesn't see himself as blessed.  He sees himself as bullied.  You know that scene at the beginning of A Christmas Carol where Scrooge berates two gentlemen who are seeking charity from him?  That's this person I'm talking about.  Dr. Scrooge.

In some ways, I'm not much better than Dr. Scrooge or Scrooge, himself.  I'm never satisfied with what I have.  I resent people who are more successful than I am.  I don't count blessings.  I count slights.  I hold grudges.  I get angry when I don't receive something I think I deserve.  It's not pretty.  If you've never seen a forty-some-year-old man have a tantrum, it's a sight to behold.  Think Daffy Duck, jumping up and down, squawking, "It's mine!  It's all mine!  I'm rich!  I'm a happy miser!"

Is it possible to be a happy miser?

That's why I chose to focus on the above passage this morning.  Fred always keeps me honest.  He reminds me that goodness and good humor can make any person wealthy.  Wealth is not a matter of accumulated money.  Wealth is family that loves you.  Friends to give you laughter and joy.  And the ability to share that abundant love and laughter and joy with the rest of the world.

Like Scrooge, like Dr. Scrooge, Saint Marty still needs some practice in this area.