June 26: "Halloween," Good Friends, "Chicken and Beer"

Billy Collins and trick-or-treating . . . 

Halloween

by: Billy Collins

When I said hello

to a very small cowboy,

he gave me the trigger finger.

Ah, kids say and do the darndest things, usually at the most inconvenient times.  Any parent can vouch for that.  Halloween, in particular, heightens this possibility.  Having a small child in costume, hyped up on sugar and tired from walking around the neighborhood, is a recipe for these kinds of embarrassments.  I can't tell you how many times I stopped one of my kids on Halloween to remind them to say "thank you" after receiving their treat.  Usually, said kid halted mid-flight, turned, and mumbled the words as if they tasted like Kaopectate on their tongues.  One time, my daughter was offered some candy she didn't like, and she politely closed her treat bag and said, "No, thank you,  I don't like those," and walked away from the stunned homeowner.

Kids get a free pass when it comes to expressing brutal honesty because, frankly, it's kind of hilarious.  Adults, on the other hand, can get themselves into trouble sometimes if they actually say what they are thinking.  The one phrase that has prime real estate on the tip of my tongue is "you have got to be fucking kidding me!"  As in, someone reminds me about a meeting at work, and I whisper to myself, "You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

Because of this constant need to monitor thoughts, speech, and actions, adulting can be pretty exhausting.  That's why good friends are so important.  You don't have to apologize to them for being yourself.  They know and understand.  

Once a week, my wife and I have dinner and beer with another couple.  They are very good friends.  None of us feels the need to obfuscate if asked the question, "So, how was your day?"  Sometimes, the answer is "Great!"  Other times, the answer is "Complete rubbish!"  And then we spend our time together sorting through the trash heap of the day.  We know and care deeply about each other, and it's wonderful.

Tonight, my wife and I had KFC and beer with our friends.  We unpacked our days, aired our victories and struggles, and left feeling heard and loved.  The food and drink nourished our bodies, and the conversation nourished our spirits.  I always leave these dinners feeling better about myself and the universe.  It's a sacred moment of connection that I rarely experience at any other time.

Saint Marty gives thanks for good friends.

Chicken and Beer

by: Martin Achatz

with friends is Holy

Communion on Wednesday

evening, minus the betrayal,

arrest, crucifixion.  I'll save

that for Saturday night.

June 5: "With the Blackest of Inks," Shake Faith, Married to Amazement

Mary Oliver admires the panther . . . 

With the Blackest of Inks

by:  Mary Oliver

At night

     the panther,

          who is lean

               and quick,

is only

     a pair of eyes

          and, with a yawn,

               momentarily,

a long, pink tongue.

     Mostly

          he listens

               as he walks

on the puffs

     of his feet

          as if

               on a carpet

from Persia,

     or leaps

          into the branches

               of a tree,

or swims

     across the river,

          or simply

               stands in the grass

and waits.

     Because, Sir,

          you have given him,

               for your own reasons,

everything that he needs:

     leaves, food, shelter;

          a conscience

               that never blinks.

Oliver writes a praise psalm to the panther--lean and quick, a pair of eyes with a long, pink tongue.  Creatures like this were manifestations of the divine for Oliver.  Although she often refers to God and prayer in her poems, Oliver did not officially belong to any specific denomination or church.  She identified most closely with the Episcopal Church, although she had issues with the Christian concept of the Resurrection.  She found holiness elsewhere--in her daily walks in forests or along beaches.  She felt most connected to the universe when she was out in it, kicking up piles of leaves, observing bears, listening to coyotes.

Except for a brief rebellious phase when I was a teenager, I've attended church services all of my life (mostly Catholic, but also Methodist, Lutheran, and Episcopalian).  I was brought up believing in concepts like original sin, the Virgin birth, and the Resurrection.  I don't have a problem with maybes and mysteries.  It's not up to me to prove or disprove anything.  That's what faith is all about.

However, things happen in life that can shake faith in any kind of Higher Power.  For a long time, I struggled with belief after my sister, Sally, died of lymphoma of the brain.  I didn't stop going to church or anything, but I was not on a first name basis with God.  I was pissed.  Confused.  Disappointed.  Sad.  I felt a lot of things, but devotion did not enter into the equation.

