August 16, 2025: "Physics," Anniversary Party, "Purple Haze"

When do you officially become an adulthood?  When you turn 18?  Or graduate from high school?  Or college?  Perhaps, when you get your first full-time job?  Or get married?  Have kids?  

There isn’t really any kind of clear cut, bar mitzvah-type ritual to mark the transition.

Sharon Olds reflects on what it means to grow up . . . 

Physics

by: Sharon Olds

Her first puzzle had three pieces,

she'd take the last piece, and turn it,

and lower it in, like a sewer-lid,

flush with the street.  The bases of the frames were like

wooden fur, guard-hairs sticking out

of the pelt.  I'd set one on the floor and spread

the pieces around it.  It makes me

groan to think of Red Riding Hood's hood,

a single, scarlet, pointed piece, how

long since I have seen her.  Later, panthers,

500 pieces, and an Annunciation,

1000 pieces, we would gaze, on our elbows,

into its gaps.  Now she tells me

that if I were sitting in a twenty-foot barn,

with the doors open at either end,

and a fifty-foot ladder hurtled through the barn

at the speed of light, there would be a moment

--after the last rung was inside the barn

and before the first rung came out the other end--

when the whole fifty-foot ladder would be

inside the twenty-foot barn, and I believe her,

I have thought her life was inside my life

like that.  When she reads the college catalogues, I

look away and hum.  I have not grown

up yet, I have lived as my daughter's mother

the way I had lived as my mother's daughter,

inside her life.  I have not been born yet.

Olds’ point is simple:  it doesn’t matter if you’re eight of 80 years old, you will always feel like you’re still in kindergarten, learning your days of the week and ABCs.  

I’ve gone through most of the milestones that symbolize matriculation into adulthood—graduations, marriage, fatherhood, jobs, and careers.  Yet, I still feel like I’m that gangly, awkward 17-year-old who got his high school diploma so long ago.  Despite everything  I’ve done and all the lessons I’ve learned, when I look in the mirror, I see still a spoiled brat of a little brother.  

For most of my so-called adult life, I’ve had a partner in crime—my beautiful wife.  We met when she was in high school and I was directing summer youth theater.  (I believe it was a production of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.). It may have been love at first sight.  That summer, she consumed me.  Five years later, we got married on a windy, cold October day.

I’m not gonna lie—it hasn’t all been smooth sailing.  My wife and I have had our fair share of ups and downs.  Some of those downs were almost marriage-ending.  But, here we are, going on 30 years of messy wedded bliss.  We have a daughter who’s in medical school and a son who’s a senior in high school.  So my wife and I must have done something right, even if we both still feel like clueless teens.

Perhaps that’s the secret of staying youthful—not losing that connection with your weird younger self.  Tonight, my wife and I attended an anniversary party for a couple we’ve known for close to 35 years.  They are, quite simply, two of the best human beings I know.  Compassionate.  Kind.  Loving.  Generous.  Sweet.  Accepting.  There really aren’t enough superlatives for this man and woman.

Something magical happened at the party.  I was surrounded by people I’ve known since my grad school days.  Yes, we all have a few more miles under our belts, and our hair has turned a little grayer (if it’s present at all).  But it felt like we were twenty-somethings again, our eyes filled with dreams and hopes.  I swear, it was as if those 30-plus years melted away, and we were all itching to save the world.

When the dancing started, all the couples (young, old, married, single, gay, straight) got out and swayed to James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend.”  At that moment, we were all newlyweds, looking with newborn eyes at a world fresh and bright.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for his friends today, based on the following prompt from August 15 of The Daily Poet:

On this day in 1969, the Woodstock Music and Art Festival opened.  Listen to the music of Janis Joplin; Jimi Hendrix; the Grateful Dead; Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young; Joe Cocker; Joan Baez; or any of the other performers who appeared that weekend and write a poem inspired by one (or several) of their songs.  If you are unable to listen to their music today, write a poem about a concert you've attended.

