April 25: Fish-Scale and Star, Good News, Best Friends

A rosy, complex light fills my kitchen at the end of these lengthening June days.  From an explosion on a nearby star eight minutes ago, the light zips through space, particle-waves, strikes the planet, angles on the continent, and filters through a mesh of land dust:  clay bits, sod bits, tiny wind-borne insects, bacteria, shreds of wing and leg, gravel dust, grits of carbon, and dried cells of grass, bark, and leaves.  Reddened, the light inclines into this valley over the green western mountains; it sifts between pine needles on northern slopes, and through all the mountain black-jack oak and haw, whose leaves are unclenching, one by one, and making an intricate, toothed and lobed haze.  The light crosses the valley, threads through the screen on my open kitchen window, and gilds the painted wall.  A plank of brightness bends from the wall and extends over the goldfish bowl on the table where I sit.  The goldfish's side catches the light and bats it my way; I've an eyeful of fish-scale and star.

This paragraph is one of my absolute favorites in A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.  It's Annie Dillard at her best--connecting the cosmic to the domestic.  Exploding star to goldfish.  When reading Dillard, I often wonder if she always thinks this way.  If she sits down to eat breakfast--a bowl of Raisin Bran--and stares into her spoon, at the shriveled grape floating in the milk, and is suddenly transported into supernovas and dark matter and California vineyards and immigrant labor.  I think to myself that every day must be an adventure of thought for her.

I wish I cultivated that perspective more in my daily life.  I think I spend more of my time walking around like a blindered horse, only looking ahead at my destination.  No time to stop and take in the cosmic narrative unfolding around me.  Because my days are like this, I'm afraid that I miss a lot of important things--things that Dillard would take note of, write down, turn into essays about divine breath and baloney sandwiches.  Something like that.

I got a text from one of my best friends as I was leaving work this afternoon.  He's a Methodist pastor and, even though we don't communicate on a daily or weekly (sometimes monthly) basis, he's never far from my thoughts.  The last time I saw him was about a year ago.  I was on a trip with my family, and we met up with him to have lunch.  I hadn't spoken with him in almost a year, and yet, when he walked into the restaurant, we started talking as if we had just seen each other that morning.  We didn't miss a beat.

Anyway, my pastor friend is my son's godfather, and my son is making his First Communion in May.  My friend has arranged to come for the occasion.  He's driving up on a Friday, spending the weekend, and attending the Mass on Sunday afternoon.  When I read that text this afternoon, I sort of felt like that goldfish in Dillard's goldfish bowl.  The sunlight was striking me, filling the world with fish-scale and star.

It is a good night for me, full of happiness.  As a morose poet, I don't have too many moments like this.  I tend to dwell on dark things.  If I'm contemplating a goldfish in a bowl, that fish is usually floating belly-up, bloated and stiff.  So, I'm going to revel a little in this feeling.

I'm sitting in my office at the university at the moment.  Outside my door, I can hear grad students laughing and swearing.  They're having a great time, full of naive, youthful hope.  They all think they're going to go out, change the world in some big way.

Saint Marty's just going to sit in his office, quietly, and think about text messages, best friends, sons, godfathers, rain, sun, the solar system, cosmic winds, the mind of God.

This Monday hasn't been so bad . . .

May 4: "Star Wars," Pastor Friend, "Ives" Dip

May the Fourth be with you.

Yes, it's Star Wars day.  Being a lifelong fan, I am ashamed to say that I did nothing to commemorate the occasion.  In my defense, I was in a car all day long, keeping my children from killing each other while finishing the grading for my poetry workshop.  I did nothing for the Dark Side.  I did nothing for the Force.  All I did was eat chips, drink pop, and think, "I wonder if Darth Vader would beat Chewbacca in an arm wrestling contest?"

I did meet my pastor friend for lunch.  It was so good to see him.  It's been over a year since we've been able to connect, and now he's moving even further downstate.  The best that I can hope for is a once-a-year visit now.  When we sat down in the restaurant, we didn't miss a beat.  The short time we had together just reminded me how much I miss having him close by.

I don't really have a pressing question to ask tonight for my Ives dip.  So, I'll ask a less-than-pressing question:

Should I write another Star Wars poem?

And the answer is: 

Ives always liked it over there, as it reminded him of happy times when he and his father used to visit Dominguez' house in Staten Island...