We all struggle like this.  That's human nature.  The world can be a shitty, broken place.  Ergo, you will feel shitty and broken at some point during your time on this planet.  As any faithful disciple of Saint Marty knows, I've dealt with addiction and mental health issues, personally and with family members.  In the last six or seven years, I've lost quite a few people in my life (by last count, two sisters, one brother, both of my parents, and a best friend).  Like I said, shitty and broken.

Mary Oliver came from an abusive family background.  Her father sexually assaulted her when she was a child.  In her poetry, she addressed this trauma in only three or four poems.  Other than that, she chose to be a "bride married to amazement . . . the bridegroom taking the world into my arms" ("When Death Comes").  She embraced wonder and mystery in her quest to overcome all that was shitty and broken in her young life.

Her whole life, Mary Oliver remained devoted to the divine creations of the world--the trees and rivers and lakes and birds and animals and fish.  That was where she found God.  Even though she served on the altar guild of St. Mary of the Harbor Episcopal Church later in her life, she had a complicated relationship with organized religion.  She just didn't buy into some Christian dogma, including the idea of Christ's Resurrection, as I said earlier.

Yet, Oliver and God were friends.  Good friends.  They hiked together in the mornings.  She met God as a bear gulping honey from a tree.  As her dog chasing a stick on a beach.  As an egret climbing into the sky.  As a panther walking on the puffs of his feet.  These were all signs of the creator, that "Sir" who created the panther like a poet, with "the blackest of inks."  

I try to see the world the way Mary Oliver did.  I'm looking at my 14-year-old son right now.  He's sprawled on the floor, enthralled with his iPhone.  It's astounding to me that I had something to do with the creation of him.  Last night, I stood in my backyard for a few minutes, watching sunlight leach from the sky as birdsong rattled the dusk.  This morning, I heard a rooster crowing in my neighbor's backyard.  This world.  This alive world.  It's full of amazements.  

Whatever name you use--Sir, Yahweh, Jesus Christ, Muhammad, science, Lord, Flying Spaghetti Monster--the wonders of God are everywhere, waiting to be noticed, greeted, embraced.  Yes, the world is shitty and broken and hard.  But there are also things in this world like beavers and birds and music and poetry and long shadows at sunset.  Gifts.  Miracles.

Saint Marty may write a poem about this tonight, with the ink the color of a panther.

February 12: With a Friend, Endure Rather Than Enjoy, Leftover Pizza

Santiago talks about his friend, the fish . . . 

It encouraged him to talk because his back had stiffened in the night and it hurt truly now.

"Stay at my house if you like, bird," he said. "I am sorry I cannot hoist the sail and take you in with the small breeze that is rising. But I am with a friend."

Santiago seems to be friends with everything.  His boat.  The sea.  The little bird.  Even the fish at the end of his line.

I have to say that seeing the universe, and everything in it, as a friend instead of some hostile enemy is a pretty good way to remain happy.  I think too many people (myself included, at times) think of life as something to endure rather than enjoy.  I know that, every once in a while, I need a reminder that life is pretty darn good.

Tonight, some good friends came over to my house to play board games with my family.  We ate pizza, talked smack to each other, and had a great time.  It didn't really matter who won.  (For the record, it wasn't me.)  It was just a much needed moment of disconnection from the struggles of the last few weeks.  

I'm exhausted, but content.  Plus, there's leftover pizza in my fridge.

Saint Marty feels pretty blessed at the moment.

August 1: Poetry Workshop, Happiness, "Can I Tell You?"

I just returned from leading my monthly poetry workshop.  We had a small turnout.  Only four poets.  However, all of the people present were good friends.  People I love very deeply.  And I think they love me, as well.

You may recall that the theme of the workshop this month was "Happiness," which, when I first selected it, seemed completely fine.  In the ensuing weeks, however, my relationship with happiness has been a little bit rocky.  So, I showed up tonight with poems, writing prompts, and not a whole lot of enthusiasm for the anything besides the salsa and chips.

The people at the workshop really lifted my spirits, which had been in the septic tank most of the day.  Plus, I was able to write some decent beginnings for new poems.  It is late now, and I have no idea what the rest of this night has in store for me.  So, I'm going to leave you with one of the raw pieces I wrote earlier this evening.

Saint Marty is trying to reclaim his happiness.

Can I Tell You?