Purple Haze

by: Martin Achatz

for Jonathan and Amy on 30 (plus one) years

I read a story about a couple
who met at Woodstock going on
60 years ago. Her car broke down
on the way to the farm, and he
pulled his Volkswagen Beetle over
to give her a lift. They spent
those three days together in mud
while Hendrix shredded the country
with his fingers and Joplin spat
out a little piece of her heart onstage.
And this reminds me that love
can be found by just sticking
your thumb out on a busy
road and not being afraid
to climb into a weed-soaked
backseat to get where you want
to go. Yes, the Vietnam War
was still bleeding on and Tricky
Dick was still in the White House
and the students at Kent were safe
for another year, but if there’s
enough room in the sleeping
bag, you can save the world
by those tiny acts you commit
in the dark with someone you just
met who wants to play your
body like a Fender Stratocaster
until you kiss the sky.

August 1: Poem from "Kyrie," Friends, Chicken Quesadilla

Poem from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

I always thought she ought to have an angel.
There's one I saw a picture of, smooth white,
the wings like bolts of silk, breasts like a girl's--
like hers--eyebrows, all of it.  For years
I put away a little every year,
but her family was shamed by the bare grave,
and hadn't they blamed me for everything,
so now she has a cross.  Crude, rigid, nothing
human in it, flat dead tree on the hill,
it's what you see for miles, it's all I see.
Symbol of hope, the priest said, clearing his throat,
and the rain came down and washed the formal flowers.
I guess he thinks that dusk is just like dawn.
I guess he had forgot about the nails.

____________________________________________

This poem is all about what brings comfort.  How people define or picture hope.  For some, it's a beautiful angel with wings like bolts of silk and breasts like a girl's.  For others, it's a cross on a hill, washed with rain.  However, hope is often accompanied by pain and nails.

This afternoon, I got together with friends I haven't seen for a long while.  I used to work with them, and they are some of the best people I know.  Best friends who have seen me through a lot of difficult times.  We sat outside of a restaurant and had a socially distanced lunch.  They're all OR nurses, so wearing masks is second nature to them. 

We caught up on family and gossip.  Talked about vacations and kids.  Wondered about the uncertainty of the future.  The last time we were together like this, in the fall, the word "pandemic" belonged in the history books, and George Floyd was still alive. 

Each of the people at the table knew my sister, Sally, to greater and lesser extents.  Three of them were at her funeral.  One of them was standing next to her bed when she took her last breath.  They're a part of who I am.

I took great comfort in being with these individuals today.  They reminded me of better times and bitter times.  Angels and nails.  That there are people in my life who care about me deeply. 

Plus, the chicken quesadilla I had was pretty damn good, too.

For all those miracles of friendship, Saint Marty gives thanks.

March 29: A Million-Gallon Vat of Custard, Improbably Terrible Work Week, Ten-Minute Breakdown

Arthur and Ford are noticing something a little strange with the place they've landed after being jettisoned out of the airlock of the Vogon ship . . .

"You mean the way the sea stays steady as a rock and the buildings keep washing up and down?" said Ford.  "Yes, I thought that was odd too.  In fact," he continued as with a huge bang Southend split itself into six equal segments which danced and spun giddily round each other in lewd and licentious formations, "there is something altogether very strange going on."

Wild yowling noises of pipes and strings seared through the wind, hot doughnuts popped out of the road for ten pence each, horrid fish stormed out of the sky and Arthur and Ford decided to make a run for it.

They plunged through heavy walls of sound, mountains of archaic thought, valleys of mood music, bad shoe sessions and footling bats and suddenly heard a girl's voice.

It sounded quite a sensible voice, but it just said, "Two to the power of one hundred thousand to one against and falling," and that was all.

Ford skidded down a beam of light and spun round trying to find a source for the voice but could see nothing he could seriously believe in.

"What was that voice?" shouted Arthur.  

"I don't know," yelled Ford, "I don't know.  It sounded like a measurement of probability."

"Probability?  What do you mean?"

"Probability.  You know, like two to one, three to one, five to four against.  It said two to the power of one hundred thousand to one against.  That's pretty improbable, you know."

A million-gallon vat of custard upended itself over them without warming.

"But what does it mean?" cried Arthur.

"What, the custard?"

"No, the measurement of improbability!"

"I don't know.  I don't know at all.  I think we're on some kind of spaceship."

"I can only assume," said Arthur, "that this is not the first-class compartment."

Bulges appeared in the fabric of space-time.  Great ugly bulges.

Welcome to the end of my improbably terrible work week.  In the space of five days, I found out that I didn't have a job that I wanted, woke up on my living room couch being tended by two men in uniforms that I'd never met before, and accepted a job that I'm not excited about but need for the insurance.  In the midst of all that, I've had daily splitting headaches, took down my Christmas decorations, and pored over close to five hundred pages of medical charges to compile a report for my supervisor that I didn't know I was supposed to compile.

