October 29: "Watercoloring," Notice Beautiful Things, My Mother

As a poet, I sort of train my senses to notice beautiful things that other people might not even give a second glance/smell/taste/feel.  A rainbow slick of oil in a mud puddle.  The breath of autumn yellowing a maple tree.  The sound of waves from a lake I can't see.  The sweet smoke of burning pine branches.  

Most artists (whether poet, sculptor, photographer, dancer, or whatever) are close observers.  

Billy Collins tries his hand at painting . . . 

Watercoloring

by: Billy Collins

The sky began to tilt,

a shift of light toward the higher clouds,

so I seized my brush

and dipped my little cup in the stream,

but once I streaked the paper gray

with a hint of green,

water began to slide down the page,

rivulets looking for a river.

And again, I was too late--

then the sky made another turn,

this time as if to face a mirror

help in the outstretched arm of a god.

These last few days, I have been a little . . . distracted.  It's simply felt like my brain has been about five steps behind me since Saturday or Sunday.  Of course, last weekend was anything but normal, so I thought that may have something to do with it, too.

Then I realized tonight that yesterday was the anniversary of my mother's death.  October 28, 2021.  Three years.  It seems like forever ago, and it seems like just yesterday.  It's strange how I am so observant of a pile of leaves rattling around in the wind or a ginger candy sitting on my tongue, but I completely forget such an important moment in my life.

When I told this story to a friend this evening, she told me to celebrate my mother in a special way.  So here goes . . .

Her name was Betty, and she loved black walnut cake and coconut clusters.

She made the best tapioca pudding in the world, and her spaghetti sauce was the stuff of legend.

Reading was one of her favorite pastimes, and she taught me to love books.

One of her favorite movies was On Golden Pond.

I've never seen anyone pray harder than my mom.  She always had a rosary in her hand, her lips moving silently.

She worked as an advocate for special needs children, giving help and guidance to parents trying to navigate the educational system.

When my sister, Sally, was dying, my mother sat holding her hand, saying over and over, "It's okay.  Don't be afraid.  It's okay.  I love you.  Don't be afraid."

She believed I could do and be anything. 

Join Saint Marty in raising his glass to honor his mother tonight.  There aren't enough words in the universe to describe her.

October 23: "The Guest," Delight, My Wife's Hand

It doesn't feel like I accomplished a whole lot today.  I graded assignments.  Worked on scheduling upcoming programs at the library.  Read a bunch of poetry manuscripts.  Went for a few long walks.  That's it.

Poet Ross Gay once wrote, "Delight reminds us that there is still beauty in the world, no matter how dark it may seem."

Even on days when accomplishment is nonexistent, I can still find something that brings me delight.

Billy Collins delights in hospitality . . . 

The Guest

by: Billy Collins

I know that the reason you placed nine white tulips
in a glass vase with water
here in this room a few days ago

was not to mark the passage of time
as a fish would have if nailed by the tail
to the wall above the bed of a guest.

But early this morning I did notice
their lowered heads
in the gray light,

two of them even touching the glass
table top near the window,
the blossoms falling open

as they lost their grip on themselves,
and my suitcase only half unpacked by the door.

At the present moment in the United States, delight is in short supply.  Every day I come home, there's at least six or seven political advertisements in my mail.  Facebook is crowded daily with the latest goulash of stupidity uttered by former President Felon.  And I'm more frightened by my neighbor's political signs than by their Halloween decorations.  As Ross Gay says, the world seems pretty dark.

Yet, on my walk this evening, I found delight in the cool breeze against my cheeks.  And a fat gray squirrel stuffing acorns into his cheeks.  Sunlight blazing in an autumn maple.  A man vacuuming leaves off his lawn.  My wife's hand in mine.

Delight is easy.  You just have to train your antennae to notice it.  Collins notices the nine white tulips in the glass vase in his room.  I notice the fog of my breath in the dusky air.  Delight and delight.  After I'm done typing this post, I'm going to brush my teeth, read a few pages of Tommy Orange's novel Wandering Stars, and then maybe watch a movie on Netflix.  Delight upon delight upon delight.