Can I tell you that you were beautiful in your hospital bed, with your dark hair oiled to your face?  Can I say that your chapped lips parted, and air bubbled between them in tiny hiccups, and that was beautiful, too?  Can I mention the sound of the IV beside you, beeping, pinging like a tiny railroad crossing, how beautiful that noise was?  Can I say how I sat beside you and held your hand as you slept, and even the smell of you was beautiful--the sweat and stale breath and gas coming from your body?  And the sour sweetness of breast milk rising from your nightgown, how it filled me with layers and layers of onion contentment.  Peel away a layer.  Contentment.  Peel away another layer.  More contentment.  Can I tell you all this now, so many years later?  Can I remind you of the happiness we had that day, that night, as the sun went down on our son's first hours of breath?  How I didn't know that moment, holding your hand, watching you sleep, was one of the best moments of my life?  If I had only known.  If I had only known.

July 23: Celebrate a Tail, Ambulance, Vertigo

Other poets have warbled the praises of the soft eye of the antelope, and the lovely plumage of the bird that never alights; less celestial, I celebrate a tail.

Reckoning the largest sized Sperm Whale's tail to begin at that point of the trunk where it tapers to about the girth of a man, it comprises upon its upper surface alone, an area of at least fifty square feet. The compact round body of its root expands into two broad, firm, flat palms or flukes, gradually shoaling away to less than an inch in thickness. At the crotch or junction, these flukes slightly overlap, then sideways recede from each other like wings, leaving a wide vacancy between. In no living thing are the lines of beauty more exquisitely defined than in the crescentic borders of these flukes. At its utmost expansion in the full grown whale, the tail will considerably exceed twenty feet across.

The entire member seems a dense webbed bed of welded sinews; but cut into it, and you find that three distinct strata compose it:- upper, middle, and lower. The fibres in the upper and lower layers, are long and horizontal; those of the middle one, very short, and running crosswise between the outside layers. This triune structure, as much as anything else, imparts power to the tail. To the student of old Roman walls, the middle layer will furnish a curious parallel to the thin course of tiles always alternating with the stone in those wonderful relics of the antique, and which undoubtedly contribute so much to the great strength of the masonry.

But as if this vast local power in the tendinous tail were not enough, the whole bulk of the leviathan is knit over with a warp and woof of muscular fibres and filaments, which passing on either side the loins and running down into the flukes, insensibly blend with them, and largely contribute to their might; so that in the tail the confluent measureless force of the whole whale seems concentrated to a point. Could annihilation occur to matter, this were the thing to do it.

Nor does this- its amazing strength, at all tend to cripple the graceful flexion of its motions; where infantileness of ease undulates through a Titanism of power. On the contrary, those motions derive their most appalling beauty from it. Real strength never impairs beauty or harmony, but it often bestows it; and in everything imposingly beautiful, strength has much to do with the magic. Take away the tied tendons that all over seem bursting from the marble in the carved Hercules, and its charm would be gone. As devout Eckerman lifted the linen sheet from the naked corpse of Goethe, he was overwhelmed with the massive chest of the man, that seemed as a Roman triumphal arch. When Angelo paints even God the Father in human form, mark what robustness is there. And whatever they may reveal of the divine love in the Son, the soft, curled, hermaphroditical Italian pictures, in which his idea has been most successfully embodied; these pictures, so destitute as they are of all brawniness, hint nothing of any power, but the mere negative, feminine one of submission and endurance, which on all hands it is conceded, form the peculiar practical virtues of his teachings.
Such is the subtle elasticity of the organ I treat of, that whether wielded in sport, or in earnest, or in anger, whatever be the mood it be in, its flexions are invariably marked by exceeding grace. Therein no fairy's arm can transcend it.

Five great motions are peculiar to it. First, when used as a fin for progression; Second, when used as a mace in battle; Third, in sweeping; Fourth, in lobtailing; Fifth, in peaking flukes.

First: Being horizontal in its position, the Leviathan's tail acts in a different manner from the tails of all other sea creatures. It never wriggles. In man or fish, wriggling is a sign of inferiority. To the whale his tail is the sole means of propulsion. Scroll-wise coiled forwards beneath the body, and then rapidly sprung backwards, it is this which gives that singular darting, leaping motion to the monster when furiously swimming. His side-fins only serve to steer by.