If all that sounds really horrible, let me assure you:  it was.  My mind is Jell-O.  I'm emotionally drained.  My motto this whole day has been fairly simple:  "Fuck it all."  After this week's series of unfortunate events, I wouldn't have been surprised if Gertrude Stein had appeared at my office door and asked to borrow a cup of sugar to make Alice Toklas a batch of blueberry scones.  Anything seems possible.

The one bright side of these last few days has been my friends.  I've been contacted by so many friends who've expressed concern and help, offered advice, or just reminded me that I'm loved.  When you're in the eye of the hurricane, it's kind of difficult to keep yourself from losing sight of what grounds you.  You're too busy nailing your doors and windows shut.  But I have been overwhelmed with kindness.

This morning, while I was compiling that stupid data, I actually started crying.  Don't worry.  I was locked in an office by myself.  Nobody witnessed it.  I think it had to do with exhaustion, trying to hold myself together these past few days.  The sheer amount of work for the report played a factor, as well.  And then there were the communications from friends and family.  Texts.  Comments on Facebook.  E-mails.  Conversations on Facebook Messenger.  I was gobsmacked with grace.  All of those things combined to give me a nice little ten-minute breakdown.

I can't say that I'm happy right now.  That would be a lie.  However, because of my friends and family, I can say that I am blessed.  Even if the universe seems to be dumping a million-gallon vat of custard on top of me, I have a whole lot of people with spoons and shovels to dig me out.  In fact, one of those people bought me a beer last night, because she knows that I am in the middle of this Sisyphean struggle (plus she loves me a whole lot).

This is what life is all about, I think.  Grace in the storm.  Love when you're drowning.  People who remind you what God's face looks like.

Saint Marty has seen that face a lot this week.

November 17: Elizabeth Alexander, "Butter," Bounty

Butter 

by:  Elizabeth Alexander

My mother loves butter more than I do,
more than anyone. She pulls chunks off
the stick and eats it plain, explaining
cream spun around into butter! Growing up
we ate turkey cutlets sauteed in lemon
and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles,
butter melting in small pools in the hearts
of Yorkshire puddings, butter better
than gravy staining white rice yellow,
butter glazing corn in slipping squares,
butter the lava in white volcanoes
of hominy grits, butter softening
in a white bowl to be creamed with white
sugar, butter disappearing into
whipped sweet potatoes, with pineapple,
butter melted and curdy to pour
over pancakes, butter licked off the plate
with warm Alaga syrup. When I picture
the good old days I am grinning greasy
with my brother, having watched the tiger
chase his tail and turn to butter. We are
Mumbo and Jumbo's children despite 
historical revision, despite
our parent's efforts, glowing from the inside
out, one hundred megawatts of butter. 
_____________________________

Can't get around it:  one of the things everyone focuses upon around Thanksgiving is food.  After all, the holiday is all about giving thanks for the bounty in your life.  Food.  Friends.  Family.  The smell of turkey cooking in a steaming kitchen.  Pies sitting out on the back porch with Cool Whip, waiting for dessert.  Five people, chopping vegetables, setting out silverware and plates.  Glasses of wine.  And laughter and jokes and old stories.

This poem reminds me of all of that, and that's why I love it.

Saint Marty is kind of a sucker for butter, too.

September 1: Dean Young, "Dear Friend," Alone in a Dark Wood

Dear Friend

by:  Dean Young

What will be served for our reception

in the devastation? Finger food, of course

and white wine, something printed on the napkins.

We were not children together

but we are now. Every bird knows

only two notes constantly rearranged.

That’s called forever so we wear pajamas

to the practice funeral, buckeroos

to the end. We make paper hats

of headlines and float them away.

My home made of smoke,

tiny spider made of punctuation,

my favorite poem is cinder

scratched into a sidewalk.

My friend’s becoming the simplest man,

he sees a lesson in everything,

in missing his train,

in his son hollering from the first branch,

Dad, guess where I am.

I was with him for my first magpies,

governmental and acting like hell.

And the new nickel

with Washington hard to recognize.

We’d driven by a Rabbit flattened

by an upset truck, jars of Miracle Whip

broken over the toll road in heavy snow.