But first, Saint Marty is going to finish off a bowl of tapioca pudding a friend made for him.  Deeee-light.

October 5: "The Golden Years," Saint Marty's Day, Tapioca Pudding

It is Saint Marty's Day.  Most feast days of Catholic saints are celebrated on the days of their deaths.  I believe the thinking is that the day a person is reunited with God is more important than the day a person is born.  Heavenly life more important than earthly life.

That may be true.  However, I doubt that the heavenly host bakes a cake, buys presents, and sings "Happy Birthday" on the day you die.  (On the other hand, I've never died, so I could be totally wrong.)  Sure, they did sing for Jesus on His birthday, but that was because they worked for His dad.  

As you get older, birthdays become less important.  I don't think I'm quite in my golden years yet, but I didn't mind that we had a belated family birthday party for my son this evening.  Of course, everyone who came to the celebration wished me a happy Saint Marty's Day, as well.  And a ton of my friends reached out to me via text, IM, and Facebook, wishing me glad tidings, too.

Billy Collins reflects on his drawn-out golden days . . . 

The Golden Years

by: Billy Collins

All I do these drawn-out days 

is sit in my kitchen at Pheasant Ridge 

where there are no pheasants to be seen 

and last time I looked, no ridge. 

I could drive over to Quail Falls 

and spend the day there playing bridge, 

but the lack of a falls and the absence of quail 

would only remind me of Pheasant Ridge. 

I know a widow at Fox Run 

and another with a condo at Smokey Ledge. 

One of them smokes, and neither can run,

so I’ll stick to the pledge I made to Midge. 

Who frightened the fox and bulldozed the ledge? 

I ask in my kitchen at Pheasant Ridge.

If you didn't realize it, the above poem is a sonnet.  Fourteen lines with a rhyme scheme (not quite Shakespearean, but close enough) and a concluding couplet.  I note this because Collins is using a very old form to write about his golden years, where nothing really lives up to its name.  Pheasant Ridge has no pheasants.  Quail Falls has no falls or quails.  There is no smoke on Smokey Ledge, and no foxes are running on Fox Run.  There ain't much gold in them golden years.  Just contradiction and disappointment.

However, I had a great Saint Marty's Day.  I took my puppy for several longs walks.  Celebrated my son's sixteenth trip around the sun.  Got some ice cream cake.  Heard from a lot of people I love.  If this is what my golden years are going to be like, I'll take it.

Now, all Saint Marty needs is some traditional, warm, fresh tapioca pudding.

October 20: What My Mother Told Me, Chicken Noodle Soup, Tapioca Pudding

"You know," said Arthur, "it's at times like this, when I'm trapped in a Vogon airlock with a man from Betelgeuse, and about to die of asphyxiation in deep space, that I really wish I'd listened to what my mother told me when I was young."

"Why, what did she tell you?"

"I don't know, I didn't listen."

It's supposed to be a funny exchange, a one-liner about Arthur and his mom.  It's one of those sitcom jokes, with canned laughter behind it.  However, this passage is the only place in the novel where Arthur expresses any kind of remorse about losing his family when Earth is obliterated by the Vogons.  The only time we hear about Arthur's family at all.

This evening, I was having dinner with my family at my mother's house.  My mother has Alzheimer's.  Today was not a good day for her.  In fact, her good days are becoming fewer and farther between.  My wife said on Friday, after watching my mother for most of the day, "She's losing touch with reality." 

My sister cooked homemade chicken noodle soup this evening.  We all sat down and ate a bowl of it.  It was steaming hot and delicious.  After the soup, we had some freshly made tapioca pudding for dessert.  It was also steaming hot and delicious.

My mother, sitting at the table with us, kept forgetting she was supposed to be eating, even though her bowl of soup was right in front of her.  One of my sisters kept reminding her, "Eat, mom!  Pick up your spoon and eat!"  My mother would take a spoonful, chew and swallow, and then forget what she was doing again.  This went on for almost an hour.

