December 2: Shivering Winter's Night, North Pole, Homemade Turkey Pot Pie

When on that shivering winter's night, the Pequod thrust her vindictive bows into the cold malicious waves, who should I see standing at her helm but Bulkington!  I looked with sympathetic awe and fearfulness upon the man, who in midwinter just landed from a four years' dangerous voyage, could so unrestingly push off again for still another tempestuous term . . . 

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.  It has been snowing since about midnight, and it's still coming down.  Mix in 35 mile per hour winds and subzero wind chills.  It's not just looking like Christmas.  It's looking like the North Pole.  I'm staring out the window right now, and I wouldn't be surprised to see Santa pull up in his sleigh.  Or Krampus to hunch by.

Of course, for a ten-year-old boy, this weather is prime.  My son just headed outside in his snow trappings to have a little fun.  Roll in the drifts.  Throw snowballs.  Shovel.  (Yes, he thinks shoveling is fun.)  He is a Yooper kid, through and through.  He's got blizzards in his blood.  In about a half hour, he'll come back inside, crusted with ice, asking for hot chocolate.  When I suggest he take a hot shower, he'll look at me as though I've told him to swallow a burning piece of coal.  He is ten and a boy.  That makes water a death sentence to him.  (Say it with me, "You cursed brat!  Look what you've done!  I'm melting!  Melting!  Oh, what a world!  What a world!  Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?!  Oooooh, look out!  I'm going!  Ooooh!  Oooooooh!")

The light is disappearing from the sky now.  It's almost 5 p.m.  The storm has been storming for about 17 hours now.  A year ago, there was no snow on the ground, but Nature was still putting on a show.  December 2, 2017, there was a Super Moon.  No snow on the ground.  I was wearing my fall jacket still.  If this storm doesn't let up soon, my kids aren't going to have school tomorrow.  That won't hurt their feelings at all.

I remember when weather like this filled me with excitement.  It was when I didn't have to shovel and hire people to plow my property.  When I didn't have to get up at 4 a.m. and drive 20 miles to work every day, rain, shine, blizzard, or monsoon.  Days like this meant sleeping in.  Watching movies.  Reading great books.  Recording cassette mix tapes off the radio.  They were the best.

However, I've spent a good portion of this day with a shovel in my hand.  I have lost my youthful enthusiasm for snow storms and blizzards.  It happens around the time you become a property owner and have a family of your own.  I experience it vicariously now, through my kids.

Saint Marty is thankful this evening for a warm house and homemade turkey pot pie.

Last year . . .

This year . . .

December 2: William Carlos Williams, "Blizzard," Special Hot Chocolate

Blizzard 

by:  William Carlos Williams

Snow:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down--
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh?  Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes--
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there--
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.

_________________________

A good poem for tonight, as the snow and wind continue.

Saint Marty is in the mood for some special hot chocolate tonight.

December 1: Last Things On board, On the Marquee, Everyday Miracles

It was now clear sunrise.  Soon the crew came on board in twos and threes; the riggers bestirred themselves; the mates were actively engaged; and several of the shore people were busy in bringing various last things on board.  Meanwhile Captain Ahab remained invisibly enshrined within his cabin.

Lots of work accomplished in the sunrise aboard the Pequod.  The crew is preparing for its whaling voyage.  Loading in supplies.  Checking rigging, ropes.  Whatever nautical people do in those frantic last moments.

My morning hasn't been quite as busy, but I have already accomplished some work already.  Created a poster for a poetry benefit reading that I'm organizing for December 15.  Now, it's blogging at Burger King.  (Doesn't that sound like a support group?  Join Saint Marty for Blogging at Burger King.)  Afterward, selecting music to play for Mass this evening.  Then, maybe home snow shoveling.  Tonight, it's Christmas movie night with the family.  On the marquee:  the 2015 horror comedy Krampus.  

In between all of that, I will get a start on my next essay, which I have about a week or so to complete.  Got to get 'er done.  I have a direction I'm heading in now.  Now, I just have to follow that star and see where it leads me.  Hopefully, I won't get lost in the desert.  (I wouldn't mind getting lost in the dessert.  Maybe a little eggnog ice cream or a hot fudge sundae.)

Those are my plans.  As the old saying goes, however--the best laid plans of mice and men . . . I'm sure I will not accomplish half of those things.  That's the way it always is.  Good intentions give way to happenstance and obligation.  I know that I may not get the shoveling done.  Probably will only get a paragraph or two written of my Christmas essay.  I accept that.

On weekends, I try to keep myself open to opportunities of grace.  If my daughter wants to play a game of Trivial Pursuit with me, and I have a pile of papers to grade, I will set aside my red pen and play that game.  If my son wants to go see the new Grinch move, I will be in line, buying tickets and popcorn.  If my wife want to go grab a couple drinks and food at a local bar, my order will be gin and tonic with sausage on my half of the pizza.  Grace in the form of love.

That is my lesson today, for myself and anyone reading this post.  Take advantage of the small miracles that come your way.  

Saint Marty is thankful for sausage pizza and Trivial Pursuit and old movies.

December 1: Roger Pfingston, "December," Daughter's Birthday

December

by:  Roger Pfingston

Lodged tight for days
in a corner of the wall,
ladybug can't resist the tree,

crawling now over cold
light, ceramic fruits,
tinsel lamb and sleigh.

Flies out of the tree
to try rum cake on a
plate of caroling cherubs.

Ends up on her back,
wings flared, silly girl
spinning over the kitchen floor.

Later, between the blinds,
tiny bump of silhouette:
a stillness against the falling snow.

_______________________________

The first day of December.

In four days, my daughter will turn 18 years old.  Unbelievable.  I know parents say this all the time, but I have no idea where all this time has gone.  It was just yesterday that we brought her home from the hospital in her yellow bunting.  I was terrified.  I had this tiny, fragile creature to take care of.  Who depended on me for everything.

Eighteen years, gone in a blink.

That's why I chose this poem for today.  It's about the fragility of life in winter.  Color in the middle of blankness.

Saint Marty is grateful for his beautiful ladybug of a daughter.