We watched an old lady

eat a hot dog in a bun

with a knife and fork.

A few emeralds winged off

a fruit leaf.

What happens when your head splits open

and the bird flies out, its two notes deranged?

You got better, I got better,

wildflowers rimmed the crater,

glitter glitter glitter.

We knew someone whose father died

then we knew ourselves.

Astronomer, gladiator,

thief, a tombstone salesman.

All our vacations went to the sea

that breathed two times a day

without a machine.

We got in trouble with a raft

doing what we promised not to.

Further out to be brought further back.

There’s my friend in his squashed hat

trying to determine if a dot

is a living thing and do no harm.

He’s having trouble remembering street names

but there’s still plenty of Thoreau.

All that a human is made of is gold,

very very little gold.

_______________________________

I've had a lot of support and kindness sent my way in the last couple weeks, and for that I am really grateful.

I'm still not out of the forest.  Dante wrote, "In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself in a dark wood where the straight way was lost."  I read that line for the first time so many years ago.  Never thought it would have so much meaning for me.  I was wrong.

The difference between Dante and Saint Marty is having friends in that dark wood.

October 19: Nasty Weather, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

Welcome to another dreary Sunday in the Upper Peninsula.  The weather has turned quite nasty.  Dark.  Windy.  Rainy.  Yesterday's wind and snow took care of most of the leaves in my maple tree.  My front sidewalk now looks like this:

Yes, there are black spots all over the leaves.  It's some kind of tree fungus, and it sort of ruins the beauty of this picture.  The tree isn't dying.  It just looks like it has smallpox or something.

It has been a fairly lazy day for me.  I haven't accomplished anything.  I have a revision of an essay that I have to get to an editor.  Didn't do it.  I have to create a lesson plan for tomorrow.  Didn't do it.  I have midterm exams to correct.  Didn't do it.  Basically, I cleaned, and then I slept.  I'm feeling quite rested, but I have a crapload of work to get done now.

So, you'll excuse me if I cut this post a little short.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired three years ago.  It didn't get a whole lot of attention the first time 'round.  So I thought I'd give it a second shot.

October 19, 2011:  Sicker and Sicker, Positive Attitude, Friends

If it's possible, I feel sicker with my cold today than I did yesterday.  Sicker and sicker.  It's gotten to the point where people can tell I have some kind of bug by simply talking with me on the phone.  I sound like Harvey Fierstein.  I'm beat, but not beaten.

As you can tell by that last statement, I'm trying to maintain my positivity.  As grandma used to say, "Don't let the bastards get you down."  Okay, grandma didn't used to say that.  I wish she had.  Usually what grandma said was, "Where the hell are my teeth?"

On a more serious note, I'd like to enlist my disciples in a little positive thinking for a couple I know.  They're really great people and are currently expecting their first child.  Last Friday, they went to Green Bay for an amniocentesis.  Everything went well with the procedure, but when they got home, she started spotting blood.  They've had a really rough couple of days, and last night, I think I convinced them to go to the ER.  I don't know what the result of that visit was.  I'm waiting to hear from them.  But they are both very scared.  The husband looked like a cast member of The Walking Dead when I saw him.  They need hope.  Please, if you have a few seconds today, say a prayer for them.

Sometimes God reminds Saint Marty that his life, for all the crap that's going on, isn't really that bad.

Put me in a dress and call me Harvey

Confessions of Saint Marty

July 17: Forfeits, Friends, Happiness

Scrooge's niece was not one of the blind-man's buff party, but was made comfortable with a large chair and a footstool, in a snug corner, where the Ghost and Scrooge were close behind her.  But she joined in the forfeits, and loved her love to admiration with all the letters of the alphabet.  Likewise at the game How, When, and Where, she was very great, and to the secret joy of Scrooge's nephew, beat her sisters hollow:  though they were sharp girls too, as Topper could have told you.  There might have been twenty people there, young and old, but they all played, and so did Scrooge; for, wholly forgetting in the interest he had in what was going on, that his voice made no sound in their ears, he sometimes came out with his guess quite loud, and very often guessed quite right, too; for the sharpest needle, best Whitechapel, warranted not to cut in the eye, was not sharper than Scrooge:  blunt as he took it in his head to be.