I started doing the dishes in the kitchen, and my mother had barely touched her soup.  My sister said to her again, "Mom, eat your soup!"  So, I sat down beside my mother and picked up her spoon.  "Here, mother," I said, "let's have some soup."  And I fed her a spoonful.  She ate it and smiled at me, "Mmmmm, that's good," she said, "all full of good stuff."  I nodded, waited until she had swallowed, and then brought another spoonful to her mouth.  "How about another bite?" I said.  She nodded at me and smiled.

I fed her the entire bowl of chicken noodle soup, and then I fed her a bowl of tapioca pudding.  We had a conversation while she ate.  I said things like, "Aren't those carrots good?" and "This tapioca's just like you used to make" and "If you had a choice between tapioca and pecan pie, which would you choose?"  She kept eating and nodding and answering my questions.  For the record, she would pick pecan pie over tapioca.  "But they're both good," she said.

I wish I had asked my mother more questions like this when she and I were younger.  I wish I had asked her about when she worked for the telephone company or how her father used to sell Christmas trees every year or what she dreamed of doing when she was a little girl.  I wish I knew my mother better, that I had listened to her more.  Taken less from her, given more back.  Been a better son.

Now, I have to be satisfied with sharing chicken noodle soup and tapioca pudding with her.  Each spoonful steaming hot.  I will blow on it, cool it down so it doesn't burn her tongue.

And Saint Marty will watch her smile as she chews each mouthful, as if she's just taken Communion on Sunday morning.

October 13: Future Time, Cold Sweats, Full Life

"You know nothing of future time," pronounced Deep Thought, "and yet in my teeming circuitry I can navigate the infinite delta streams of future probability and see that there must one day come a computer whose merest operational parameters I am not worthy to calculate, but which it will be my fate eventually to design."

The future is something that I worry about.  A lot.  You may even say that I have been preoccupied with the future since I was a small child.  One of my recurring nightmares as a young person involved being in a van without a driver,  travelling down a long, unending road by myself.  No idea where I'm heading.  Just toward some distant, unknown destination.  I would wake up in cold sweats from this dream.

As an adult, this anxiety over the future hasn't subsided.  I still spend a great deal of time stressing over what tomorrow may bring.  You're probably thinking about now, "What's the point in worrying about the future?"  I agree with you.  Losing sleep over what MAY happen is a losing venture.  It doesn't make the future better or worse.  It simply makes me really tired.

I think it's a matter of control for me.  I like my days ordered and calm.  In the morning, when I wake up, I already have my itinerary planned out.  I make my "to do" list for the next day right before I go to bed.  I know what I will be doing, hour by hour.  That comforts me.  Leaves little room for disaster or surprise or accident.  Of course, it also leaves little room for unexpected joys, those happy moments when life takes a turn for the better instead of the worse.

I know that the future is beyond my control.  I know that the present is what I should be focusing on.  You don't have to remind me of this fact.  I have control over my actions and reactions today.  That's it.  I can prepare for a good tomorrow, but that doesn't guarantee that it will happen.  It doesn't even guarantee that I will have a good afternoon or evening. 

Here is what I know about today:  we are celebrating my birthday at my mother's house.  My sister is making prime rib, mashed potatoes, and tapioca pudding, three traditional Saint Marty's Day dishes.  In addition, people will sing "Happy Birthday" to me.  I may receive a gift or two.  Maybe not.  And tonight, if everything goes according to plan, my son will practice his trombone, and my daughter will focus on her homework.  Me?  I'll spend my last few hours before bedtime getting ready for tomorrow and the coming week.  Because I like the illusion of preparedness.

And tomorrow, I will celebrate my twenty-fourth wedding anniversary with my wife.  We will go out to our favorite little Italian restaurant for dinner.  Have some drinks.  Eat some good food.  Think about how our life together began.  Talk about the hopes and dreams we had.  Imagine what we would now tell those two young people who said "I do" almost a quarter century ago, when everything seemed possible.