Well, Star Wars makes me happy.  So, I guess that's a "yes."

The Force is with Saint Marty.

These aren't the 'droids you're looking for...

May 3: Brighton Day Three, Outback Steakhouse, Classic Saint Marty

Greetings once more from Brighton, Michigan.  Third and final day of the dance competition.  My daughter danced with a group, and they received a Gold/Outstanding Award.  It was a good morning.

This afternoon, we hit the outlet mall.  My daughter picked up some cool tee shirts.  I got some work shirts at Old Navy.  My son walked out with some new shoes.  It was about 80 degrees outside, and I could have walked around all afternoon.

Then, we went to Outback Steakhouse for dinner.  It's one my daughter's favorite restaurants.  She always orders the filet mignon.  I ordered the New Zealand lamb dish.  Delicious.  Plus, I indulged in a couple of cocktails.  It was a lovely time.

I still have a few poetry portfolios to finish grading tomorrow.  On the way home, we're going to stop in Roscommon to see one of my best friends who pastors a Methodist church there.  I haven't seen him in about a year and a half.  I'm really looking forward to connecting with him.

This evening's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago.

May 3, 2015:  Brighton, Best Friend, "Traveling Through the Dark," William Stafford

Greetings from Brighton, Michigan.  Yes, dear disciples, I have ventured into the lower part of Michigan for this first time in almost a year.  When I left my home, snow and sleet were pelting the road, and fog hung in the air like a New Year's Day hangover.  Here, in Brighton, the temperature is close to 80 degrees, and the people are walking around in shorts and sandals.


It was a long day of travel.  We stopped in Roscommon to have lunch with my best friend who pastors the local United Methodist Church.  We weren't able to stay long, but we made plans to get together later this summer when I have a couple weeks of vacation.  He's been in Roscommon for close to three years now, but I still miss him a great deal.  If I'm lucky, I see him once or twice a year.

It took us about three hours to drive from Roscommon to Brighton.  The traffic was heavy, but we managed to arrive with very few wrong turns and missed exits.  The power was out in the hotel when we arrived, but it was restored shortly after we checked in.  My daughter has to be at the dance competition by 7 a.m. tomorrow.  I did a trial run to the competition site tonight to make sure I knew where I was going, but it was in the dark.  Everything looks different in the dark, and I hate driving after sundown.

Tonight, I'm giving you one of my favorite poems by William Stafford.  It's about traveling and darkness.

Saint Marty needs to get to bed.

Traveling Through the Dark

Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason--
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

I thought hard for us all--my only swerving--,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

Saint Marty and his best friend

April 12: Blogging Stuff, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

It has been a pretty busy day.  Church stuff in the morning.  Poetry Editor stuff in the afternoon (I had to meet with a colleague to go over some submissions for the university's magazine).  Now it's blogging stuff.  Then dinner stuff.  Then grading stuff.  Then sleeping stuff.

It's warm today.  Sixty degrees.  My world is full of drips and running streams.  The snow is quickly dwindling.  Looking out the window, I see kids in shorts, swinging on the playground.  Windy and bright.  It feels more like late May.  And, in keeping with the weather, we're having hot dogs and bratwurst tonight, with watermelon for dessert.  I will probably eat about a dozen brats, my favorite.  (I'll leave it up to you to decide whether I'm exaggerating or not.)

Today's episode of Saint Marty first aired five years ago.  It contains a poem that I vaguely remember writing.  It's not the greatest poem in the world, but this post makes me miss my pastor friend.  We used to get together on Thursday night.  Sometimes we'd eat and write.  Sometimes we'd just eat.

Saint Marty needs to go do some bratwurst stuff now.

April 8, 2010:  Saint Agabus

For those of my readers who've been wondering what has happened to Manly Man Poetry Night, it went on hiatus for a couple of weeks. On the fourth Thursday of every month, I host a book club at my house, and the Thursday after that was Maundy Thursday. Needless to say, my pastor friend was otherwise engaged that evening, and so was I. But, never fear, loyal and faithful poetry fans (there has to be at least two of you out there). Manly Man Poetry Night has reconvened, and all is right with the world. The muses are at work, and the onion rings are on the plate.