This is one of the best scenes in the novel:  Scrooge losing himself in the festivities of his nephew's Christmas party, playing the games, yelling out answers, dancing and singing.  It's the comic relief, showing the gaiety and frivolity of the holiday, and demonstrating Scrooge's fun-loving side, which has been trapped inside him for decades.  It's also one of the first scenes where Scrooge becomes fully human and empathetic.

I love the scenes with Scrooge's nephew, Fred, and his wife.  I love reading about Fred's friends laughing and enjoying themselves.  I like the goodwill exhibited by everyone.  It's obvious that everyone has true love and affection for Fred and each other.

This evening, I'm meeting up with one of my best friends ("K") who's visiting from Washington state with her two daughters.  We're going to go to a playground and then swimming in Lake Superior, weather permitting.  K is, literally, one of the best people I know.  She's patient, kind, and giving.  She has a special needs child, and watching K deal with her daughter's meltdowns and outbursts is pretty amazing.  K can connect with a little girl who seems disconnected from the world.  That is the miracle of K.

So, I'm really looking forward to being with her and her family.  It's going to be a good night, the kind of night Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present would have enjoyed.  It's all about selfless and unconditional love.  K makes me a better person, teaches me what real friendship is all about, accepts all of my small (and large) imperfections.

I can almost hear K right now:  "You don't have imperfections.  Not you.  You are the most perfect person I know."

That's why Saint Marty loves K so much.

Love's all about selflessness, until it effects you in some way

June 12: Date Night, Cajun Food, Friends

My wife and I have a babysitter tonight.  We hired the babysitter so we could go to a counseling session together.  (Don't worry.  There's nothing wrong.  We are going to counseling to keep things on an even keel.  No stormy seas in our marriage at the present time.)  Then we decided to call up some friends to see if they wanted to go out for dinner.  It all sort of fell into place rather easily.

We'll be eating Cajun cuisine.  It's a restaurant my wife and I have never tried before, so it's going to be an adventure.  I may be trying some fried alligator.  I'm not sure what else is on the menu.  I really don't care.  The food is secondary.  The primary focus is my wife and our friends.  Adult conversation.  Adult dinner. 

My wife and I haven't been out on an actual date for several months.  Babysitters are expensive.  Then there's the cost of dinner or movies or whatever we decide to do.  It's just too much money to fork out on a regular basis.  We have "mini" date nights, when we actually don't go out anywhere.  We just sit at home, with the TV off, and, after the kids are in bed, we just talk.  It's relaxing and reconnects us.  We talk about things that have been on our minds.  We talk about things that are completely inane.  We talk about politics.  We talk about work.  We talk about the episode of SpongeBob our son was just watching.  We talk about anything.

Tonight, with our friends, we will talk about poetry and food and movies and literature and sex and travel.  It will be three or four hours of meaty conversation.  It will be heavenly.

Saint Marty just isn't sure what to order with his conversation:  red or white wine.

Which goes better with SpongeBob?

March 31: Lottery, Rich End, New Cartoon

...He thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would be his foremost thoughts?  Avarice, hard dealing, griping cares?  They had brought him to a rich end, truly!

Scrooge has been brought to a chamber of death by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.  He is staring down at the neglected body of the dead man.  Of course, Scrooge has not yet made the connection that the dead man is actually himself.  His ego will not allow it.  Instead, he wonders what this Lazarus would think if he was called out of the tomb.

Obviously, Avarice and hard dealing and griping cares haven't served Scrooge that well.  While these qualities may have made him materially wealthy, in the end, his death brings no sorrow to any person.  In the end, he is alone, bereft and unwept.  It's a pretty sobering moment in the novel.

Yesterday, millions of people lined up to buy tickets for a lottery that was worth $640 million.  For the price of a sausage biscuit from McDonald's, any person could purchase a chance at a half-billion-dollar fantasy.  Yes, even I got swept up in this mania of greed.  While the odds were hugely against me winning (I think I heard 176 million to 1), I couldn't pass up the chance to dream for a few, blissful hours.  Luxury.  Freedom from debt and worry.  Maybe a new pair of jeans.

Of course, life isn't that easy.  Obviously, I woke up to all the griping cares with which I went to sleep.  I will have to go to work on Monday.  I will have to somehow figure out a way to pay my mortgage AND car insurance AND water bills this week.  I have to remind myself that avarice is not a virtue, that envy (while a very human trait) is not very healthy.  I'm not into hard dealing.  I believe in generosity, in helping out the less fortunate.  That's what I've been taught.

