December 5: Krampustag, a Griswold Birthday Party, My Beautiful Child

Happy Krampustag!

Yes, today is the day that celebrates the figure of Krampus, a demonic figure in Central European folklore that is the antithesis of Santa Claus.  Krampus, with his horns and hooves, shows up on this day to drag misbehaving children away to be punished.  Recently, the myth of Krampus has gained popularity, perhaps due to the release, a few years ago, of the film Krampus.

My daughter hates the fact that she was born on Krampustag.  (She rolled her eyes when I mentioned it to her a few minutes ago.)  I, on the other hand, think it's kind of cool.  I understand why she dislikes the association of her birthday with a demon.  That isn't exactly something to write home about, I suppose.  Yet, my daughter has always been her own person--not really marching to the beat of anyone else's drum but her own.  She is kind and loving.  The thing that she's most excited about this Christmas is that she gets to buy people presents with her own money that she's earned by working for Food Services at the university.  She's more excited about giving than getting this holiday season.

My daughter doesn't have to worry about Krampus coming for her tonight.

And how did we celebrate my Krampustag baby's birthday?  By going to a screening of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation at our local movie theater.  Yes, she wanted a Griswold birthday party.  So, we grabbed a quick bite to eat at one of her favorite restaurants, and then we all headed to the theater.  We met up with my wife's sister and her family, and we ate buttered popcorn and watched Chevy Chase ruin and save Christmas.  Not a demon in sight.

As I said in my post last night, my daughter amazes me on a daily basis.  She has saved my life in so many ways.  I want to grow up to be just like her.  She may never read this blog post, but I want her to know that she is an inspiration to me on a daily basis.  She reminds me of all that is good in the world.

Maybe she's reading this thirty or forty years from now.  Maybe I'm still alive.  Maybe I'm not.  But know this, my beautiful child:  being your father made me a better person.  If I am no longer with you physically, remember that I will always be a part of you.  I am with you when you smile and laugh.   I am with you when you weep.  I am with you when you celebrate.  I am with you when you grieve.  I will always be a part of you, and you will always be a part of me.

Happy birthday, my sweet, sweet baby.

Saint Marty loves you the way waves love the beach.  The way snow loves the cold.  The way crickets love the night.  The way Krampus loves naughty children.  The way God so loved the world.

December 2-3-4: Forty-Two, Out of Control, Krampustag Birthday

"Forty-two," said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm.

According to Douglas Adams, 42 is the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.  These last few days, I've been sort of searching for answers myself.  Trying to survive in a life that seems a little bit out of control . . .

December 3, 2019.  10:34 p.m.

I find myself staring at a blank computer screen at the moment.  I am really tired.  Falling-asleep-at-the-keyboard tired.  Consequently, this will be a very short post.

Last night, I attended my first Christmas party of the holiday season.  It was a gathering of local poets.  We brought dishes to pass, wine and beer to drink.  We ate and talked and indulged and listened to poetry for about three hours.  It was a wonderful way to end a Monday.

Today, I worked for ten hours.  Then I went to see my therapist.  Then I had a meeting at the university.  Then I cleaned at church.  Then I spent two hours putting together my final exam for my two film classes.  It is that time of the semester (and year) where I begin to feel overwhelmed with obligations.  Things to grade.  Presents to buy.  Poems and essays and letters to write.  For a little while this evening, I gave into self pity and simply sat in my car, letting it wash over me.

However, the only way I can survive at the moment is by simply keeping my eye on the immediate task before me.  If I start playing the crystal ball game, gazing into the future, I might as well go to bed and stay there for a very long time.  But I can't really afford to sleep until New Year's Day, so, instead, I snooze off in front of my laptop.

December 4, 2019.  5:06 p.m.

It is the eve before my daughter's nineteenth birthday.  Yes, she was born on Krampustag.  December 5, which also happens to be Walt Disney's birth date, as well.

It is kind of hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I am the father of an almost 20-year-old young woman.  I couldn't have wished for a better daughter.  She's smart, kind, and compassionate.  One of my sisters says that my daughter has an "angel light" around her.  People who are broken or hurting are drawn to her like moths to a front porch light.  I see that all the time, even in myself.  When I am around my daughter, I feel better, calmer, more grounded.

I had no idea what I was doing when I was raising my daughter.  She sort of taught me how to be a father.  What worked.  What didn't.  I've made lots of mistakes, as any first-time parent does.  My daughter has grown up to be a lot like me.  She's driven to always be the best at whatever she does.  She goes out of her way to help people in need.  She is accepting to a fault.  There's not a judgmental bone in her body.  And she's funny.

I don't know what I did to deserve a daughter like her.  Perhaps, on the night she was born, God looked down on me and thought, "Oh, boy.  This one is going to need a lot of help.  Better send Celeste."  She is one of my proudest achievements.  When I am gone from this life, maybe people will remember some of my poems.  Maybe not.  Maybe someone will stumble across this blog and read it.  Maybe not.  But I know that someone will meet my daughter in the future--a moth drawn to her light--and that person will think, "I wonder where this wondrous creature came from?"  And she may say my name, with love.

That is how Saint Marty wants to be remembered.  As an incantation of love spoken by his daughter.

December 4: Darkest Points in My Life, Light in the World, "Rules of Fatherhood"

Yes, you are going to have to put up with me getting all sentimental about my daughter's birthday tomorrow.  She, literally and figuratively, has saved my life many times.  At one of the darkest points in my life, my five-year-old daughter was the one who reminded me that there was still light in the world.

