October 9: Tell Me a Story, Exhaustion, Once Upon a Time

"Tell me a story," Montana Wildhack said to Billy Pilgrim in the Tralfamadorian zoo one time.  They were in bed side by side.  They had privacy.  The canopy covered the dome.  Montana was six months pregnant now, big and rosy, lazily demanding small favors from Billy from time to time.  She couldn't send Billy out for ice cream or strawberries, since the atmosphere outside the dome was cyanide, and the nearest strawberries and ice cream were millions of light years away.

 She could send him to the refrigerator, which was decorated with the blank couple on the bicycle built for two--or, as now, she could wheedle, "Tell me a story, Billy boy."

"Dresden was destroyed on the night of February 13, 1945," Billy Pilgrim began.  "We came out of our shelter the next day."  He told Montana about the four guards who, in their astonishment and grief, resembled a barbershop quartet.  He told her about the stockyards with all the fenceposts gone, with roofs and windows gone--told her about seeing little logs lying around.  There were people who had been caught in the fire-storm.  So it goes.

Billy told her what had happened to the buildings that used to form cliffs around the stockyards.  They had collapsed.  Their wood had been consumed, and their stones had crashed down., had tumbled against one another until they locked at last in low and graceful curves.

"It was like the moon," said Billy Pilgrim.

That is an astonishing story, one that Billy hasn't shared with anybody yet, except Montana Wildhack.  He shares it in a moment of intimacy, both of them naked, lying in bed.  Her six months pregnant, petulant with child.  Instead of a fairy tale, a happily-ever-after, Billy tells her about the horrors of Dresden.

So it goes.

I am going to tell you the story of exhaustion.  This past weekend, I celebrated my birthday, led a poetry workshop, corrected papers, wrote a poem, and helped my wife throw a birthday party for my son and his school friends.  Today, I worked a full shift in the medical office, conferenced with students for three hours, and put together a Midterm Exam.  Now, I am blogging.  Soon, I will go home and collapse.

So it goes.

So, once upon a time, there was a saint named Marty.  Marty worked all day and all night for four days straight, closing his eyes only to blink away the sand of sleep.  By the fourth night, Marty was just a shade, sitting in his dark office, ghosted by the light from his laptop screen.

And then Saint Marty slept happily ever after.  The end.

So it goes.

October 1: Laughter and Good Conversation, Classic Saint Marty, "On My Son's Future"

This afternoon, we officially celebrate my son's birthday with my family.  Hot dogs.  Bratwurst.  Rice Krispie Treats.  Ice Cream.  Presents.

This evening, I'm hosting my book club.  Elena Passarello's Animals Strike Curious Poses.  Ro-tel Dip.  Soup.  Maybe pizza.  Good friends.  Laughter and good conversation.

I have papers to grade.  Poems to write.  A midterm exam to create.  A poetry workshop to plan.  And, of course, Saint Marty's Day to prepare for.

To get you in the Saint Marty's Day mood, a Classic Saint Marty from a year ago . . .

October 4, 2016:  Saint Marty's Day Eve, Tapioca, "'Twas the Night Before Saint Marty's Day"

Allow me to put aside Annie Dillard on this Saint Marty's Day Eve to share one of the most famous Saint Marty's Day poems ever written.  Get that tapioca made and those presents wrapped.  It's almost time to raise your cups of Diet Mountain Dew in honor of Saint Marty.

'Twas the night before Saint Marty's Day, when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes that Saint Marty soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of tapioca danced in their heads.
And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
had just settled our brains for a long autumn's nap.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash. 

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen leaves
gave the lustre of midday to shadows by the eaves,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a cheerful, saintly figure, full of good cheer.

With a laugh so infectious, so lively and hardy,
I knew in a moment it must be Saint Marty.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers he came,
and he whistled and shouted and called saintly names: 

"Now Peter! Now John!
Now, Francis and Paul!
On, Theresa! On, Bernadette!
On good old John Paul!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
Now bless away! Bless away!
  Bless one and all!" 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so up to the house-top the coursers he flew,
looking like Brad Pitt, and George Clooney, too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard up above me
Saintly feet walking and dancing, so help me.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down the chimney Saint Marty came with a bound. 

He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all dusted with ashes and soot.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his shoulders,
and he looked like a vision--a good, Christian soldier. 

His eyes--how they sparkled!  His smile, how white!

His face, so angelic this Saint Marty's night!
His demeanor was gentle, peaceful and quiet,
he looked so handsome that he could cause a riot.

