March 20: Palm Sunday, Christ's Passion, Classic Saint Marty

Palm Sunday.

In the morning, it was church.  Lots of church.  There was choir practice, praise band practice, morning worship.  My son had practice for a living Way of the Cross that he's got a part in tonight.  As I said, lots of church.  And it ain't over yet:  in a few minutes we will be leaving for the Way of the Cross program. 

It's the end of the weekend.  Holy Week has started.  The holiest week of the church year.  Maunday Thursday.  Good Friday.  Holy Saturday.  Easter Sunday.  Church, church, and more church.  I have been a liturgical musician for over 30 years.  This time always leaves me a little exhausted.

It's more than all the church services.  It's the whole playing out of Christ's Passion.  It drains me emotionally.

Today's Classic Saint Marty first aired four years ago.  We were in the middle of a heat wave. 

March 20, 2012:  Fairy Tales and Elementary School Concerts

Spent most of the day correcting mythology midterms and reading Grimm fairy tales.  Lots of lovers turning into snakes and evil sorcerers chopping up young virgins.  You know, children's stories.  When I went to teach, it was almost 80 degrees outside.  Sunny with a beautiful warm wind.  I couldn't stay inside.  It was a perfect day to sit on the grass and talk about wicked stepmothers.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
who's the most bitter one of all?

I've learned something about fairy tales this semester.  Aside from the fact that almost all evil stepmothers or uncles end up boiled in oil or torn apart by oxen, I've learned that the characters most like children (the simpletons, the virgins, the pure and chaste daughters) are going to end up wealthy and happy, usually married to handsome princes, beautiful princesses, or kindly kings.  These characters don't seek out royalty or power.  They're happy with eating shit like cabbage and peas for dinner and sleeping in one-room cottages with diminutive diamond miners in the deep forest.  But, of course, they also have fairy godmothers and magical birds to help them out.  Some even get to live with the Virgin Mary in heaven as children.  They have all the luck.

Perhaps there's a lesson to learn in there somewhere.  Something about being satisfied with the simple things in life, not wanting more than you need, accepting with grace the things God gives you...

Naaahh, I don't think so.

Saint Marty has to go to his daughter's chorus concert tonight.  Did he mention it's 80 degrees outside?

December 20: Christmas Panic, Classic Saint Marty, Ho Ho Uh-Oh

Another day closer to Christmas, and I am starting to panic a little.

Last night, I was up until 1 a.m., addressing Christmas cards and watching White Christmas.  I got through the "F" section of my address book.  I was absolutely exhausted by the time I crawled into bed.

This morning, it was church.  Choir practice before and after.  During the service, I worked on my Christmas poem, which has to be done and ready-for-framing by Tuesday evening.  That's right.  I said Tuesday evening.

This afternoon, I went Christmas shopping with my daughter.  It was good spending time with her.  The beginning was a little rough and sulky, but, by the time we went clothes shopping, she was in a great mood.  Trying on and discarding dresses and sweaters and leggings.  Rack after rack after rack.  And then, right after I had paid for her chosen dress, she found another dress that she liked better.  So, we made a little trip to customer service at the back of the store to do an exchange.  The lady who did my return said, "Hopefully, she won't see something better on the way out."

And then, this evening, I did a little Amazon ordering.  Took care of four people from my Christmas list.  After I'm done typing this post, I will go back to addressing Christmas cards, and, tonight, I will return to my Christmas poem.

Life is just a holly jolly mess.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty aired four years ago, during my It's A Wonderful Life phase.

December 20, 2011:  Can You Sing, Daddy?

"Can you sing, Daddy?"



How can you get mad at this face?

 Tommy Bailey is George's youngest son.  George comes home after a day of frantically trying to find a great deal of money that his Uncle Billy has misplaced.  George thinks he is facing scandal, prison, and humiliation.  Mr. Potter (who actually has appropriated the missing money) has sworn out a warrant for George's arrest.  George is tired, desperate, and beaten.  For George, at the moment, this disaster seems like the sum total of his life's work.  He has screamed at Uncle Billy for losing the funds, and now he walks into his house, where his wife and children are preparing for Christmas Eve festivities.  George is preoccupied, angry, and despairing.  His children begin asking him normal children questions.  "Where's the Christmas wreath?" and "How do you spell 'frankincense?'"  Little Tommy asks George the above question.  George snaps at him.

I've been where George is at this point in the movie.  Many times when I come home from work, I'm out of sorts.  Crabby.  Tired.  Fed-up.  I look around our small house (which is bigger, probably, than 99% of the houses in the world) and see clutter and failure.  And then I have kids who want my attention, want Daddy to give them some love.

Last night, I was in a frenzy when I got home.  I was late.  I had a meeting at church to get to.  My wife and daughter had to rush off to another church function.  My three-year-old son came rushing at me, throwing his arms around my legs.  I kept moving around the house, getting things ready for the babysitter, who would soon be arriving.  Then, in the middle of all the chaos, my son walked up to me with a book in his hands.  It was The Night Before Christmas.  He held the book up to me and smiled.