So, this Thursday, my pastor friend and I met for dinner. Now, for those of you that think dinner refers to lunch, let me correct you. You're wrong. Lunch is lunch, and dinner refers to the third meal of the day, generally eaten after 5 p.m. We met at Big Boy at 6:30 p.m., and, since neither of us had time to eat, we both ordered meals.

I ordered a great farmer's omelet with ham and cheese and onions and peppers. It was served on a bed of hash browns with a side of rye toast. My friend ordered the club sandwich, I believe, with a side of onion rings (of course), plus the soup and salad bar. After we sat for a while and complained about the snowstorm shaking the windows of the restaurant, we moved on to our poetry for the night.

We used the same tabloid exercise that we used at our previous meeting a few weeks before. (For those of you that missed that posting, check out March 18 on Saint Alexander. Also, try to keep up better.) Now, as before, I tried to kill two birds with one poem. I wrote about both the tabloid headline and the saint for the day.

If you couldn't tell by my recent entry that made use of Star Wars, I will confess to you right now that I am a bit of a science fiction geek. When the original Star Wars was released in theaters, I saw it 27 times. (I'm not talking about the bastardized version Lucas released prior to ruining the series with Jar Jar Binks. I'm talking Alec Guinness as a flesh-and-blood Obi-Wan, and the kiss between Luke and Leia before it became yucky and incestuous.) So, it should come as no surprise that the headline I chose to base my poem on was "Martians Monitor Middle East Violence," which has echoes of War of the Worlds (both Spielberg's and George Pal's versions) and The Day the Earth Stood Still (the original with Michael Rennie, not the dumb Keanu Reeves remake with locust clouds of alien fleas).

The saint for the day was Agabus, a contemporary of the twelve apostles and probably one of the 72 disciples. Agabus' story is pretty much like the stories of all the disciples. He wandered the deserts and towns, spreading the ideas and words of Jesus, working a few miracles along the way to keep people talking. Agabus had the gift of prophecy. He foretold the coming of a famine in the Roman Empire, which took place in 42 to 44 A.D. He also prophesied the imprisonment of Paul, which is referred to in Acts 21.

So, I have a New Testament prophet, Martians, and the Middle East. Add some onion rings, a few Diet Pepsis, and a weekend of revisions, and you get the following poem:

Martians Monitor Middle East Violence

Pile-8 met Agabus in a desert
In Palestine, came down in a wheel
From the stars, came from the blood planet
On a quest for truth about Earth's children.
Agabus, fresh from Roman famine,
Called Pile-8 an angel, a winged
Servant of God, waited for the visitor
To deliver a message from the one
Agabus called peace's prince.
Pile-8 blinked his olive black eyes,
Kept silent, wings folded, waited
For a sign to unleash death's ray
Upon the hairless, sand ape.

Agabus filled Pile-8's eight ears
With words of love and forgiveness,
Words of a son of the universe,
Whipped, torn, spiked, speared.
Agabus talked of this son
Rising, shaking off the tentacles
Of death like a great, blue whale,
Flooding the world with oceans of light.
Pile-8's stomachs quivered into fists
When the ape called the one who rose
The lord. The savior. The way. The truth.

Like his cousin did for Ezekiel, Pile-8
Took Agabus into his wheel, probed
The grey matter of his skull
For fragments, pictures of this truth
Giver. All he found were dreams
Of deep wells filled with sun,
Cups pressed to thirsty lips,
Baskets spilling thousands of silver
Fish into dry, empty lake beds.
And bread. Bread steaming. Bread white.
Bread dark. Bread yellow as honey.
Bread red as Pile-8's home.
After days and days of this bread,
Pile-8 returned Agabus to the sand,
Then ascended back to sky, to stars,
To black space, to his planet of war.

Pile-8 couldn't rest after that time,
Always felt hollow. He watched
Earth for two thousand solar cycles,
Watched as the brothers and sisters
Of Agabus whipped, tore, spiked,
Speared each other, over and over,
Acted as hungry, thirsty as famine, drought.
More than once, Pile-8 aimed his fire
At the deserts, almost rained apocalypse
On the warring children of this world.
But, always, the dreams of Agabus
Stopped him, filled his four bellies
With a need he couldn't name,
A need for more than the cold, killing
Rocks of Mars. A need for wells
Full of light. Bottomless cups.
Fish multiplying exponentially
From baskets. And bread.
White as polar caps. Dark as mud.
Yellow as citric fruit. Red
As his mother's deep womb.