Second: It is a little significant, that while one sperm whale only fights another sperm whale with his head and jaw, nevertheless, in his conflicts with man, he chiefly and contemptuously uses his tail. In striking at a boat, he swiftly curves away his flukes from it, and the blow is only inflicted by the recoil. If it be made in the unobstructed air, especially if it descend to its mark, the stroke is then simply irresistible. No ribs of man or boat can withstand it. Your only salvation lies in eluding it; but if it comes sideways through the opposing water, then partly owing to the light buoyancy of the whale-boat, and the elasticity of its materials, a cracked rib or a dashed plank or two, a sort of stitch in the side, is generally the most serious result. These submerged side blows are so often received in the fishery, that they are accounted mere child's play. Some one strips off a frock, and the hole is stopped.

Third: I cannot demonstrate it, but it seems to me, that in the whale the sense of touch is concentrated in the tail; for in this respect there is a delicacy in it only equalled by the daintiness of the elephant's trunk. This delicacy is chiefly evinced in the action of sweeping, when in maidenly gentleness the whale with a certain soft slowness moves his immense flukes side to side upon the surface of the sea; and if he feel but a sailor's whisker, woe to that sailor, whiskers and all. What tenderness there is in that preliminary touch! Had this tail any prehensile power, I should straightway bethink me of Darmonodes' elephant that so frequented the flower-market, and with low salutations presented nosegays to damsels, and then caressed their zones. On more accounts than one, a pity it is that the whale does not possess this prehensile virtue in his tail; for I have heard of yet another elephant, that when wounded in the fight, curved round his trunk and extracted the dart.

Fourth: Stealing unawares upon the whale in the fancied security of the middle of solitary seas, you find him unbent from the vast corpulence of his dignity, and kitten-like, he plays on the ocean as if it were a hearth. But still you see his power in his play. The broad palms of his tail are flirted high into the air! then smiting the surface, the thunderous concussion resounds for miles. You would almost think a great gun had been discharged; and if you noticed the light wreath of vapor from the spiracle at his other extremity, you would think that that was the smoke from the touch-hole.

Fifth: As in the ordinary floating posture of the leviathan the flukes lies considerably below the level of his back, they are then completely out of sight beneath the surface; but when he is about to plunge into the deeps, his entire flukes with at least thirty feet of his body are tossed erect in the air, and so remain vibrating a moment, till they downwards shoot out of view. Excepting the sublime breach- somewhere else to be described- this peaking of the whale's flukes is perhaps the grandest sight to be seen in all animated nature. Out of the bottomless profundities the gigantic tail seems spasmodically snatching at the highest heaven. So in dreams, have I seen majestic Satan thrusting forth his tormented colossal claw from the flame Baltic of Hell. But in gazing at such scenes, it is all in all what mood you are in; if in the Dantean, the devils will occur to you; if in that of Isaiah, the archangels. Standing at the mast-head of my ship during a sunrise that crimsoned sky and sea, I once saw a large herd of whales in the east, all heading towards the sun, and for a moment vibrating in concert with peaked flukes. As it seemed to me at the time, such a grand embodiment of adoration of the gods was never beheld, even in Persia, the home of the fire worshippers. As Ptolemy Philopater testified of the African elephant, I then testified of the whale, pronouncing him the most devout of all beings. For according to King Juba, the military elephants of antiquity often hailed the morning with their trunks uplifted in the profoundest silence.

The chance comparison in this chapter, between the whale and the elephant, so far as some aspects of the tail of the one and the trunk of the other are concerned, should not tend to place those two opposite organs on an equality, much less the creatures to which they respectively belong. For as the mightiest elephant is but a terror to Leviathan, so, compared with Leviathan's tail, his trunk is but the stalk of a lily. The most direful blow from the elephant's trunk were as the playful tap of a fan, compared with the measureless crush and crash of the sperm whale's ponderous flukes, which in repeated instances have one after the other hurled entire boats with all their oars and crews into the air, very much as an Indian juggler tosses his balls.*

*Though all comparison in the way of general bulk between the whale and the elephant is preposterous, inasmuch as in that particular the elephant stands in much the same respect to the whale that a dog does to the elephant; nevertheless, there are not wanting some points of curious similitude; among these is the spout. It is well known that the elephant will often draw up water or dust in his trunk, and then elevating it, jet it forth in a stream.