The future still frightens me, because everything, at the moment, seems unsettled.  In the past 24 years, my life has been full of surprises, good and bad.  I've struggled, and I've rejoiced.  I've cried a lot, and I've laughed a lot.  And I've had a beautiful partner who's accompanied me on this long, winding road into the future. 

Saint Marty thinks that's pretty good definition of a full life.

October 7: A Blessed Life, Panic and Doubt, Classic Saint Marty, "The Omelet"

Can I tell you that I've had a really great birthday weekend?

Last night, I took my son to see The House with the Clock in Its Walls, which was surprisingly good.  My son has been talking about this movie since the first trailers came out.  Jack Black is always entertaining, even in bad films.  He has a similar kind of manic energy that Robin Williams and John Belushi had.

This morning, I went to two church services.  One of my good friends invited me to the 9 a.m. worship at her church.  She and her son play in the praise band.  It was like a Christian rock concert, replete with lights, fog, and banging loud music.  My son loved it.  Then, I went to the worship service at my wife's church for World Communion Sunday.  Different vibe, but still inspiring.

Now, I'm getting ready for the coming week.  Something happened a little while ago that is sort of playing on a loop in my head right now.  Can't turn it off, and it's bringing me down.  The past (especially a fairly traumatic time from the past) has a way of popping up every once in awhile to haunt you.  Don't worry.  I'm not in harm's way.  I just can't push it out of my mind, and it's making me crazy.

I know that I lead a blessed life.  I know that.  My health is pretty good.  My kids are smart and beautiful.  My wife just threw me a great surprise birthday party.  I have jobs that pay the bills (for the most part).  Lots of friends who care about me.

Yet, memory has a way of triggering the worst kinds of moods.  I don't know if it's post traumatic stress or what.  I have never had a positive memory trigger, been overcome and obsessed about the best times of my life.  The births of my daughter or son.  My wedding day.  Being named Poet Laureate.  No, my memory triggers fill me with panic and dread.  They sit in the pit of my stomach, perch on my forehead.  Caw and screech and growl.  That's what I'm experiencing right now.

My sister is cooking prime rib for me tonight.  Mashed potatoes.  Dinner rolls.  And tapioca pudding.  My favorite things.  I'm trying to push this wave of anxiety away and enjoy this family birthday dinner.  It's getting easier.  I spoke with my wife about it a little while ago, and she was able to make me less anxious.

Now, you disciples reading this are probably thinking that I'm a basket case.  Confession:  I frequently am.  I can go from panic to self doubt to Hershey kisses to panic in the space of about five minutes.  This is normal for me.

A year ago, I was also celebrating my birthday and counting my blessings.  No panic involved . . .

October 7, 2017:  Silent Film, Richly Blessed, This Little Light

The guards drew together instinctively, rolled their eyes.  They experimented with one expression and then another, said nothing, though their mouths were often open.  They looked like a silent film of a barbershop quartet.

"So long forever," they might have been singing, "old fellows and pals; So long forever, old sweethearts and pals--God bless 'em--"

Have to apologize for my absence last night.  I was not bunkered down, waiting out a fire-storm.  I was at the monthly poetry workshop I lead at the Joy Center in my home town of Ishpeming, right in the heart of the Upper Peninsula.  There were lots of old pals and colleagues there.  We wrote about ghosts, watched one of my favorite haunted house movies (The Changeling), and ate.

You know, I have realized this Saint Marty's Day that I have been richly blessed this year.  So much good has happened in my life.  If I were in a silent film of a barbershop quartet, the subtitles would probably be the lyrics of "This Little Light of Mine" or Pharrell Williams' "Happy."

I know I'm sounding very Up With People, but I have been very lucky this year, connecting with new friends and reconnecting with old ones.  That has been one of the greatest blessings of being chosen Poet Laureate.  I get to go places, read poems, talk about poetry, and meet wonderful people all over the Upper Peninsula.