Confessions of Saint Marty

March 28: Father Tom, God's Love Number Thirty-Nine, Elizabeth Bishop, "The Moose," New Cartoon

When he met with Father Tom in a French restaurant up on Fifty-third Street, they greeted each other, embracing, the priest amused by Ives' white hair as Ives was by his own--it seemed like yesterday when Father Tom would hurry into the studios at the Art Students League, his collar stuck away in a drawer while, his face burning red, he would sketch beautiful young women.  That he'd stayed in the order so long had amazed Ives, considering how he seemed to like women, but for the most part the priest had lived the "hard life" in Rome, and his letters over the years had been filled with more good news than bad and the names of many interesting and holy places.  About once a year, usually around Christmas, he came back to the States to visit with his family in the northeast Bronx, and he and Ives would get together and get drunk and talk about the existence of God and the Bible and death and the soul to their hearts' contentment.

Father Tom is one of Ives' oldest friends.  While they only see each other once a year, they are a part of each other's lives.  Ives tells Father Tom about his struggle with forgiveness, his marriage difficulties.  Father Tom talks to Ives about healing and friendship.  It's a relationship that endures, despite distance and time apart.

This morning, I spoke to one of my best friends on the phone.  We haven't connected in months.  In fact, I think the last time I heard from him was last May, just after my brother died.  My friend is a pastor in downstate Michigan.  He used to be a pastor in the U. P., and, over seven years, we developed the kind of friendship that Ives and Father Tom have.  Even though we hadn't spoken to each other in almost a year, I felt comfortable, happy, speaking with him today.

We discussed our families, our jobs (he's moving to a different church in July), and our mutual acquaintances.  I won't say I caught him up on the gossip, because that's not a Christian thing to do.  But, I did share some stories of a sensitive nature without credible corroboration.  (Read into that state what you want.)  I'm going to call him again tonight, when I get home from church.

That's God's love number thirty-nine:  a best friend who loves gossip and poetry and God.

I was going to end Elizabeth Bishop week with her most famous poem, "The Fish."  But then I remembered another poem of hers that I love.  It's a long, gorgeous meditation on life and nature.  It could almost be a U. P. poem.

Saint Marty has to work on his Easter poem now.

The Moose

by:  Elizabeth Bishop

From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,

where if the river
enters or retreats 
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;

where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats’
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets;

on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,

through late afternoon
a bus journeys west,
the windshield flashing pink,
pink glancing off of metal,
brushing the dented flank
of blue, beat-up enamel;

down hollows, up rises,
and waits, patient, while
a lone traveller gives
kisses and embraces
to seven relatives
and a collie supervises.

Goodbye to the elms,
to the farm, to the dog.
The bus starts.  The light
grows richer; the fog,
shifting, salty, thin,
comes closing in.

Its cold, round crystals
form and slide and settle
in the white hens’ feathers,
in gray glazed cabbages,
on the cabbage roses
and lupins like apostles;

the sweet peas cling
to their wet white string
on the whitewashed fences;
bumblebees creep
inside the foxgloves,
and evening commences.

One stop at Bass River.
Then the Economies 
Lower, Middle, Upper;
Five Islands, Five Houses,
where a woman shakes a tablecloth
out after supper.

A pale flickering.  Gone.
The Tantramar marshes 
and the smell of salt hay.
An iron bridge trembles 
and a loose plank rattles
but doesn’t give way.

On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship’s port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
illuminated, solemn.
A dog gives one bark.

A woman climbs in 
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
“A grand night.  Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston.”
She regards us amicably.

Moonlight as we enter 
the New Brunswick woods,
hairy, scratchy, splintery;
moonlight and mist
caught in them like lamb’s wool
on bushes in a pasture.

The passengers lie back.
Snores.  Some long sighs.
A dreamy divagation
begins in the night,
a gentle, auditory,
slow hallucination. . . .

In the creakings and noises,
an old conversation
--not concerning us,
but recognizable, somewhere,
back in the bus:
Grandparents’ voices

uninterruptedly
talking, in Eternity:
names being mentioned,
things cleared up finally;
what he said, what she said,
who got pensioned;

deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
the year he remarried;
the year (something) happened.
She died in childbirth.
That was the son lost
when the schooner foundered.

He took to drink. Yes.
She went to the bad.
When Amos began to pray
even in the store and
finally the family had
to put him away.

