April 15: Don't Deserve It, Fire, Prayer for a Family

"Why did you do all this for me?" [Wilbur] asked.  "I don't deserve it.  I've never done anything for you."

Wilbur doesn't feel he deserves Charlotte's friendship and help.  In his mind, all he's done is take from her and not given anything back in return.  The little pig doesn't recognize the power of loyalty and camaraderie and friendship.

I understand that mentality.  I don't often feel I do much to deserve people's good will.  For some reason, a lot of people seem to think friendship needs to be earned by some act of kindness or generosity.  That's a load of crap, obviously.  Friendship is something purely and freely given.

At my daughter's school, there's a family who recently suffered a tremendous loss.  Their entire home was destroyed by a fire.  They lost everything.  The school has held many fundraisers.  Hat day, for instance, where students contribute a dollar to wear their hats all day long.  The family has kids in elementary, middle, and high school.

I'm asking you to pray for this family.  They really do deserve it.  Pray that they can rebuild their home and lives.

Saint Marty's kids already wore their hats to school last Friday, and they were surrounded by an ocean of caps, beanies, Stormy Kromers, and helmets.

I'd pay a buck to wear this...

March 28: Work, Work, and More Work

Well, for a day that started out with chaos and uncertainty, I have certainly kept myself busy.

I've been in my office at the university since around nine this morning.  I've corrected midterm exams, written a blog post, e-mailed some colleagues, and watched a movie.  Then, I took a break and went back to the medical office to survey the fire/smoke damage done at the facility.  Aside from a strong smell of smoke in the hallway, our suite was pretty much clear.  If I thought really hard and went searching with my nose, I could detect a faint odor in some of the rooms.  Aside from that, nothing.

Then I came back to my university office and corrected more midterms.  After I'm done typing this post, I'm going to my daughter's dance studio to drop off a check to her instructor, and then I'm going to try to get some Easter candy shopping done before I have to teach.

This morning's little catastrophe has allowed me to be very productive.  Basically, I've done work, work, and more work.

You'll have to excuse Saint Marty now.  He's got some work to do.

Busy, busy, busy

March 28: Maunday Thursday, Sort of Cosy, Fire

It was pretty nice to get back to my room, after I left old Spencer, because everybody was down at the game, and the heat was on in our room, for a change.  It felt sort of cosy.  I took off my coat and my tie and unbuttoned my shirt collar, and then I put on this hat that I'd bought in New York that morning.  It was this red hunting hat, with one of those very, very long peaks.  I saw it in the window of this sports store when we got out of the subway, just after I noticed I'd lost all the goddam foils.  It only cost me a buck.  The way I wore it, I swung the old peak way around to the back--very corny, I'll admit, but I liked it that way.  I looked good in it that way.  Then I got this book I was reading and sat down in my chair.  There were two chairs in every room.  I had one and my roommate, Ward Stradlater, had one.  The arms were in sad shape, because everybody was always sitting on them, but they were pretty comfortable chairs.

Sort of cosy.  That's how Holden feels.  None of the bad crap has happened to him yet.  His roommate has a date with Jane, the girl Holden loves, but Holden doesn't know about it.  Holden is being kicked out of Pencey Prep, but he's still safe in his dorm room for the moment.  He hasn't started drinking.  He hasn't had his encounter with the prostitute.  His life hasn't started to completely unravel.  Yet.  He's "sort of cosy" in his warm dorm room, wearing his new hunting hat.

That's what I am right now.  I'm feeling safe and warm in my office at the university.  It's mid-morning, and usually I'm working at the medical office at this time of day.  However, about two hours into my shift, the building's fire alarms started going off.  Generally, I ignore the fire alarms.  They go off frequently (for tests or because some kid has pulled the alarm and run like hell).  I continued registering my patient.  The alarms kept flashing.  Then, over the PA system, a voice said, "Please evacuate the building.  Please evacuate the building."

What ensued was about ten minutes of chaos and panic.  I called the nurses in the back of the facility and told them they needed to get out.  I called my boss over at the hospital and told her there was a fire.  Then I packed up all my belongings--my computers, my books, my teaching stuff--and ran like hell.

People were milling around the entrance to the medical center, and I could hear the sirens in the distance, when I got outside.  I stood there with my coworkers and said, "Perhaps everyone should move away from the building?"

One coworker looked at me and said, "Do you want to go have breakfast?"

We went to Hardees and ate.  It was quite lovely.  When we got back to the medical center, the chaos had subsided.  We found the nurses, and they told us that the building was shut down until at least noon.

So here I am in my nice, cosy, university office.  Safe.  Warm.  That's a blessing.  (I'm not wearing a red hunting hat.)  Everybody got out of the building safely.  No injuries.  That's a blessing.  It's Maunday Thursday, and I'm going to a Seder meal tonight.  That's a blessing.

Saint Marty is ready for a little calm after this big storm.

I think I look like Paul Newman

May 17: Longfellow, "The Cross of Snow," New Book

So, I've began working on a new book of poems.  I will give you a first sample from it tomorrow afternoon.  Today, I want to talk about a poem I love.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote the sonnet "The Cross of Snow" eighteen years after the death of his second wife.  His second wife died as the result of severe burns.  In some accounts, she was sealing some envelopes with wax.  The envelopes contained clippings of hair from the Longfellow children.  A spark landed on her dress, and, when Longfellow came to her rescue, she was completely engulfed in flames.  Longfellow threw a rug over her to put out the fire, in the process severely injuring his hands and face.  (That's why Longfellow always had a long, white beard and moustache--to hide his scars.)  Longfellow's wife died within a day or so after the fire.

Eighteen years later, Longfellow wrote the poem below.  It's beautiful and heartbreaking.

Saint Marty hopes you love it as much as he loves it.

The Cross of Snow

In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face--the face of one long dead--
Looks at me from the wall, where 'round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.

Here in this room she died, and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.

There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.

Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.

H. W. Longfellow