December 23, 2024: "I Love You," Family Christmas, Secret Santa Aubri

On my first official day of vacation from the library, I . . . spent about seven hours at the library.  I wanted to complete the audio version of my new book for my publisher, so I booked the sound booth at the library and recorded one poem after another poem after another poem.  I started around 10:30 a.m. and finished the whole project around 5 p.m.

By the end, I was hoarse and tired.  I was also pretty damn proud of myself for getting it done.  Stay tuned for information when A Bigfoot Bestiary and Other Wonders is available on Audible.

Then it was off to my sister-in-law's house on the Dead River for a family Christmas celebration.

Billy Collins writes about love . . . 

"I Love You"

by: Billy Collins

Early on, I noticed that you always say it
to each of your children
as you are getting off the phone with them
just as you never fail to say it
to me whenever we arrive at the end of a call.

It’s all new to this only child.
I never heard my parents say it,
at least not on such a regular basis,
nor did it ever occur to me to miss it.
To say I love you pretty much every day

would have seemed strangely obvious,
like saying I’m looking at you
when you are standing there looking at someone.
If my parents had started saying it
a lot, I would have started to worry about them.

Of course, I always like hearing it from you.
That is never a cause for concern.
The problem is I now find myself saying it back
if only because just saying good-bye
then hanging up would make me seem discourteous.

But like Bartleby, I would prefer not to
say it so often, would prefer instead to save it
for special occasions, like shouting it out as I leaped
into the red mouth of a volcano
with you standing helplessly on the smoking rim,

or while we are desperately clasping hands
before our plane plunges into the Gulf of Mexico,
which are only two of the examples I had in mind,
but enough, as it turns out, to make me
want to say it to you right now,

and what better place than in the final couplet
of a poem where, as every student knows, it really counts.

I've never had a problem saying "I love you."  When I gave my boss, the director of the library, a Christmas present a day or so ago, she stood up and asked, "Are you a hugger?"  "I am," I responded, and we hugged.

This holiday season, as you know, my predominant emotion has been sadness.  However, tonight, as I shared a turkey dinner and opened presents with my wife's side of the family, my overwhelming emotion was love.  We laughed a lot.  Insulted each other (in a completely loving way) a lot.  And, when we were getting ready to leave, we embraced and said, "Merry Christmas."  It was literally a love fest, if the fest was held with the entire cast of National Lampoon Christmas Vacation, minus the live squirrel in the tree and SWAT team storming the house.

The adults do Secret Santa for Christmas.  My niece, Aubri, one of my favorite people in the whole world, was my Santa.  She showered me with an embarrassment of gifts and love--a book I wanted, Bigfoot socks, new Moleskine journal, and a tee shirt she designed herself:

In short, she spoiled me silly.  And, on the gift tags, she wrote things like, "To Uncle Martin, from Your Favorite Niece."  I love this young woman profoundly, and I hope she knows it.  She never fails to make me smile and laugh, even on the darkest of days.  I'm a pretty lucky uncle.

It also filled my heart so much to see my kids enjoying Christmas with their cousins.  Their love and affection for each other was thick as the smell of turkey in the room.  I found myself getting a little weepy watching them together.  (Or it may have been the two Twisted Teas provided to me by my niece Aubri.  Now you see why I love her so much.) 

All in all, it was a great way to kick off Christmas.  Each and every one of the people I shared dinner with tonight is a true light in my darkness,

And Saint Marty is proud to proclaim, "I love you all."

November 29, 2024: "Quandary," Sadness, My Brother

I found myself up late last night, reading and writing.  It's a bad habit since I don't really ever get a chance to sleep in.  Often, when the alarm goes off, I feel more tired than when I went to bed.

At about 2 a.m., I could feel myself getting sad for no apparent reason.  It just happened, like some kind of dark weather front moving in.  I couldn't fight it off, and suddenly I was just crying uncontrollably.  Not just sniffing and wiping my eyes, but big, gulping sobs that I was afraid would wake my wife or puppy.  It continued until I finally fell asleep, despondent and exhausted.

I'm not sure what triggered the tears.  Lack of sunlight?  Stress?  Impending holidays?  The Felon in Chief and his band of Merry Morons?  A piece of bad fruit?

Billy Collins takes a bite of an apple . . . 

Quandary

by: Billy Collins

I was a little disappointed
in the apple I lifted from a bowl of fruit
and bit into on the way out the door,
fuzzy on the inside and lacking the snap of the ripe.

Yesterday it was probably perfect,
I figured, as I held it out before me,
soft red apple bearing my tooth marks,
as if I were contemplating the bust of Aristotle.

I considered all the people
who would be grateful to have this apple,
and others who might find it in their hearts
to kill me before slipping it into a pocket.

And I considered another slice
of the world’s population, too,
those who are shielded from anything
as offensive as a slightly imperfect apple.

Then I took a second bite, a big one,
and pitched what was left
over the tall hedges hoping to hit on the head
a murderer or one of the filthy rich out for a stroll.

There's a lot going on in the world that is simply depressing.  Starving people for whom an apple would be a feast.  Refugees who have no homes or homelands.  Filthy rich people hell bent on making the poor even poorer by hook, crook, and lies.  Wannabe dictators and their brain-dead followers.  Willful ignorance and rampant hatred.