“Yes . . .” that peculiar
affirmative.  “Yes . . .”
A sharp, indrawn breath,
half groan, half acceptance,
that means “Life’s like that.
We know it (also death).”

Talking the way they talked 
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl.

Now, it’s all right now
even to fall asleep
just as on all those nights.
--Suddenly the bus driver
stops with a jolt,
turns off his lights.

A moose has come out of 
the impenetrable wood
and stands there, looms, rather,
in the middle of the road.
It approaches; it sniffs at
the bus’s hot hood.

Towering, antlerless,
high as a church,
homely as a house
(or, safe as houses).
A man’s voice assures us
“Perfectly harmless. . . .”

Some of the passengers
exclaim in whispers,
childishly, softly,
“Sure are big creatures.”
“It’s awful plain.”
“Look! It’s a she!”

Taking her time,
she looks the bus over,
grand, otherworldly.
Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy?

“Curious creatures,"
says our quiet driver,
rolling his r‘s.
“Look at that, would you.”
Then he shifts gears.
For a moment longer,

by craning backward,
the moose can be seen
on the moonlit macadam;
then there’s a dim
smell of moose, an acrid
smell of gasoline.

Confessions of Saint Marty

May 14: Prayer of the Week, Allie, Dave

...[Allie's] dead now.  He got leukemia and died when we were up in Maine, on July 18, 1946.  You'd have liked him.  He was two years younger than I was, but he was about fifty times as intelligent.  He was terrifically intelligent.  His teachers were always writing letters to my mother telling her what a pleasure it was having a boy like Aliie in their class.  And they weren't just shooting the crap.  They really meant it.  But it wasn't just that he was the most intelligent member in the family.  He was also the nicest, in lots of ways...

Holden doesn't know what to do with the pain of Allie's death.  The only way Holden ever expressed his grief was by breaking some windows and injuring his hand.  Holden doesn't have a mother or father he can talk to.  He doesn't have a mentor or friend.  His spiritual life is nonexistent.  He doesn't know how to pray.  He feels like he's completely alone.

Today is the first Prayer of the Week post.  To be honest, I put off typing this post all day long.  I didn't know how to write a prayer.  I think I'm a little too Catholic in my prayer life.  I'm used to memorized prayers.  Hail Marys.  Glory Be's.   Our Fathers.  That kind of thing.  However, one of my best friends is a United Methodist pastor, and I remember how he used to pray aloud when we were together.  It was like he was talking to me when he prayed.  There wasn't a lot of "Our Father, Who art in Heaven."  There was a lot more of this kind of thing:  "Dear God, I'm having a really shitty day.  Here's why..."  He was honest.  Brutally honest.  Sometimes he was angry or hurt or confused.  But there was trust in his prayer, and a lot of love.  I can do that kind of prayer.

So, here goes:

Dear God,

I want to talk to you about Dave.  You know him.  He sings and plays guitar and bass and violin in our band on Sunday mornings.  His path to You wasn't easy.  You know he was an alcoholic for many years.  But he does amazing things now for You.  He uses his musical gifts to glorify You, to spread Your word.

But You know all that crap.  And You know he's sick now.  Pancreatic cancer.  He's been suffering a long time, but he never complains.  These last couple of months have been tough for him, with chemo and doctor's visits and tests.  Yet, when he shows up on Sunday mornings, he jokes, laughs, corrects my mistakes in his delicate way ("It's just a one, a four, a five, and a one chord!  It's simple!"), and gives thanks to You.

I'm sure Dave has his dark times.  I'm sure he gets pissed and sad.  I'm sure he despairs.  Yet, he never shows it.  Ever.  He's always full of peace and love, in his prickly, Dave way.

My prayer, God, is to give Dave strength.  Bring him the healing he needs.  Let him know that he's one of Your cherished children.  I'm giving Him up to You, because You can do a hell of a lot more for him than I can.  We love Dave, and we want him here, with us, because we're selfish.

Forgive our selfishness.  We love him and want him with us as long as possible.

But, as the prayer goes, "Thy will be done."  Hopefully, Your will is to let us have Dave a little longer.

