February 22: Better Weather for Me, Snowstorm that Never Ends, Raging Outside

Santiago is humiliated by the limitations of his body . . .

"Light brisa," he said. "Better weather for me than for you, fish."

His left hand was still cramped, but he was unknotting it slowly.

I hate a cramp, he thought. It is a treachery of one's own body. It is humiliating before others to have a diarrhea from ptomaine poisoning or to vomit from it. But a cramp, he thought of it as a calambre, humiliates oneself especially when one is alone.

The body never gets a break.  Even a furnace in the dead of January in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan gets to sleep every once in a while.  Not so for these skin machines we all inhabit.  The lungs keep lunging.  The heart keeps hearting.  The brain keeps braining.  Until those machines begin to have little breakdowns.  That's what's happening to Santiago in the above passage.

I'm sore tonight because of this snowstorm that never ends.  It's still raging outside.  Another twelve to 15 inches tonight.  Schools are falling one-by-one to closure this evening.  If the university where I teach closes, it will be the last domino to fall, claimed some time early tomorrow morning before the sun washes darkness out of the sky.  

My soreness is the result of shoveling my car and house out this morning at 5:30.  My wife had to work at 7 a.m.  She was hired last month for a job at the front desk of a hotel on the shores of Lake Superior.  We are grateful for the paycheck, as our existence is often hand to mouth.  However, having to get on the highway at 6 a.m. in the middle of a blizzard is insanity.

My wife did text her boss last night, saying that, depending on the weather, she may not be able to make it to work in the morning.  Her boss's response:  "The absence will be unexcused and will go in your employee file."  Translation:  Get your ass to work!  Or else!

I don't understand bosses like this.  With rules chiseled in stone that have no relation to human need.  I have been lucky for most of my working life.  My bosses have all been homo sapiens with beating hearts and compassionate dispositions.  They didn't expect me to risk my life to get to the office on days of whiteouts and thirty-below-zero wind chills.  

However, my wife and I busted it out this morning--dug and shoveled and cleared.  We were on the road by 6:35, and my wife was exactly five minutes late for work this morning.  That's all.

And now, my arms are sore.  My neck is aching a little.  And I am bone tired.

Thank you, mindless, heartless capitalism.  The beat goes on.  Until it doesn't.

Saint Marty isn't looking forward to the drifts of tomorrow morning.

January 30: Wind Chills, "Evolution," Vote

So, my kids didn't have school today due to dangerous wind chills.  They don't have school again tomorrow for the same reason. 

In honor of another snow day (okay, I know it's not technically a snow day, but close enough), I'm giving you a poem tonight about school and evolution and prayer.

Evolution

by:  Martin Achatz

Miss Hale was an experiment for Assumption Grotto School.
In her not-quite-miniskirts and thigh-high boots,
She was Technicolor while the nuns were black-and-white.
Marching into my sixth grade, Miss Hale's heels
Sparked lightning from the tile.  Her hair was black
As a confessional; eyes, brown as Saint Francis.
I swallowed every word she spoke,
Felt them living inside me so that at night,
She was my prayer I lifted to God:
Hale Mary, full of grace and
Our Father, who art in heaven, Hale be thy name.

One day, Miss Hale told us,
"I'm going to teach you where we all come from."
I hunkered down, expecting her to say
Words that burned my tongue.
She produced maps of Africa,
Spoke of origins and Darwin and Galapagos,
Described Louis Leakey and missing links and ancestor apes.
As her last piece of evidence, she turned her back to us,
Pressed her hand at the base of her spine, and said,
"Here's where our tails used to be."