Of course, there are still troubling things happening in the world--locally, nationally, and internationally.  So much division and strife.  These last couple days, there was a registered nurses' strike at the local hospital.  Good people, walking a picket line to make the community a better, safer, healthier place.  And, of course, there was Las Vegas this week.  Donald Trump.  Brexit.  North Korea.  There are plenty of things to worry about, and I'm not ignoring them.

However, for today, I'm going to watch my silent film, read the subtitles, hum a song.

Sing with Saint Marty:  "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine..."

And a happy poem for this evening.  I swear. . .

The Omelet

by:  Martin Achatz

The Omelet

I had an omelet this morning,

With scallions and mushrooms and grated

Monterey Jack cheese.  It was so good

I wanted to take a picture of it,

Wanted to fall on my knees, right there

In the crowded dining hall, and say

A rosary for it.  I wanted to push

My way back into the kitchen,

Worship at the feet of Ruth, the aproned

Chef who had created it

In less than two minutes, scraping

Her spatula back and forth over

Her hot, stainless steel palette.

Watching her create that omelet made me

Believe in the Book of Genesis,

That God could create the world

In six days flat and then sit back

And view us like a National Geographic

Special on Sunday morning.

Seeing Ruth work, I couldn't understand

How people denied the existence of God:

Here she was, serving up two-minute

Breakfast miracles for everyone.

If I could serve this omelet

To the entire Middle East, the suicide

Car bombings, the need for guns,

Missiles, and armies would vanish

In a single bite.  An Omelet Peace

Accord would take place, the entire

Planet joining hands to sing

Psalms and dance with timbrels and drums.

Yes, the omelet was that good.

When I go to church this coming Christmas,

While the congregation kneels,

Gives thanks for a baby

Served up with a side of hay

In a manger, I will give thanks

For scallions and mushrooms

And Monterey Jack cheese, for folded and melting

Frankincense, gold, and myrrh.

Two of the biggest blessings in my life . . .

September 28: Cufflinks Collection, Humility, Dolly Parton

There was a lot of talk about what wonderful jewelry Billy had given to Valencia over the years.  "My God--" said Maggie White, "she's already go the biggest diamond I ever saw outside of a movie."  She was talking about the diamond Billy had brought back from the war.

The partial denture he had found inside his little impresario's coat, incidentally, was in his cufflinks box in his dresser drawer.  Billy had a wonderful collection of cufflinks.  It was the custom of the family to give him cufflinks every Father's Day.  He was wearing Father's Day cufflinks now.  They had cost over one hundred dollars.  They were made out of ancient Roman coins.  He had one pair of cufflinks upstairs which were little roulette wheels that really worked.  He had another pair which had a real thermometer in one and a real compass in the other.

Reading this little passage, I often wonder if Billy started this cufflinks collection, if he was that obsessive about it.  Having lived with Billy Pilgrim on a daily basis for close to ten months now, I can venture a guess that he really doesn't obsess about much of anything.  Maybe Kilgore Trout and his books, but that's about it.  Billy's cufflinks collection probably started with one pair given to him on Father's Day one year, and the next year, another pair.  And so on.  That's how most traditions begin--by accident.

I have been writing about Saint Marty's Day for almost six or seven years now.  It started out as a passing reference and blossomed into trees and carols and tapioca pudding.  It's easier for me to talk about Saint Marty's Day than a birthday.  I suppose it's because I was raised to not make a big fuss about myself.  Humility rather than pride.  I'm not sure if that's a family thing or a Catholic thing.

However, I think humility is an important quality to possess.  A lot of writers that I know exhibit very little of it.  When you are a poet, there's a certain amount of self-promotion that is necessary.  Poets don't become household names, so the only way to publish and sell books is to become a little like Dolly Parton.  Flaunt what you got.  Make your own Dollywood.