You loving child,

Saint Marty

Dave's on the far right

May 3: Brighton, Best Friend, "Traveling Through the Dark," William Stafford

Greetings from Brighton, Michigan.  Yes, dear disciples, I have ventured into the lower part of Michigan for this first time in almost a year.  When I left my home, snow and sleet were pelting the road, and fog hung in the air like a New Year's Day hangover.  Here, in Brighton, the temperature is close to 80 degrees, and the people are walking around in shorts and sandals.

It was a long day of travel.  We stopped in Roscommon to have lunch with my best friend who pastors the local United Methodist Church.  We weren't able to stay long, but we made plans to get together later this summer when I have a couple weeks of vacation.  He's been in Roscommon for close to three years now, but I still miss him a great deal.  If I'm lucky, I see him once or twice a year.

It took us about three hours to drive from Roscommon to Brighton.  The traffic was heavy, but we managed to arrive with very few wrong turns and missed exits.  The power was out in the hotel when we arrived, but it was restored shortly after we checked in.  My daughter has to be at the dance competition by 7 a.m. tomorrow.  I did a trial run to the competition site tonight to make sure I knew where I was going, but it was in the dark.  Everything looks different in the dark, and I hate driving after sundown.

Tonight, I'm giving you one of my favorite poems by William Stafford.  It's about traveling and darkness.

Saint Marty needs to get to bed.

Traveling Through the Dark

Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason--
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

I thought hard for us all--my only swerving--,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

Saint Marty and his best friend

 

April 5: Prince, A Real P.O.E.T.S. Day, Pastor Friend

"No idea.  I just want to thank you for being such a goddam prince, that's all," I said.  I said it in this very sincere voice.  "You're aces, Ackley kid," I said.  "You know that?"

I just searched through my copy of The Catcher in the Rye for a passage where Holden is talking to a real friend, not some guy whom he's mocking or secretly hates.  I couldn't find a single person Holden truly likes, aside from his little brother and sister and a few kids he meets in the park.  Other than that, Holden is pretty much on his own for companionship.  He can't even be intimately involved with a prostitute he's hired.  There seems to be some kind of threshold that adults can't cross over with Holden.  So I chose this little piece of dialogue in which Holden is making fun of Ackley, calling him a "goddam prince."

I'm having a real P.O.E.T.S. Day.  I didn't go to work today, and I did most of my house cleaning last night.  That means all I really have to do today is blog and read.  Maybe do some writing.

I met one of my best friends for breakfast this morning.  He's a Methodist pastor, and he works for a church in the Lower Peninsula, just below the Mackinac Bridge.  He brought his sons up for a visit during their school spring break.  Since my pastor friend got transferred to his downstate church, I've only seen him a handful of times.  He saw me through some of the most difficult moments of my life, and I miss his daily presence in my life.  Unlike Ackley, my pastor friend really is a prince.

We were able to visit for a couple of hours this morning at McDonald's.  My daughter was excited to see his sons, as well.  They've known each other since they were very small.  During the time we were together, I really didn't care about what else was going on in my life, what bills I had to pay, what work I had to get done, what I wanted to blog about.  I ate and laughed and enjoyed my friend's presence.

Very few times in a person's life do you meet someone who's a true friend.  One who listens to your problems without trying to solve them.  One who reads the same books, goes to the same movies, and likes to the same music as you.  One who travels four hours on snowy roads through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to see you.

Saint Marty had breakfast with his true friend this P.O.E.T.S. Day.

Thank God for true friends

September 7: Just a Few Thoughts...

Yes, I avoided any real political discussion with my post this morning, and I will continue to avoid political discussion with this post.  (Obama)

I just purchased a birthday present for my pastor friend downstate.  It was a book of poems I thought he'd like.  (Obama)  I've had this collection in my Amazon cart for almost half a year, waiting for my friend's birthday to roll around.  His birthday is September 11, so I decided I'd better stop dragging my rear.  I think he's really going to like my gift.  (Obama)

Today, I'm going to have to adjust to my wife's new work schedule.  Usually, by the time I get home from work on Fridays, my wife has the vacuuming and floor washing done.  All I have to do is clean the bathroom and dust.  Now it's all me.  She won't be home until well past 4 p.m.  She's taking my daughter to a doctor's appointment.  So, I am going to bust my ass to get the cleaning done before my son steps off the bus at 3:30 p.m.  (Obama)

I try to get my housework done in the afternoons on Fridays because I like to have a completely free night at the end of the week.  About the only thing I like to do on Friday evenings is, maybe, weed through magazines and pitch outdated issues.  That's my goal.  (Obama)