Lazarus Scrooge has not come to a rich end, when "rich" is defined by friends and charity and good will.  If that's the standard for being rich, I think I'm doing OK.

Saint Marty just wishes he'd been about six correct numbers richer in the lottery last night.

Confessions of Saint Marty

December 16: Clarence's Inscription

The inscription above is from Clarence Odbody, the angel who comes down to Earth to help George Bailey on Christmas Eve.  Clarence has been trying for over 300 years to earn his wings, and George is his last chance.  At the end of the film, George finds a copy of Tom Sawyer by his Christmas tree.  It's from Clarence, who has a fondness for Mark Twain.  Those words are written in the book.  It pretty much sums up the entire message of the film.

I have a a new disciple on Saint Marty.  Actually, she may be new to the blog, but she's one of my oldest friends (I don't mean that in a chronological way, either).  Her name is Jody, and we have known each other for close to 20 years.  She currently resides in Georgia, and we see each other when the weather gets warm in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and she decides to come for a visit.  The last time we saw each other, we sat down and started talking like we'd just seen each other the previous day, even though we hadn't laid eyes on each other in three or four years.  She's that kind of friend, and I miss her a great deal every day.  Therefore, I'm sending a big hug and kiss and blessing to Jody, lucky disciple number 13.

I wasn't really planning on posting again today, but seeing Jody's name reminded me of this quote from Clarence the angel.  Friends are people who can surprise you and make you smile at the same time.  Jody just did that for me.  Friends are people who, when you think of their names, make you feel good about yourself.  Jody's always done that for me.  Friends are people who will listen to you cry on the phone and cry with you.  Jody has done that with me, on several occasions.  Clarence is right.  No man is a failure who has even one person like that in their lives.

I'm not a failure, because I have Jody as a friend.  OK, I have a lot of other friends, too, but Jody has always been, well, special.  So allow me to get a little sentimental.  It's almost Christmas time, for Christ's sake.  Cut me some slack.

Jody, you are my Clarence Odbody tonight, reminding me that I'm not a failure.  That I have a friend like you.

And that makes Saint Marty pretty rich.

December 16: No Gin Tonight, Son!

No gin tonight, son!


Looks like everybody's having a little gin to me

 Peter Bailey, played by actor Samuel S. Hinds, says this to his younger son, Harry, as he's headed out the door to go to his graduation party.  At this point in the movie, the time period is around 1926 or 1927, a couple years before the Great Depression hits.  The Jazz Age is in full swing, and gin is pretty easy to get a hold of.  It's always struck me as a little funny that Mr. Bailey adds that word "tonight" in his admonition.  Obviously, it's alright for Harry to go out and get blasted on other occasion, but not when he's wearing and tuxedo and has just graduated from high school.

My wife and I are having some friends over tonight for dinner.  We're making some of our favorite dishes and appetizers.  I baked a pecan pie last night.  We hardly ever entertain or have dinner guests.  Most of the time, we eat dinner in the living room, watching TV or reading.  We are actually clearing off the dining room table and breaking out the good china.  When I spoke to my friend, he asked if he could bring anything.  I told him to bring a bottle of wine.  He was cool with that.  I also plan on picking up a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream (no relation to George) to mix in some hot chocolate, as well.

I'm excited to have our friends over.  They're a great couple, around our ages.  Matt was just hired this fall at the university to teach creative non-fiction.  Louisa, his wife, is just plain wonderful.  They had us to their house for dinner around Halloween, so it's our turn now.  Of course, Matt is a food person.  He worked in the restaurant industry for quite a few years.  That's makes me a little nervous.  However, I keep telling myself that they are not coming to our house for the food.  They're coming to spend time with us.  The food's incidental.

There will be quite a bit of "gin" consumed this evening.  We killed a couple bottles of wine when we were at their house in October.  So, Mr. Bailey's warning is not going to work too well at our house tonight.  Then again, none of us are 18-year-olds fresh out of high school.

Peter Bailey has a stroke a few hours after giving his sage advice to his son, Peter.  He dies broken and tired, with great dreams and lots of unfulfilled desires, I would imagine.

Saint Marty intends to have some gin tonight.  Maybe some zinfandel or pinot noir, as well.