I stopped what I was doing, sat down, and read to him.  And then I read it to him again.  And a third time.  It turned out to be the best part of my day.  George doesn't learn that lesson until Clarence the angel visits him.  I didn't need an angel.  I had my son.

Saint Marty sang with Tommy last night.

Ho, Ho, Uh-Oh...

April 3: Terrific Whistler, Choir Practice, Stress and More Stress

...He could even whistle classical stuff, but most of the time he just whistled jazz.  He could take something very jazzy, like "Tin Roof Blues," and whistle it so nice and easy--right while he was hanging stuff up in the closet--that it could kill you.  Naturally, I never told him I thought he was a terrific whistler.  I mean you don't just go up to somebody and say, "You're a terrific whistler."  But I roomed with him for about two whole months, even though he bored me till I was half crazy, just because he was such a terrific whistler, the best I ever heard...

Holden has an appreciation for people who have talent.  He loves his brother D. B.'s short stories.  He loves that Jane is a ballet dancer.  He loves the drummer in the Radio City Music Hall orchestra.  He loves the writer Isak Dinesen.  And he loves this guy's whistling.

I appreciate people with talent, too.  I play keyboard in a praise band at church.  The lead singer has been performing professionally for over thirty-some years.  The guy who plays guitar has over forty years as a professional musician.  The drummer can play guitar, bass, and cello, as well.  All of them have perfect pitch.  When we're practicing vocals, the guitarist will look at me and say something like, "It's just a third down," and I'll nod as if I understand him.  I love playing with these people.  They're crazy talented.  But I also walk a tightrope of inadequacy.  I know that I'm like the red-headed stepchild of the group.  Sometimes I think they simply include me out of pity.

Tonight, I have to play the pipe organ for the chancel choir practice.  These are people who know music, and they know I'm not a terrific whistler, if you get my meaning.  I will stumble through whatever sheet music the choir director places in front of me.  It will be an hour of complete humility.  And when I make a mistake, the choir members will all shake their heads.  Stress will build on more stress.  By time the rehearsal is over, I'm going to look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  One big knot of tension.

That's my worry today.  Choir practice.  Not being the most terrific whistler in the world.

Saint Marty will put his lips together tonight and blow, but what comes out of his mouth will sound more like "Tin Roof Collapsing" than "Tin Roof Blues."

The mother of the most terrific whistler in the world

December 1: Babbysitters Needed, Eggs and Cheese, New Month

Welcome to December.  Yes, it is the first day of a new month.  The snow is falling outside at the moment, making everything look fresh and white and new.  It's a month of beginnings and endings.  Whenever I enter a new calendar month, I have a sense of renewal and promise.  With December, I feel this promise especially because of the upcoming holidays, the approach of a brand new year.  Anything seems possible as the world goes to sleep and gestates during the winter months.  The seeds planted in the past year get ready for their spring journey toward the sun.

Yes, I'm intentionally trying to be positive and optimistic instead of cranky and exhausted.  My worries have not evaporated.  I didn't suddenly inherit a small fortune from a distant, rich relative.  I didn't get a six-figure advance from a publisher on my next book.  Everything, pretty much, is the same as it was yesterday.  The only thing that has changed is my determination to be positive, at least for the length of this post.

That being said, does anybody have the number of a reliable babysitter?  My wife and I are having a terrible time right now trying to find babysitters.  Last night, we had choir practice at church.  My sister used to come over every Wednesday to watch our kids for the hour we needed to be gone.  She no longer does this favor for us.  (She's dealing with some issues of her own.)  Our niece was babysitting for us on a fairly regular basis for a while, but now she doesn't seem to be getting our phone messages.  I'm starting to think that my children are possessed or something.

We took our children to the church with us for choir practice yesterday evening.  It was hideous.  My son does not like to be trapped in a Sunday School room watching a movie.  He wants to run and create havoc.  I spent half of the choir practice chasing him through the church and dragging him back to the Sunday School room.  We eventually left choir practice early with my son screaming and my daughter crying.

Things didn't improve much when we got home.  Everyone was in a bad mood.  After getting my son to bed, I sat in my chair, put my earbuds in my ears, and listened to Christmas music.  I needed to find my happy place.

A little slice of heaven

It's a little sad when you realize your happy place is being asleep in your chair in the living room.  However, that's when all the noise ceases and I'm able to relax.  When the alarm went off this morning, one of my first thoughts was actually, "In about 17 or 18 hours, I can go back to sleep."

I'm really hungry now.  I have scrambled eggs and cheese waiting for me.  For the next eight or nine hours of my life, I'm going to try to focus on renewal and rejuvenation.

We'll see how that works out for Saint Marty.