The more I consider this mighty tail, the more do I deplore my inability to express it. At times there are gestures in it, which, though they would well grace the hand of man, remain wholly inexplicable. In an extensive herd, so remarkable, occasionally, are these mystic gestures, that I have heard hunters who have declared them akin to Free-Mason signs and symbols; that the whale, indeed, by these methods intelligently conversed with the world. Nor are there wanting other motions of the whale in his general body, full of strangeness, and unaccountable to his most experienced assailant. Dissect him how I may, then, I but go skin deep. I know him not, and never will. But if I know not even the tail of this whale, how understand his head? much more, how comprehend his face, when face he has none? Thou shalt see my back parts, my tail, he seems to say, but my face shall not be seen. But I cannot completely make out his back parts; and hint what he will about his face, I say again he has no face.

Can I tell you that Melville's meditation on the tail of a whale does not engage me at all this evening?  It js beautifully written.  Poetic even, at times.  However, it leaves me a little cold.  Melville is describing each and every portion of the sperm whale, from nose to tail.  He has reached the end now.  Of course, most of his readership had never even seen a picture of a whale, so perhaps it was necessary for him to be this particular.  To demystify his subject a little.

Well, yesterday afternoon, I wrote about getting ready for Book Club, cleaning and straightening and cooking.  My friend, John Smolens, was the guest of honor.  We had read his novel, Angel's Head.  It was a great book of suspense and mystery.  I was really looking forward to the evening.

I spoke yesterday about being a control freak.  Having to plan out everything to the last detail to make sure that everything went smoothly.  Yesterday, about 15 minutes before people were scheduled to start arriving, I got sick.  REALLY sick.  I was sitting on my couch, got up to check on a dish that I was cooking, and, basically, almost passed out.

I was nauseated, sweaty, and pale.  I thought, perhaps, that I had risen too quickly from the sofa, so I sat back down for a moment.  I didn't get better.  I tested my blood sugar, thinking that I was in the middle of a low blood sugar episode.  I wasn't.  I went into the bathroom, got a cold rag, and sat on the toilet, trying to get my body under control.  I couldn't.

The first two people to show up were my best friends, who happen to be registered nurses.  They assessed the situation and decided that an ambulance should be called, considering my family history of heart problems and stroke.  So, there I was, apologizing to my friend, John, dry heaving into a plastic bag, waiting for EMS to arrive.

They came, took me into the ambulance, did an EKG, and then drove me to the hospital.

Long story short, I was not having a heart attack.  Turns out I had a case of vertigo.  A BAD case of vertigo.  Like Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak vertigo.  And I was really dehydrated, which may have actually precipitated everything.  Blood tests.  Chest x-ray.  Antivert.  IV fluids.  Three hours later, I was on my way home.

That is my demystification of last night.  Book club was canceled.  I had to bow out of another party I'd been invited to attend, which included poetry and bratwurst.  Two of my favorite things.  I felt like I was disappointing a lot of people.

I thought I was in control.  I wasn't.  God brought me down hard last night.  Still feeling a little out of sorts today, but I've been drinking water like crazy.  I'm feeling much better, nose to tail.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for good medication and good friends.

July 23: "Genesis," Billy Collins, Feeling Love

Tonight, I put my son to bed late.  I attended a retirement party for a former professor of mine.  I can honestly say that this man is the main reason I am a writer.  I took a fiction workshop from him as an undergraduate, and he really encouraged me, made me feel like I actually did have a little talent.  He pushed me to go to graduate school, and he celebrated all of my successes.

I am also good friends with this man's son.  He and I went to graduate school together.  We shared an office when I was in a PhD program.  He has a fourteen-year-old daughter.  I have a thirteen-year-old daughter.  He is a poet.  I am a poet.  He's a really wonderful guy.  Adores his wife and kid.  Loves the Upper Peninsula.  Ditto me.

After we left the retirement party, I stopped by my wife's place of employment to say "hi."  It was good to see her smile and hear her laugh.  And now I'm waiting for her to get home from work.  We'll share a few quiet moments together before I go to bed.  Nothing monumental will take place.  We might discuss the rock my son found at the party, or the chocolate cupcake I ate tonight.  Small details of love.

That's what the poem I chose from Billy Collins is about tonight.  Love and devotion.

Saint Marty had a fine, fine night.