All of that is enough to keep the makers of Prozac in business until the next millennium.  

When I woke this morning, the sadness was still with me, and it has remained my constant companion all day long.  I tried to keep myself busy, picking out and rehearsing music for this weekend's church services.  Taking my puppy for a few long walks, despite bitter winds ad snow.  The distractions helped for a little while, but, as soon as I stopped playing keyboard or got home from a stroll, the sadness came back doubly strong.

I have a feeling this bout of melancholia is the beginning of one of the blue funks I've experienced off and on since I was a teen.  They can last a few days or a few months.  Today, I found myself obsessively thinking about my brother, Kevin, who passed in 2014.  He had a pretty difficult life, suffering a stroke that ended his career as a plumber and left him dependent on a walker during his final years.  Yet, he maintained his sense of humor to the last, quick with a new joke or pun.

An apple a day isn't going to keep this sadness away, even if said apple is ripe and sweet instead of soft and fuzzy.

So, dear disciples, please be patient with me in the coming days/weeks/months.  I will try to find light in the dark, joy in the bone-crushing cold.

Saint Marty will end this post with a picture of his puppy who crawled into his lap this morning, licked and licked his face until he couldn't help but laugh.

August 24: Henry Carlile, "Depression," Sadness

Depression

by:  Henry Carlile

He is pushing a black Ford

through an empty street -

a car like his father's

that beat the flat roads like wind

in summer and brought him here.

He never forgave his father.

That was the year he left home.

Then there was talk of weather

and everyone was packing.

Windmills were stopped

all over Kansas.

He is thinking of fathers,

the ways they never forgive you,

withholding love like lust.

But they quit, they stop like pumps.

There is no way to

set them working again.

He is thinking of mothers,

how she could not know how he

half followed girls down dark streets

of his heart, how that loneliness

is passed to sons,

to the fathers of sons.

He is pushing a black Ford.

Its problem is such a heart

you cannot give it enough care.

Like a father it will quit.

And there is no end to this.

___________________________

So, I don't have much to add after that poem.  It kind of encapsulates a lot of what I've been dealing with this past week.

Tomorrow, I go down to the car dealership and sign papers to get my daughter her first car.  On Sunday, I host my book club gathering.  In between, I will clean my house, cook, and prepare my syllabi for teaching on Monday.

Autumn is upon me, with all the upheaval and change it brings.  Every year.  This year--my daughter's last in high school--is going to be a challenge.  I'm not sure I'm ready for it.

Saint Marty wants this summer to last forever.

March 19: Grief, Sherman Alexie, "Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World"

I have become aware of something recently in my life.

I know grief is a process, that it takes time to adjust to a great loss.  Days, months, years.  Yet, I never realized how sneaky grief can be.  It sits quietly in a corner until you forget about it, and then it makes its move.

One night last summer, I was sitting on my couch.  The TV wasn't on.  My kids were not home, and my wife was at work.  As I sat there in the silence, reading a book, I started to hear something.  A scratching sound.  It was quiet at first, but, over the course of about an hour, it got louder and louder.  The scratching became a chewing sound.  I finally realized that I was hearing a mouse somewhere behind the couch.

Now, I am not a fan of rodents.  The next day, I went out and bought a couple mouse traps.  Within two days, I had rid my house of the source of that sound.  But, when I'm sitting on my couch and it's quiet in the house, I remember that night last summer.  I sort of sit and listen for that sound.  The pulpy gnawing.

That's the way grief sneaks up on you, I think.  Like a mouse in the wall, nibbling away until you become aware of it.

Yesterday, driving home from work, I went by the cemetery where my sister was laid to rest.  I pulled into the entrance and drove to her grave.  I sat and just stared at her headstone, and I thought about how different my life is now because of her absence.  Slowly but surely, my family is stitching itself back together, but there are still large holes that remain unmended.

My son is going to be making his First Communion this year at church.  My sister was his godmother.  It's strange to think that she won't be there, sitting in the pew with us, watching and smiling.

Saint Marty wishes he could go out and buy a grief trap.  Something quick and painless to remove the sadness clawing apart the walls of his house.

Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World

by:  Sherman Alexie

The morning air is all awash with angels—Richard Wilbur, “Love Calls Us to the Things of This World”

The eyes open to a blue telephone

In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.

I wonder whom I should call? A plumber,

Proctologist, urologist, or priest?

Who is blessed among us and most deserves

The first call? I choose my father because

He’s astounded by bathroom telephones.

I dial home. My mother answers. “Hey, Ma,”

I say, “Can I talk to Poppa?” She gasps,

And then I remember that my father

Has been dead for nearly a year. “Shit, Mom,”

I say. “I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry—

How did I forget?” “It’s okay,” she says.

“I made him a cup of instant coffee

This morning and left it on the table—

Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years—

And I didn’t realize my mistake

Until this afternoon.” My mother laughs

At the angels who wait for us to pause

During the most ordinary of days

And sing our praise to forgetfulness

Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.

Those angels burden and unbalance us.

Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.

Those angels, forever falling, snare us

And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.