Well, I need to get back to work.  I'm meeting with a colleague from the university to edit some poems for the literary magazine this morning.  We didn't meet last night.  We were both too tired.  We have to get this editing done, though.  I think they want to get the magazine to the printer pretty soon.  Passages North only comes out once a year, so we like to get the proofreading done in the autumn.  (Obama)

I did it.  I wrote this entire post without saying a word about politics.  (Obama)

My name is Saint Marty, and I approved this message.  (Obama)

My friend's birthday present (Obama)

September 2: My Uncle, Weekend, Best Friend

In a few previous posts, I've asked you to say prayers/think good thoughts for my uncle (who was dying of terminal cancer) and his family.  My uncle died yesterday morning at around 10 a.m.  Obviously, his death came as no surprise, but I've found myself reflecting about summers I spent at his house when I was an undergraduate.  For three or four weeks each summer, my sister and I would camp in his backyard and visit relatives, go shopping, watch movies, and eat ice cream.  Those times are some of my fondest memories.  My uncle was a good man, a great father, and a kind soul.  He will be greatly missed.

Remembering my uncle

I am really glad that it's Friday.  I have survived my first week of teaching without making an idiot of myself.  My other job has been a little challenging over the last few days (to the point that I'm making plans about getting a full-time gig at the university).  I've been fighting an increasing lack of motivation for work, for reading, for writing, for running.  Basically, for anything.  I am ready to relax for a few days.

My pastor friend phoned me from downstate yesterday.  He's coming for a visit tonight and tomorrow morning.  The football team of his new hometown is playing the football team of his old hometown, and he's attending the game.  His dilemma is which team to cheer for.  If he cheers for his old team, he may be ostracized when het gets back home.  If he cheers for his new team, a lot of his friends from the Upper Peninsula may unleash a little whup-ass on him.  I suggested he remain neutral, like Switzerland.  Tomorrow morning, he will be joining me and my family at McDonald's for breakfast.  I haven't seen my pastor friend, or had any kind of extended visit with him, since last May.  It will be good to see him.

Saint Marty is ready.  Bring on the weekend.

May 13: Friday the 13th, Travelling, Swimming

The trip down to my daughter's dance competition was, for the most part, uneventful.  About an hour into the trip, my two-and-a-half-year-old son decided to throw up the milk he'd just drank.  There is nothing worse than the smell of curdled milk vomit.  It ranks right up there with dogshit on your shoe.  Well, that mess took me about 15 minutes to clean up.  My son was thrilled.  He got out of his car seat and ran around a gas station store the whole time.  He acted like he'd won a trip to Disney World.

One of the highlights of the day was having lunch with one of my best friends, who is a Methodist pastor in Roscommon.  I haven't seen him since last July, so it was a really good visit.  I realized, sitting and eating pizza with him and his wife and nine-month-old daughter, how much a really miss having him close by.  Unfortunately, because of his profession, moving every seven or eight years is part of the job description.  It sucks, but so it goes.

It wasn't until about mid-day that I realized it was Friday the 13th.  By that time, it was too late to be superstitious.  I was already half-way to Detroit.  I'm not a very superstitious person, anyway, but it might have made me a little nervous.

Once we got to our hotel, we unpacked and decided to scope out the school where the competition is happening tomorrow.  After almost 500 miles of travelling, we got lost trying to find the local high school.  Unbelievable.  We circled and circled for almost an hour.   By the time we finally found the school, everyone was a little crispy--tired, hungry, and cranky.

After a quick bite to eat, we finally got back to our hotel room, and then my daughter decided to start pestering me to go swimming.  Basically, all I wanted to do was climb into the crib with my son, pull the covers over my head, tap my heals together three times, and say, "There's no place like home.  There's no place like home.  There's no place like home."  But, I put on my swimsuit and went down to the pool.  One of my good friends from work was at the pool with her granddaughters, who go to the same dance school as my daughter.  So, I spent two hours talking with her while the girls laughed, swam, fought, and shivered.  The night ended when someone threw up in the pool.

Saint Marty is tired, and teenage girls with cell phones keep coming into the business center to e-mail boyfriends.  It's a little distracting.  It's time for Saint Marty to call it a night.

At least there weren't any machetes!