I've never been a good Dolly Parton.  I prefer not to be the certain of attention at any event.  I've worked hard to overcome this inclination, but it doesn't come easy.  Yesterday, I ran into an old high school friend.  I hadn't seen her since the summer after we graduated.  The first words out of her mouth, after we hugged each other, were, "Wow, Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula."  I quickly shrugged the comment off with a laugh and eye roll, and tried to switch the subject.  "So," I said, "what have you been doing with your life?"  Bait and switch.

I will talk about myself, if pressed hard enough.  I'll talk about my poems and my life.  That's why I write this blog.  However, I prefer to focus on Kurt Vonnegut and Billy Pilgrim and Dolly Parton and cufflinks.  I learn more about myself by doing this.  Staring at the lint in my bellybutton and writing about its texture and shape and smell is not my bailiwick.  Finding myself in Vonnegut, however, is.

Thus, I turn to Billy Pilgrim this evening.  In exactly one week, it will be Saint Marty's Day.  It's time to buy those last-minute cufflinks and trim the tree.  Soon, the holiday will be upon us, in all its tapioca glory.

Saint Marty's Day.  As Johnny Marty croons, "It's the most wonderful time of the yeeeeeaaaarrrr!"

September 19: Saint Marty's Day Decorations, Paul Muldoon, "The Birth"

Well, it's time to go up into the attic and drag out your Saint Marty's Day decorations.  In fifteen days, it will be Saint Marty's Day Eve, when children go to bed, dreaming of tapioca pudding.

So, tonight, put up your Saint Marty's Day tree.  Make some Saint Marty's Day cookies.  Maybe watch a couple Saint Marty's Day TV specials, like "A Charlie Brown Saint Marty's Day" and "How the Grinch Stole Saint Marty's Day."

And now, a poem in honor of Saint Marty's Day . . .

The Birth

by:  Paul Muldoon

Seven o'clock. The seventh day of the seventh month of the year.
No sooner have I got myself up in lime-green scrubs,
a sterile cap and mask,
and taken my place at the head of the table

than the windlass-woman ply their shears
and gralloch-grub
for a footling foot, then, warming to their task,
haul into the inestimable

realm of apple-blossoms and chanterelles and damsons and eel-spears
and foxes and the general hubbub
of inkies and jennets and Kickapoos with their lemniscs
or peekaboo-quiffs of Russian sable

and tallow-unctuous vernix, into the realm of the widgeon—
the 'whew' or 'yellow-poll', not the 'zuizin'—

Dorothy Aoife Korelitz Muldoon: I watch through floods of tears
as they give her a quick rub-a-dub
and whisk
her off to the nursery, then check their staple-guns for staples

October 1: Tree With the Lights, Wise Men, Bill Watterson, "Saint Marty's Day Eve"

And then occasionally the mountains part.  The tree with the lights in it appears, the mockingbird falls, and time unfurls across space like an oriflamme.  Now we rejoice . . .

Dillard could be describing Saint Marty's Day morning, with the parting mountains and glowing tree and rejoicing.  In just four days' time, all the people of the world will be gathering around their decorated tree to bask in the love and warmth and worship of Saint Marty.  Excitement is building.  I can feel it.

Which reminds me of the story of the three wise men of Saint Marty's Day.  They traveled from a far eastern university--an assistant wise man, an associate wise man, and the chair of the Wisdom Department.  They'd received a grant to seek out and adore Saint Marty.  They crossed interstates and rivers.  Ate at greasy spoons in Mississippi and Burger Kings in Illinois.  They followed the star app on their iPhones until they came to Saint Marty's house, where they worshiped him and presented him gifts--Amazon gift cards and Moleskine journals and tapioca pudding.  And when they left, they returned to their university, proclaiming the good news of Saint Marty.  After submitting their report, they all attained tenure and lived happily ever after.

Now you know the full legend of Saint Marty.

Saint Marty's Day Eve

by:  Bill Watterson

On the window panes the icy frost
Leaves feathered patterns, criped and crossed
But in our house the Saint Marty's Day tree
Is decorated festively
With tiny dots of colored light
That cozy up this autumn night.
 Saint Marty's Day songs familiar, slow
Play softly on the radio.
Pops and hisses from the fire
Whistle with the bells and choir.
Trying now to fall asleep
On my back and dreaming deep
Tomorrow's what I'm waiting for,
But I can wait a little more.

