November 16: Tim Nolan, "Thanksgiving," Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving

by:  Tim Nolan

Thanks for the Italian chestnuts—with their

tough shells—the smooth chocolaty

skin of them—thanks for the boiling water—

itself a miracle and a mystery—

thanks for the seasoned sauce pan

and the old wooden spoon—and all

the neglected instruments in the drawer—

the garlic crusher—the bent paring knife—

the apple slicer that creates six

perfect wedges out of the crisp Haralson—

thanks for the humming radio—thanks

for the program on the radio

about the guy who was a cross-dresser—

but his wife forgave him—and he

ended up almost dying from leukemia—

(and you could tell his wife loved him

entirely—it was in her deliberate voice)—

thanks for the brined turkey—

the size of a big baby—thanks—

for the departed head of the turkey—

the present neck—the giblets

(whatever they are)—wrapped up as

small gifts inside the cavern of the ribs—

thanks—thanks—thanks—for the candles

lit on the table—the dried twigs—

the autumn leaves in the blue Chinese vase—

thanks—for the faces—our faces—in this low light.

_________________________

I'm going to focus on thankfulness for the next few days.  It feels as though I haven't been really appreciating the blessings in my life recently.  My wife and kids.  My work.  Teaching.  The beauty of first snows.  Laughter.  A good ham sandwich.

So, tonight, I want to say thanks to everyone who reads this blog.  I don't know who you are (or maybe I do).  Whatever the reason, however you stumbled upon this particular post, thanks for spending some time with me.

Saint Marty is blessed by your time and your attention.

November 15: The Whole Roll of Our Order, My Mother, Mother JFK

Nor do heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets alone comprise the whole roll of our order . . . 

Ishmael is writing about whalers in this sentence.  He's trying to convince his readers of their nobility and worth.  Thus, whalers are heroes and holy men, kings and gods.  For Melville, whalers embody all the best qualities of human nature.

For some reason, my mother has been on my mind a lot these last few weeks.  I don't exactly know why.  Perhaps it's the approach of Thanksgiving.  (For those disciples who do not live in the United States, Thanksgiving is a holiday that takes place on the fourth Thursday of every November.  It's a time when friends and family sit down together, eat a huge turkey dinner, and--ideally--feel grateful for the blessings of their lives.)  My mother was an amazing cook and spent two or three days making sides and relishes and breads and Jell-Os for Thanksgiving.

Anyway, last night, in the composition class I'm teaching this semester at the university, I gave my students the following prompt:  Write about a person in your family for whom you are thankful.

This is what I wrote in my journal:

Let me tell you about my mother who gave birth to a baby girl with Down syndrome in 1965.

Let me tell you that the doctor who delivered my sister told my mother about a place where she could drop off her baby, a place for mental defectives and cripples and castoffs who would never be able to walk or talk or go to the bathroom by themselves.  "There's no hope here," he said.

Let me tell you that my mother wrapped her baby in a blanket, walked out of that hospital, and brought her home.

Let me tell you that my mother didn't treat my sister any differently than she treated me when I was born a few years later.

Let me tell you that my mother taught my sister her letters and colors and numbers, how to write her name:  Rosemarie.  Note Rose.  Not Rose Mary.  Rosemarie.  Four consonants.  Five vowels.

Let me tell you that my mother once marched into a school's office, into a principal's office, and told that man with the wide ugly tie, "You WILL find a classroom for my daughter" in a tone that said, "Fuck.  You."

Let me tell you that my mother never, ever, ever pitied my sister or made excuses for her.

Let me tell you that my mother, at my sister's high school graduation, looked like the mother of a President of the United States on Inauguration Day.  Mother JFK, mother FDR, mother Lincoln, mother Obama, you choose.  See her sitting there, back straight as a flagpole, the air cold, drums snapping in the January bright.  My mother, imagining her baby's face on Mount Rushmore.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for his mother.

November 14: Blowing Out the Light, Go To Your Room, Correcting Papers

His story being ended with his pipe's last dying puff, Queequeg embraced me, pressed his forehead against mine, and blowing out the light, we rolled over from each other, this way and that, and very soon were sleeping.

I want to tell you a bedtime story tonight.  Well, it's a story that happened around bedtime.

I'm a very stubborn person sometimes.  (I know.  It's hard to believe.)  For a teacher and husband, that's not the greatest of character traits.  For a father, it can cause real trauma in a child's life.

One night, when my daughter was around seven years old, she told me that she wasn't tired and didn't want to go to bed.  It was around 8:30 p.m., and I had a stack of papers to grade.  I wasn't in the mood for a three-hour bedtime struggle.

"Get up now," I told her, "and go to your room."

She stared at me with her wide brown eyes and didn't move.

"I'm not kidding," I said.  "Get up NOW."

She still didn't move.  Just sat staring at me.

I lost it.  Threw down my book, stormed over to her, snatched her up.  I stomped into her room and threw her down on her bed.

"Go to sleep," I yelled.  "NOW."

She sat there, her chest heaving with sobs. 

"Go to sleep," I repeated.

She nodded, barely able to catch her breath.  Then, she said, "I . . . I'm . . . s-s-sorry . . . I . . .in-in-interrupted . . . your . . . w-w-work . . ."

I felt something inside my chest seize.  I stood there, staring down at her.  My daughter, in her seven-year-old way, was telling me she wanted to spend time with me, and I hadn't listened.

I sat down next to her, reached out.  She fell into my arms.  That night, I read her three books, sang to her, prayed with her, held her until she fell asleep.

Saint Marty didn't grade a single paper that night.

November 13: Embalmed Head, 365 Journal Topics, Bacon

Next morning, Monday, after disposing of the embalmed head to a barber, for a block, I settled my own and comrade's bill; using, however, my comrade's money. The grinning landlord, as well as the boarders, seemed amazingly tickled at the sudden friendship which had sprung up between me and Queequeg- especially as Peter Coffin's cock and bull stories about him had previously so much alarmed me concerning the very person whom I now companied with.

This passage makes me smile.  It occurs fairly early in the novel, just at the beginning of Queequeg and Ishmael's budding friendship.  The two men are complete opposites.  Ishmael, Christian.  Queequeg, pagan.  Ishmael, whiter than a Donald Trump campaign rally.  Queequeg, darker than protesters outside a Donald Trump campaign rally.  Yet, they find solace in each other's company.

Before I start:

DISCLAIMER:  I had no idea what to write about today, so I did what many people do when they're unsure about something:  I turned to Google.  I typed in the phrase "journal topic generator," and Google brought me to a site titled "365 Journal Topics."  I started scrolling through the list until I stopped on "Write about things that make you smile."  I liked that prompt, but it was a little too open-ended.  So, for the sake of this blog post, I modified it a little.

Thanks to Google, I now present a list of ten things that make me smile:

1.  Going into my son's room in the early morning, watching him sleep and dream, breathe his deep boy breaths.

2.  Kissing my wife before I leave for work, tasting the warmth of her cheek.

3.  Seeing my daughter dance, the swan grace of her legs and feet.

4.  A good fountain pen and an empty journal page.  The possibility of it all.

5.  Listening to Christmas songs in July.

6.  Warm socks when my feet are cold.

7.  A poem that takes the top of my head off when I read it.

8.  Snow falling from a a blue sky (I've seen it happen).

9.  A nap in the middle of a really busy day.

10.  Bacon.

Simple things, I know.  But it's the simple things that make a day good.  I'm still facing some uncertainty at work.  Today, I found myself on websites, looking for a new job.  I didn't find anything promising and only succeeded in making myself sad and angry.

Saint Marty needed some bacon today.