January 20: "Blueberries," Nostalgia, COVID-Positive

Mary Oliver picks blueberries . . . 

Blueberries

by:  Mary Oliver

I'm living in a warm place now, where

you can purchase fresh blueberries all

year long.  Labor free.  From various

countries in South America.  They're

as sweet as any, and compared with the

berries I used to pick in the fields

outside of Provincetown, they're

enormous.  But berries are berries.  They

don't speak any language I can't

understand.  Neither do I find ticks or

small spiders crawling among them.  So,

generally speaking, I'm very satisfied.

There are limits, however.  What they

don't have is the field.  The field they

belonged to and through the years I

began to feel I belonged to.  Well,

there's life and then there's later.

Maybe it's myself that I miss.  The

field, and the sparrow singing at the 

edge of the woods.  And the doe that one

morning came upon me unaware, all

tense and gorgeous.  She stamped her hoof

as you would to any intruder:  Then gave

me a long look, as if to say, Okay, you

stay in your patch, I'll stay in mine.

Which is what we did.  Try packing that

up, South America.

Mary Oliver is dealing with nostalgia here.  The blueberries she buys remind her of the blueberries she used to pick in a field near her home in Provincetown.  But Oliver doesn't stop there.  Because the poem isn't really just about blueberries.  It's about the whole blueberry-picking experience:  the sun on her back, the sparrow in a nearby woods, and a beautifully skittish, diffident doe.  Mary Oliver can't buy any of that at the market where she's shopping.

Nostalgia is a strange thing.  (I know I've written about this subject before, but humor me.)  Nostalgia is the human mind's way of taking any experience and whitewashing away all of the pain and grief and annoyances, leaving only a sepia-tinged daguerreotype of what actually happened.  That's how we can page through our old high school yearbooks and get all moony over pictures of ourselves in calculus class or with the cross country team.  Because our minds have erased all of the struggles--the late night study sessions and bruised bones, heartbreaking crushes and bullies.  Nostalgia is the reason women have more than one baby, because who in their right would reenlist for the pain of childbirth again?  They do it because they remember the first time the held their newborns instead of the effort of pushing a watermelon out of their bodies.

This morning, I tested positive for COVID.  My faithful disciples may remember that, at the beginning of January 2022, I got COVID.  What I recall of that time now is being at home and just watching movie after movie.  Going on walks with my wife, who was also COVID-positive.  And ordering pizza.  In short, I remember it as a pretty good winter vacation.

Of course, what I don't recall clearly from my first bout of COVID is what I'm experiencing right now--headache, runny nose, incessant cough, fever, nausea, and exhaustion.  Real exhaustion.  After I'm done typing this blog post, I'm going to take another nap.  That will be the fourth one today, I believe.  I'm sure I had all those symptoms last time, but it's just a blank wall in my mind.  

So, I'm like Mary Oliver right now, eating blueberries and not remembering the ticks and spiders of the field.

It's time for Saint Marty take a nap.

September 3: My Masterpiece, Languishing, Headache

"I'll tell you in the morning," she said.  "When the first light comes into the sky and the sparrows stir and the stars fade, when early cars whisper along the highway, you look up here and I'll show you something.  I will show you my masterpiece."

Charlotte is not referring to another word woven into her web here.  She is at the end of her life, has done everything that she can do to save her friend's porcine life.  But really, her masterpiece is about the continuation of life, as well.  Charlotte is referring to her egg sac, which will, in due time, produce her 514 children.


Really, nothing Charlotte has done can compare to the accomplishment of bringing 514 new lives into the world, even though she will not be around to witness it.  Charlotte does not want to tell Wilbur that she is dying, although she is "languishing" to tell him the truth.  That's the real beauty of E. B. White's little book.  It is full of promise, even though that promise may come at a dear price:  Charlotte's death.

I know that I will never do anything greater in my life than raise my son and daughter.  At the end of my time on this planet, they will be my masterpieces.  Sure, I obsess about poetry and writing and publishing and teaching and jobs and money.  I'm human, with that human drive for success.  But success is such a relative thing.

I have to teach tonight.  I've been up since 4 a.m., and my head is pounding from lack of sleep.  From 6 p.m. to approximately 9:30 p.m., I will be in a classroom, pretending I know something about the art of film.  I will try to appear wise and successful.  If I do it right, I will leave the classroom with a sense of fulfillment.  Accomplishment even.

Do you want to know what the best part of the night is going to be?  Getting home and listening to my daughter tell me about her day at school.  Going into my son's bedroom and watching him sleep for a few seconds, listening to his deep breaths.  That will be my reward for this long day of toil.  For a few blessed minutes, I will be happy.

That is my magnum opus this evening.  My great work.

Saint Marty's headache is feeling a little better.  Time to teach.

Magnum opuses come in all sizes

January 16: Old Phoebe, Roller-Skate Skinny, Spelling Bee Worry

...But you ought to see old Phoebe.  She has this sort of red hair, a little bit like Allie's was, that's very short in the summertime.  In the summertime, she sticks it behind her ears.  She has nice, pretty little ears.  In the wintertime, it's pretty long, though.  Sometimes my mother braids it and sometimes she doesn't.  It's really nice, though.  She's only ten.  She's quite skinny, like me, but nice skinny.  Roller-skate skinny.  I watched her once from the window when she was crossing over Fifth Avenue to go up to the park, and that's what she is, roller-skate skinny...

Holden really loves his little sister, Phoebe.  She's practically the only person in the book whom Holden doesn't call a phony.  Like Allie, Holden's dead brother, Phoebe is an innocent.  Life has not had a chance to get hold of her yet.  She's still this roller-skate skinny girl, heading off to the park to play.  Nothing is purer in Holden's mind.

This passage reminds me of my daughter.  She, too, has sort of red hair, like Phoebe.  My daughter's auburn tresses are long now.  A couple of summers ago, she had it cut short one day.  It was curly and flashed in the July sun.  Because she's a dancer, however, she let it grow back out.  It almost reaches the middle of her back.  She's also let her bangs get long, as well, because she got tired of being the only girl in ballet who couldn't pull all her hair back into a bun.

My daughter hasn't been feeling well.  Upset stomach.  Headache.  Diarrhea.   (She would die if she knew I was writing about her diarrhea.)  She went to school on Monday.  She stayed home on Tuesday, although she did manage to make it to her dance open house.  Barely.  She spent most of the two hours on the floor with her eyes closed.  She was determined to go to school today for her spelling bee.  Her English teacher is taking her out to lunch at Pizza Hut before the competition.  My daughter's been studying her spelling list for two weeks.

That's my worry for this Worry Wednesday.  I want my daughter to be healthy.  I want her to enjoy her pizza.  I want her to do well in the spelling bee.  I can see her now, roller-skate skinny, standing in front of the judges, pushing her bangs behind her ears, saying, "Can you use that word in a sentence?"

Saint Marty hopes his Phoebe stomps her opponents.  He wants a trip to Nationals.  That's N-A-T-I-O-N-A-L-S.

The word is "diarrhea"