Rockefeller Center's Saint Marty's Day tree

September 26: Ridiculous Alternatives, Saint Marty's Day Shopping, Son's Eighth Birthday

Of the two ridiculous alternatives, I rather favor the second . . .

Okay, I am taking this quote from Annie Dillard completely out of context on this night of ridiculous alternatives.  Yes, there are two people debating each other tonight on American television about important issues like terrorism, poverty, and world peace.  Things that are really important for the future of not only the United States, but also the entire planet.

But I am here to talk about the most important upcoming world event:  Saint Marty's Day.  In nine days, people all over the globe will be singing Saint Marty's Day carols, watching movies like Charles Dickens' A Saint Marty's Carol, It's A Wonderful Saint Marty's Day, and, of course, A Charlie Brown Saint Marty's Day. 

Yes, people, it's time to do your last-minute Saint Marty's Day shopping, cook Saint Marty's Day cookies, and trim your Saint Marty's Day trees.  And don't forget the traditional Saint Marty's Day tapioca pudding (one of Saint Marty's favorites).

That's all I have for tonight.  It was my son's eighth birthday.  After eating about ten cupcakes and a huge Nestle Crunch bar, my son practically bounced into bed.  He had a great day, and he's extremely excited about celebrating Saint Marty's Day next week, as well, as are children all over the world.

Time to light the candles on your Saint Marty's Day wreath!

October 2: Moon Risen, Tapioca Pudding, Lisa Russ Spaar, "Rapunzel Shorn," Blessed Fairy Tale, Adventures of Stickman

In one slip of a second, anything seemed possible--had the moon risen and started to sing, had pyramids appeared over the Chrysler building weeping, Ives would have been no more surprised.

Ives is in the middle of his mystical vision.  He sees the world shimmering and beautiful.  God's goodness is revealed to him.  The sun spins out of control, and the heavens are swarmed with colored winds.  And Ives himself is filled with joy and love for the whole world.

I can't say that I am filled with joy and love this evening.  However, I've had a good day.  Nothing stressful happened at work.  It was slow and calm.  This evening, I attended another football game at my daughter's school.  It was homecoming, so there were a lot of people wearing the school colors--red, white, and blue.  Kids walking around with their faces painted.  A robot shooting popcorn balls into the crowd.  The highlight (for me)--my daughter playing in the pep band at half time.

I am now at home, watching the news and waiting to pick up my daughter.  She decided to attend the homecoming dance.  It's the first dance she's been at since about sixth grade.  I'm happy for her.  She really seems to be enjoying high school.  Now, if she comes home wearing some guy's football jersey tonight, I may not be so happy.

It is also the weekend before Saint Marty's Day.  I know what you're all thinking:  I haven't finished my Saint Marty's Day shopping yet, and I still have Saint Marty's Day cards to send.  Never fear.  You still have time to participate in all the festivities of the holiday.  I, myself, am looking forward to the traditional Saint Marty's Day tapioca pudding on Sunday.

There's a lot of goodness going around in my life today.

Once upon a time, there was a happy manure salesman named Goober.  Goober loved his life and job.  Every day, he danced around his barn, shoveling up the manure.

Goober saw everything as a blessing.  If he caught a cold, he thanked God for not catching pneumonia.  If he broke his toe, he thanked God for not breaking his ankle.  And if one of his cows died, he thanked God that he would be eating steak for dinner.

One day, as he was heading to market with his manure, the wheel of his wagon broke, and the whole load of manure spilled into a river.  As Goober stood by the overturned wagon, watching his merchandise float away, he thanked God that he hadn't been injured in the accident.

Moral of the story:  E-coli happens.