His halo and wings shone in the moonlight,
his robe was like snow, brilliantly bright.
He raised his hands in a blessing, filled with such grace
that even the pope would hang his head in disgrace.

He was pleasant and smart, a saintly good fellow,
and I laughed when I saw him, and offered him Jell-O.
  But a wink of his eye and a shake of his head
soon gave me to know he wanted tapioca instead. 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 

He sprang to the roof, and took to the wind,
  I watched him with awe ascend and ascend.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he flew out of sight,

"Happy Saint Marty's Day to all, and to all a good night!"

And another poem for this afternoon, on this book club day . . .

On My Son's Future

by:  Martin Achatz

I meet with his future
Teachers today, a man, a woman,
To decide how we will
Mold him into something
Acceptable, a straight “A”
Football player valedictorian
Who will speak without
Sibilance or stutter,
Will eat brussel sprouts
Without glottal gag
Or plosive retch,
Will recite the alphabet,
Count to one hundred,
Name the bones of the hand
Before kindergarten,
Memorize Lincoln’s
Gettysburg Address for kicks,
Recite it on the playground
As he lobs the ball
Over the fence, takes
His victory lap around
The bases as the other
Boys glare with envy,
The girls admire
His easy, confident
Gait that will carry
Him through high school,
Into college on scholarship,
Medical school on fellowship,
Johns Hopkins, onto missionary
Work where he’ll discover
The cure for some
As yet unknown disease
Decimating sub-Saharan
Africa, for which he’ll
Win the Nobel Prize
For Medicine, thank me
In his acceptance speech
For the choices I make
Today, for asking
Whether he will get
A nap in the afternoon
Next year.

March 11: Business as Usual, God's Sense of Humor, "Rye" Dip

Spring Break is over.  I thought it was going to be business as usual today.  Work at 5 a.m.  Teaching at 3 p.m.  Lots of phone calls and paperwork in between.

I woke this morning to about eight inches of snow on top of my car and thirty-mile-an-hour winds.  The drive to the medical office was interesting, to say the least.  The county plows had not cleared U.S. 41, so I pretty much followed two ruts of snow all the way to work.  That's over twenty miles of white knuckles.

God has a sense of humor.  I've known this for a while.  Having a snowstorm blow into the Upper Peninsula of Michigan the day after Spring Break is pretty funny.  The university is open, and I have to teach this afternoon.  However, I know half of the students are not going to show up, which puts me in a quandary.  I'm not sure what to do about the midterm exam.  I was going to spend time in class today doing a review and answering questions.  There's a take-home essay portion I was planning to hand out today, as well.  The bitchy, vindictive side of me says to move ahead.  Business as usual.  The compassionate, basset hound side of me wants to postpone the exam until next Monday.  I'm leaning, at the moment, toward bitchy and vindictive.

My question for Rye Dip Monday is pretty clear:

Should I postpone my midterm exam?

And the answer from Holden Caulfield is:

"Darling, if Holden needs anything, everything's in the linen closet.  The top shelf.  I'm going to bed.  I'm exhausted," Mrs. Antolini said.  She looked it, too.  "Can you boys made up the couch by yourselves?"

Well, Mrs. Antolini seems pretty sure Holden and her husband can handle things by themselves.  She's done everything else to make Holden comfortable.  She's going to bed.


So, today, Saint Marty is going to prepare his class.  He's going to give his students everything they need.  The linen and blankets.  It's up to them to make their beds for Thursday's exam.

I prefer vanilla midterms

October 25: Busyness, Greek Myth

All day, I've been slowly putting together my midterm exam for my mythology class.  I register a patient, put togther a chart, then assemble another set of exam questions.  I answer the phone, then write one more true/false or multiple choice.  It was a long process, but I finally finished it a few minutes ago.  I think it's fairly straightforward, but I know my students won't find it that simple.

I don't have a whole lot of wit at the moment, and not a lot of time to work up any inspiration.  I'm slightly annoyed with the way this afternoon is turning out, but that has a whole lot to do with my attitude and some dysfunction with a sibling.  Those two ingredients have placed me in a pretty foul mood.

But I won't talk any more about it.  I've always tried to use this blog to promote understanding and peace.  At least, that's my goal.  I don't always succeed, but it's what I shoot for.

Saint Marty needs to get to class now.  Be kind to yourself tonight.  Nobody else will.

Somebody's gotta do it!