That night, I dreamed I had a tail, thick and wild.
I cracked coconuts with my teeth, sucked the milk,
Let it spill white down my arms, chest, thighs.
Miss Hale, hair blinding black in the jungle sun,
Sat high in a tree, her tail snaking the air,
Inviting me to climb.  I climbed,
And our chimpanzee screams shook the vines like rain.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate at the link below.  You can vote every day from now until February 9:

Vote for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula

January 27: World is Closed, Wind Chills, "Web" Dip

My entire world closed today.  Every school.  The university where I teach.  My daughter's dance classes.  My son's religious education class.  My Monday night poetry workshop.  With wind chills approaching 40 below zero, nobody wanted to step outside, let alone wait at a bus stop or walk across a college campus.

I actually got to spend most of the day with my wife and children.  I watched a couple episodes of The Big Bang Theory.  Even took a nap.  I have reached the age where one of the greatest pleasures in my life is 40 or 50 winks in the middle of the day.  I'm not sure if that officially makes me old.

The weather isn't going to be much better tomorrow, either.  My kids' school has already canceled again.  So has every other school in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  When I drove home this evening, the temperature gauge on my car read -15 degrees.  I also heard the alarm going off at the fire station.  That means there's a house burning somewhere in town.  Not a good situation.  I once saw a house that caught fire on a night like this.  In the morning, the entire structure was encased in ice.

Of course, the university hasn't called off classes for tomorrow.  Yet.  I'm skeptical that I will get another day of leisure.  At best, the school will postpone opening until ten or eleven o'clock in the morning.  I teach at 4 p.m.  I will be in the classroom tomorrow.

But let's leave it up to Charlotte:

Will the university cancel classes again tomorrow?

And the answer from the Zuckerman barn is:

"Hurray!" cried everybody.

"Thank you very much," said Charlotte...

Well, Wilbur and friends seem to think that I will be getting another day of vacation.


Of course, Saint Marty doesn't really trust the opinions of animals who live and sleep in manure.

As Dean Martin says, "Baby, it's cold outside."

January 6: A Long Night, Longer Day, Magic 8-Ball with Charlotte

I had a long night last night.  I woke up about 2 a.m., dizzy and sweating.  I made it to the bathroom, where I sat with my face in the toilet bowl for about forty minutes.  I couldn't move.  Every time I tried to stand up, the room would spin, and I'd end up retching in the toilet again.

I was finally able to crawl into the living room, dragging a bucket behind me.  I sat on the couch for another hour or so, the entire world weaving and undulating.  I managed to test my blood sugar, thinking that I was in the middle of a really bad hypoglycemic reaction.  My blood sugar was normal.  By this time, I was into the dry heaves.

After a couple hours pinned to the couch by this condition, I called to my wife.  She came out, tested my blood sugar for me again.  Normal.  She brought me a blanket and a couple of pillows.  There wasn't a whole lot she could do.  She went back to bed, and I heaved into the bucket for another hour or so.  I eventually managed to fall asleep.

I slept most of today.  My stomach is still aching.  My head is still throbbing.  My blood sugars have been out of whack.  Up in the three hundreds.  Down to 45.  Back up again.  It is now 8:10 p.m., and I am currently sitting here with a 123 blood sugar.  Almost normal.  But I feel like I've been hit by a truck.

My kids had the day off from school because of fifty-below-zero wind chills.  They were cooped up inside all day long.  By noon, they were out for each other's blood.  It was like a Donner Party vacation day.  And school is cancelled tomorrow because of the wind chills.  It's going to be another long day.

If you haven't realized it yet, I've had a pretty crappy day.  I'm hoping tonight is a little better.

For my first Magic 8-Ball Monday with Charlotte's Web, I'm going to ask an easy question:

Is the year 2014 going to be better than 2013?

And the answer from Wilbur and his cohorts is:

Dr. Dorian closed his eyes again and went into deep thought.  "Henry Fussy," he mumbled.  "Hmm.  Remarkable.  Well, I don't think you have anything to worry about..."

Well, that's a fairly clear answer.  I don't have anything to worry about.  I think I'm going to really like spending the year with a spider and a pig.

Now, if Saint Marty can make it through the night without his head in the toilet, things are looking up.

I was there today.  It wasn't fun.