And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Rapunzel Shorn

by:  Lisa Russ Spaar

I'm redeemed, head light
as seed mote, as a fasting
girl's among these thorns, lips
and fingers bloody with fruit.
Years I dreamed of this:
the green, laughing arms
of old trees extended over me,
my shadow lost among theirs.
Where is my severed ladder,
the empty tower of my hair?
Let the birds fall in love
with it, carry it away.
Here on earth the river
is in love with itself.
To get there, I'll shove
sharp stones into my shoes
as the saints did, lest
I forget what it means
to walk again upon it.

Adventures of STICKMAN

September 30: Five More Shopping Days

I'm sure you've all got your Saint Marty's Day decorations up at home by this time.  Just last night, I was sitting by the fireplace, enjoying a cup of Saint Marty nog, watching It's A Wonderful Saint Marty on the television.  It's a wonderful time of year.

There's only five more shopping days left.  Still plenty of time to pick up those last minute Saint Marty's Day gifts.  And don't forget the ingredients for the traditional Saint Marty's Day tapioca pudding.  You can't really celebrate the holiday without a huge bowl of fresh, piping hot tapioca.

Last night, I addressed the last of my Saint Marty's Day cards.  I'll be dropping them in the mail tomorrow morning.  Tonight, I'm going to put Celine Dion's Saint Marty's Day CD in the player, turn off the lights, and relax.  There's nothing better than Celine singing "I'll Be Home for Saint Marty's Day" in French.

As Tiny Tony said in Charles Dickens' A Saint Marty's Day Carol, "God bless us, every one!"

Sing it, Celine!

October 7: Tapioca Pudding, Meat Pies, New Cartoon

This evening, my family is celebrating my birthday.  My sister is making my favorite dessert:  warm tapioca pudding.  Some people have a problem with tapioca.  A friend told me it has to do with the texture.  I think he described it as "fish eyes in thick slime."  I don't really care. I love tapioca pudding.  In fact, love is too tame a word.  I could bathe in warm tapioca.  I would have it on tap in my house house if I could.  I would have it for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and every snack in between.  Tapioca could bring about peace in the Middle East if we could just get the Israelis and Palestinians to sit down over a bowl.  It would called the Tapioca Peace Accord.  Tapioca is that good.

We are also having meat pies.  I was at a family get-together the other night, and my wife's cousin complained about Facebook.  She said something like, "I don't care what you're having for dinner.  Don't write about it.  I don't care."  Here I am, talking about my dinner tonight.  Meat pies and tapioca.  I, however, am discussing my birthday dinner, which is different from regular dinner.  It is a celebration, and I am the guest of honor.  That makes it more than just the meal that occurs at 5 p.m.  It is an event, and I am the center of attention.  That makes it significant.

Plus it has tapioca.  It doesn't get any better.

Life is good for Saint Marty.

Confessions of Saint Marty

 

October 9: My Birthday Party, New Cartoon, Beautiful Day

It is another gorgeous, sunny day.  The temperature is around 75, and there's not a cloud in the sky.  I used to be a person who hated the sun.  When I was younger, I much preferred rain and darkness.  However, a few years back, I began to make a switch.  I don't know what caused it.  Perhaps it's just a natural part of the aging process.  Now, summer is my favorite season of the year.  (It used to be fall, with winter coming in a very close second.)  I mourn the end of August now like the death of a cherished family schnauzer. 

My family is throwing me a birthday party this evening.  Yes, a belated Saint Marty's Day party.  That's fine by me.  There will be gifts and cake and ice cream and warm tapioca pudding.  That's right.  I said warm tapioca pudding, which is my favorite dessert in the whole world.  My sister makes it for me.  This isn't instant crap.  This is real tapioca, made over a burner, stirred for at least an hour, and served almost tongue-scalding hot.  For those of my disciples who consider tapioca disgusting, let me tell you something:  warm tapioca is like a great big hug from Jesus.  Yes, it's that good.

I do have a new cartoon for you.  It touches upon one of my favorite birthday wishes at the moment.  Enjoy.

Saint Marty is going to go dream about tapioca now.

Confessions of Saint Marty