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

May 2: Sleep More Easily, Poetry Assignments, No Cartoons

It was in fact a blessing.  An ability to sleep more easily and deeply had come to him during the past few years.  Where he used to toss and turn and drive his wife crazy at night, no sooner would he now lay his head upon the pillow than he would fall asleep.  But not into that sleep of old age, but into the sleep of a child, an infinitude of possibilities swaddling him.

I love that description of the sleep of a child, full of "an infinitude of possibilities."  Ives, in his old age, has rediscovered hope.  That's what possibility is all about.  Instead of focusing on the heartaches of the past, Ives is now looking forward, even in times of rest and rejuvenation.

I look forward to that kind of sleep tonight.  This morning, I graded a pile of poem explications from my poetry class.  This evening, I graded a stack of book reviews from my poetry class.  All of the hard work is done now.  All that's left are the poetry portfolios.  I've seen the poems before.  I've helped them with revisions on several occasions.  It will not take me long to grade them.

Therefore, I have no burdens weighing on my mind tonight.  Tomorrow, I will watch my daughter dance again.  (She received an Outstanding Award for the dance she did this afternoon.  That's like a Gold Medal.)  Then we're going to do shopping.  I plan on buying a few shirts for work.  Maybe some vintage tee shirts.  After the shopping, it's the Outback Steakhouse for dinner (my daughter's choice--she's a little carnivore). 

In short, the rest of the weekend, for the most part, is pleasure.  Even grading the portfolios--pleasure.

There will be no new cartoons this weekend.  I have no energy to be funny.  The only thing I have energy to do right now is eat some M&Ms, maybe watch a little SNL, and go to sleep.

An infinitude of possibilities swaddling Saint Marty.

I see a martini and rack of lamb in my infinitude of possibilities

May 1: Balloons, Molly Peacock, "My Vast Presumption"

As we drove up to Howell High School this evening for the dance competition, there were balloonists getting ready to take flight.  The baskets were still anchored to the ground, but it was apparent that they were about to climb into the atmosphere.  They were billowing striped reminders that summer is just around the corner.

I am not too adventurous.  I don't think I would voluntarily go ballooning.  If the opportunity ever presented itself, I would need medication and alcohol to take advantage of it.  But I can certainly admire the spectacle of other people taking to the heavens.

Saint Marty prefers to be a little more grounded than that.

My Vast Presumption

by:  Molly Peacock

The balloon ride was his birthday present
three years ago.  He never cashed the ticket,
I know, because periodically I'm sent
reminders in the mail.  "I didn't take it,
not yet," he said for nearly a year.  We don't
bring it up any more.  I thought I'd try
a rescue, thought I should--the mire he was in,
his father, his job.  Since we were kids, a lie
was a sin, still is.  He's my favorite cousin.
I'd love to see him way up in the air
billowed over the farms below, the red stripes
teetering from cloud to cloud, from when to where,
far away from bleak here.  "I'm not the type,"
he finally said from his own balloon,
never waving, since never leaving home,
the faintly hysterical first good-bye,
"See you again, soon!"

Up, up, and away

May 1: Vacations in the Summer, Howell, Dance Competition, Vacation Fairy Tale

...[Ives] took his wife and daughter on vacations in the summer, but never very far, renting an inexpensive cabin at the far northern reaches of Lake George in Upstate New York.  He heard cicadas and the wind sweeping across the lake in the middle of the night, and felt depressed  because he had little sexual drive, and Annie, his beloved, had started to feel neglected and middle-aged...

Ives is not an adventurous soul, especially after the death of his son.  He travels to Europe early in his life with his wife and kids, but, in his middle age and suffering from profound grief, Ives can only manage short trips that only deepen his sadness.

I'm coming to you tonight from Howell, Michigan.  It is my yearly pilgrimage to this city for my daughter's dance competition.  I have been up since 4 a.m.  We drove all day.  When we got to the hotel, I took my son to the pool for an hour or so.  Then dinner and off to Howell High School for the first night of competition.

My daughter performed her tap solo this evening.  She received an Outstanding Medal.  She's happy and relieved that it's over.  She has group dances tomorrow and Sunday.  However, we will be able to do a little shopping tomorrow, since her performances aren't until later in the afternoon.  I will be spending a good portion of this weekend grading papers and poetry portfolios.  In fact, once I get the two posts done this evening, I have a pile of poem explications to mark up.

It's nice to get away, even if I had to bring work with me.  I love these dance weekends.  A time to leave my everyday worries at home for a few days, relax, and enjoy the company of my wife, daughter, and son.  I know I spend a good amount of time complaining about my shitty job and shitty bank account in my posts.  Little vacations like this one remind me that I have a lot for which to be thankful.

Once upon a time, a chicken farmer named Ken Tuckey decided to go on a vacation.  Ken rarely got away from his farm.  All day, every day, from dawn to dusk, he fed chickens, collected eggs, shoveled chicken crap, repaired coops, and chased hungry foxes out of his yard.

Ken packed up his wife and kids in a wagon, hitched up his mule, and headed off to Lake Enchantment for a few days.

While Ken and his family swam, picnicked, and roasted sausages over campfires, Ken's farm burned to the ground, and all his chickens died in the fire.

When he returned from his vacation and discovered what had happened, he decided to open a restaurant.

Moral of the story:  Ken Tuckey Fried Chicken is finger lickin' good.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

You know what I'm talking about