Genesis

by:  Billy Collins

It was late, of course,
just the two of us still at the table
working on a second bottle of wine

when you speculated that maybe Eve came first
and Adam began as a rib
that leaped out of her side one paradisal afternoon.

Maybe, I remember saying,
because much was possible back then,
and I mentioned the talking snake
and the giraffes sticking their necks out of the ark,
their noses up in the pouring Old Testament rain.

I like a man with a flexible mind, you said then,
lifting your candlelit glass to me
and I raised mine to you and began to wonder

what life would be like as one of your ribs--
to be with you all the time,
riding under your blouse and skin,
caged under the soft weight of your breasts,

your favorite rib, I am assuming,
if you ever bothered to stop and count them

which is just what I did later that night
after you had fallen asleep
and we were fitted tightly back to front,
your long legs against the length of mine,
my fingers doing the crazy numbering that comes of love.

Counting on love

April 21: Happy Birthday to My Sister

Tonight, I want to wish my sister a happy birthday.

She may not see this post tonight.  Or tomorrow.  Eventually, however, she will find it.  And I want her to know how much I appreciate her kindness and generosity and love every day.  My kids adore her.  My wife and she are good friends.  She's bailed me out of many a tough scrape over the last year or so.

So, happy birthday, sis!

Saint Marty sends you a big saintly blessing this evening.

P. S. Save me a piece of carrot cake!

Make a wish, cut the cake

June 11: Another Day, Another Run

Yesterday, I went for a run when I got home.  And I got soaked in a rainstorm.  Today, I plan to go for a run when I got home, as well.  I'm hoping to fare a little better this evening.

I just received a lovely e-mail from a wonderful poet whose book I reviewed last November in Saint Marty.  Her name is Terry Godbey, and she is simply a lovely person.  Her communication was a blessing in my life this afternoon.  I always love connecting with fellow poets and writers.  It's one of the perks of being associated with a literary magazine and having a blog that writers sometimes stumble across in their spare time.

Life is good today.  I know I don't say that very often, but it's true.

Saint Marty sometimes (well, most of the time) has a pretty nice existence.  Good friends, good books, good food, good kids, good spouse.  Hallelujah.

Just count 'em up, folks (your blessings, I mean)

December 7: Good Friends

Let me just say, I have good friends.

On Sunday night, after my daughter's birthday party at church, I was facing a really long clean-up by myself.  My wife had to pick up my son from the babysitter, and I had an entire church hall to return to usable condition.  I was not looking forward to it.  Then, a friend showed up and stayed with me until the floors were swept; the popcorn machine was cleaned; the garbage was taken to the dumpster; and the boxes were loaded into the back of my car.  Good friend.

At work, I have someone who keeps me honest.  I've known this person for close to 15 years, by my last count.  She knows when something is going wrong in my life, without me having to say a word.  She will listen to my troubles.  Tell me when I'm full of shit.  She knits hats for me, and runs races with me.  Good friend.

There's another person who I've known for close to 20 years.  She's been through some really difficult times in the last few years, and she's seen me through some of the worst times in my life.  She makes costumes for plays and programs I direct.  If I need somebody to keep me organized, she becomes my very own, live Franklin planner.  She pisses me off.  I piss her off.  But, when I'm down on my luck, she'll come along and pick me up.  Good friend.

Another person lives about four hours away from me.  He's a pastor.  When he lived nearby, we would meet on Thursday nights, eat onion rings, and write poetry.  He has seen me at my absolute worst, and loved me anyway.  He has seen me angry, depressed, despondent, despairing, and loved me even more fiercely.  While he's not great at remembering birthdays, he still calls me every week or so to check in.  Good friend.

I work in a band with another person.  Even though she's musically gifted, can listen to a song and immediately play it on her guitar, she still makes me (a mediocre keyboard player) feel like a rock star.  She values my opinion and thinks my poetry is amazing.  She recognizes my passions and lets me pursue them.  Good friend.

I could keep going.  There are so many more people I could tell you about.  The thing I wanted to remind myself this morning is that I have really good friends.  People who I know I can count on.  There's a line in the movie Stand By Me that goes, "Friends come in and out of our lives, like busboys in a restaurant."  It's true.  I can't be sure how long the people I just wrote about will be in my life.  So I just want to acknowledge the blessings I've received from all my good friends.

Marty is one lucky saint.


Stand by your friends