I do feel refreshed from my time off. Rejuvenated. I would love to have another week. The U. P. State Fair starts tomorrow. You know--rides, fried food, cows, sheep, chickens, and pigs. Blue ribbons. Pies. Quilts. All the usual suspects. I'm sure there will even be some spiders and rats, but probably no web with miraculous writing in it. My sister is taking a whole crew of children to the Fair on Tuesday or Wednesday. My kids can't wait.
And while they are stuffing their faces with cotton candy, I will be dealing with sick people for eight hours. Pretty soon, these last seven days will pass from recent memory to distant memory to dream. Wendy returning from Neverland. I guess we all have to grow up some time.
Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired three years ago and contains a poem I wrote that I'd forgotten about. I think it holds up still. You be the judge.
August 10, 2011: Day Three of Vacation, New Poem, Cracked Windshield
Welcome to Day Three of my vacation.
I went to a playgroup with my almost-three-year-old son this morning. It was a little discouraging to see how much better all these younger kids were at speaking, cutting with scissors, sitting down, listening to stories, counting. I almost wanted to leave, but I stuck it out. My son is so good at problem-solving mechanical things. He just doesn't want to take the time to listen to The Hungry Caterpillar.
After the playgroup, we went to visit my wife's grandma in the nursing home. It was a really short visit because it was lunchtime, and my son was really tired. We stayed around ten or 15 minutes. Just long enough for my wife's grandma to walk down the hall to the dining room.
This afternoon, I took my daughter to her dance lesson. I went to Walmart for a few groceries. When I came out of the store, there was a huge crack in my windshield. I don't know how it got there. So I had to call my insurance company when I got home, make an appointment to get the damn thing replaced. Thank God I have full glass coverage.
I have a new poem for you today, inspired by my visit to the nursing home with my family.
Saint Marty could very easily become a man of leisure (translation: not work another day in his life).
In the Nursing Home
Birds sing. Finches. Canary and sparrow.
Saffron, green, blue feathers.
This time of year, the nests are full
Of new life, creatures smaller
Than thumbnails, blind to their world
Of glass and wood and seed.
My daughter crowds around the enclosure,
Watches anxious flit, hears mother
Birds scream to protect newborns.
Our visit will be short today.
My wife walks her grandmother
To the dining hall, keeps up
A steady monologue of news.
Our daughter's in fifth grade.
Our son's going to be three in September.
When they reach the aviary, they stop.
Her grandmother narrows her eyes
At the flutter and squeak inside.
Emmett hasn't come yet, she says to my wife.
I waited for him yesterday.
She looks up at my wife, says, He never came.
My wife stares at her a few moments.
Grandpa died five years ago, remember?
Her grandmother smiles, nods.
They turn into the dining hall, to the smell
Of turkey and steamed broccoli.
My daughter points to a hatchling
That's fallen out of its nest. It struggles
To return to the place of food, feather comfort.
Help it, my daughter says to me.
Someone will, I say, not sure
If I'm telling the truth or not.
I stare at the tiny bird's pink skin,
At its quick, hungry breaths,
Its fatal need for love.
Someone will, I say again.
Confessions of Saint Marty
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