It was about a week before Christmas, and I still hadn't put up a tree.  My wife and I were separated, and my fervor for the holiday was nonexistent.  I hadn't even watched It's a Wonderful Life or A Charlie Brown Christmas.  One night, my daughter looked me in the eyes and said, "Are we going to have Christmas this year?" 

I was speechless for a few moments, and then I hugged her.  Hard. 

That was all it took.  Within a day, the Christmas tree was up and decorated, and lights were flashing in my front porch.  You know, Scrooge had Jacob Marley to teach him about Christmas.  George Bailey had Clarence Odbody, Angel Second Class.  The Grinch had Little Cindy Lou Who.  I had a kindergartener in pigtails with an inner light. 

Tomorrow morning, Saint Marty's little Spirit of Christmas turns 19. 

God bless us, everyone!

Rules of Fatherhood

by:  Martin Achatz

When I first heard my daughter's heart
Ten years ago in the doctor's office,
I had no clue how to care for a girl,
Those unwritten rules new fathers
Must learn over time.  Make your girl
Sit frog-legged in the bathtub
To allow warm water to flow
Into areas of her body where skin
Turns raw, pink or red as grapefruit,
In the privacy of diaper or panty.
When she turns three or four,
Teach her to wipe front-to-back,
Not back-to-front, to avoid kidney,
Bladder infections.  Comb her hair
As soon as she's done bathing.
Slide the teeth through and through,
To remove all tangles, then braid.
Start simple, one ponytail at the back
Of her head.  Work to French braids,
Beautiful as sweet, curled loaves
In bakeries at Christmas.  Never
Utter the name of the boy she likes
When she's five or seven or ten.
Just watch them play together.
Notice how he always insists
She climb the steps of the slide
Before him, his neck craned upward,
Cheeks flushed, as she goes higher and higher.
Invite said boy to her tenth birthday
Party, watch him squirm when you sit
Beside him and say, "What are your
Plans for the future, son?"
Even though you don't believe
In guns, buy one to hold
In your lap when she goes
On her first date.  When he arrives,
Stare at him, the way a lion stares
At a wounded water buffalo.

All these rules I've learned
Since that day the doctor waved
Her wand over my wife, pulled
From the top hat of my wife's belly
That sound:  crickets singing
On a summer night, 
Love me, love me, love me.

December 1: Shell-Shocked Fragments, Snowpocalypse, Blizzardy Thanksgiving Weekend

After a fairly shaky start to the day, Arthur's mind was beginning to reassemble itself from the shell-shocked fragments the previous day had left him with . . .

It has been a really long, shell-shocky day for me, as well, and it's only 3:19 in the afternoon.  A second snowpocalypse hit my little area of the Upper Peninsula early this morning, and it's still going strong.  I'm a bad judge of how much snow has fallen, but I would guess about 20 feet.  At least, that's what my back is telling me.

Church services were cancelled early, so I headed out at 7:30 this morning to start shoveling.  I finally came back inside about 11:30, and I still hadn't cleared everything.  Thank God for my neighbor across the street.  He came over with his snowblower and helped clear around the vehicles in my driveway, so I was able to get them moved.

Then, I came inside and collapsed in my bed until I got a text from my plow guy.  Out I went again to move cars and shovel some more.  At one point, my plow guy rolled down his window and said, "This is crazy.  These are January snowbanks.  I'm runnin' out of places to push this shit."  He finished up, and I backed our cars into the driveway with the help of my daughter's boyfriend.

I am currently inside.  My feet are up.  I've taken some Ibuprofen.  And I am officially done with winter.  We have enough snow now for Christmas, New Year's Eve and Day, and the next Winter Olympics.  I have one bed available for any athletes looking for lodging.  I don't care if I step outside again until mid-July.

On top of all of that, I have a houseful of teenagers.  Friends of my daughter who slept here Saturday night.  It looks light they'll be spending tonight here, as well.  One of them is freaking out at the moment because she has chemistry and math tests tomorrow, and she doesn't have her books to study.  She literally wants to risk her life to try to get home right now.  (She lives about 20 miles out of town in a very rural area.)  My daughter came down and asked me when the storm was supposed to stop.  The National Weather Service's Winter Storm Warning for our area is set to expire at 4 p.m.  In about 15 minutes.  I looked at my daughter and said, "Just because the storm stops doesn't mean it's safe to drive on the roads."  She rolled her eyes, spun on her heals, and tossed an "Okay!" over her shoulder at me as she stomped up to her room.

I feel bad for my daughter's friend.  I understand her panic and fear because, as a student, I was very much like her.  Fear of failure is overpowering.  It's what keeps me moving most days.  I don't want to be a disappointment to anybody.  It's why I drag myself out of bed at 4:15 every weekday.  Why I work four different jobs.  Why I get about four to five hours of sleep a night.  And why I've been up since 7:30 this morning, pushing snow and juggling cars.  I have a family to take care of.  Obligations to fulfill.  And, even though my daughter doesn't see it right now, I'm trying to keep these hormonal teenagers safe.

I'm not complaining.  I like taking care of people, being dependable.  That's why, after I'm done typing this post, I'm going to go into the kitchen and cook some food for my household.  Starting with a spinach and artichoke bomb.  Then some blueberry pancakes probably, because it's a blueberry pancake kind of night.

So, at the end of this blizzardy Thanksgiving weekend, I am grateful for my neighbor who came over with his snowblower this morning to help me out.  For my plow guy, who moved a mountain of snow for me.  For my eleven-year-old son, who moved an eleven-year-old-size mountain of snow, as well.  For my warm house, and my refrigerator full of food.  For my wife, who let me take a nap this afternoon.  For my Christmas tree glowing in the corner of the living, reminding me that there's light in the world.

Saint Marty is sore and blessed.