Thursday, November 19, 2015.
Retreating.
Up a bit earlier than usual, faced with a bad state of mind for Mary Ann. I can't blame her. She is awaiting The Call from Jude, which could come any time now. At that moment, she will catapult herself to Los Angeles and be there for the birth of our first grandchild. In the meantime, she is not happy about having to take care of our new cats Satsuma and Valencia, both of whom are not quite ready to move into the great outdoors. They are housebroken, but MA wants nothing to do with cat litter pans.
On the other hand, she long ago committed herself to holding down the fort during my three days at Manresa retreat house, which begins this afternoon. The retreat is one of the major fixtures on my calendar. But a litterbox will not make it for one day unattended, let alone three. She is not even happy with my setting up three pre-filled pans. Take the used one out, open the new one, and slide it in. But again, I must admit that these are my cats, not hers.
We escape this topic by having lunch at New Orleans Food & Spirits. Wait! Wasn't I there just last night? Yes, I was, engorging myself with that superb panneed chicken. But MA wants to go there today. I will have a dozen raw oysters (good ones, better than I've had lately). That's a very different repast from the one I had yesterday.
She departs for other errands after lunch. I perform a couple of tasks she asked me to do before I leave. I pack my ancient Hartmann suitcase (it is decidedly not a bag) for its thirty-first trip to Manresa. Same number of times I've gone there.
I have thought about every aspect of my life during these retreats, which is the main idea. This time, it comes to me that nostalgia underlies many things at Manresa--at least for me. It's an interesting form of nostalgia at that, a mix of elements that never change, with those that always do. The buildings are as timeless as they are striking. The large columned main building dates back to the 1840s, when the place was a college. Nobody who passes in front of it on River Road fails to stop to take a closer look. On my first retreat in 1978, the showers in the main building were communal, down the hall. Now every room has a private bath. The rooms in the library building were the newest and best when I started. Now they're the oldest.
Most of the retreatants and all of the Jesuit priests I remember from my first retreats are deceased. But the program is practically unaltered. On the other hand, we are in a completely new building for the presentations.
Out and about, the cows that used to graze on the levee that passes through the Manresa property are long gone. So are the twenty or so acres of truck farming. During my retreats, the crops were cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage, and brussels sprouts. Nobody wants to farm out there anymore, so all this acreage is lawn bordered by immense live oak trees. I've watched two ranks of twenty-foot cypress trees grow from saplings. For everything old, there's something new. The nostalgia never fails to change my mental channel.
After a cocktail party (allegedly to keep retreatants from stopping in roadhouses on their way out), we have dinner. I have been leading the Grace Before Meals for about twenty years. I add the menu to it, so we have grace before spaghetti and meatballs tonight. The cooks have finally made a change I've suggested for years: thinner pasta. Vermicelli instead of spaghetti. The sauce is better, too.
It's a clear night, and I take my usual walk to the levee in the dark. I look southeast, and there is Orion rising. Now
there's something timeless.
[divider type=""]
Friday, November 20, 2015.
The Walk. Catfish And Gumbo.
It's a perfect day for the weather. The only hitch is near the convergence of three trails into the woods behind the main part of Manresa. Like all the formerly French real estate tracts along the river--they go back to the 1700s--these come to a point. On my way back on Trail #3, I encounter a very large fallen tree covered with poison ivy vines. I can't get around it, so I have to backtrack to the convergence and take Trail #2 the half-mile to the conference room. I think I might be late for Father Jack Callahan's second morning talk. His are a bit longer than average, but more articulate and thoughtful.
Lunch is fried catfish. It's nearly perfect except for arriving at our table last, and less than hot. We wordlessly (you don't talk at Manresa) accept this as a penance. It's Friday, and all the old Catholic restrictions are dusted off and reiterated. No meat on Friday. We will have shrimp gumbo for dinner. Excellent.
The high point of my personal retreat activities here is a long walk downstream on the levee. It takes me to a spot where vast fields of sugar cane extend to the horizon. For many years this was a brisk five-mile walk. A few years ago, I shortened it by about a mile. I was still not fully recovered from a broken ankle. I'm sure I could make the longer hike with no trouble. But I think I'll keep this less-demanding turn-around point permanently.
The daily journal I am presently writing began in 1970. Last year I brought the first volume--a standard college-style composition blankbook--and read the whole thing for the first time since I wrote it. It was fascinating. I bring Volume Two this time. It covers the end of my years working at the Time Saver, my beginning to draw and write for LSUNO's Driftwood newspaper, and my move into my first loner apartment. Several early girlfriends show up. Toward the end, the writing picks up a hard-to-explain shtick that I find hilarious.
[divider type=""]
Saturday, November 21, 2015.
Rainy Day. Good Day For Something.
In the break between the first morning talk from Father Jack and the second, I head over to the levee with the idea of going down to the waters of the Mississippi and putting my hand into it. It's a ritual of mine that goes back to when I was about nine. But before I go too far, I fire up my smartphone and check the weather. Contrary to yesterday's perfection, I see a seventy percent chance of rain. The clouds do look ominous. I barely make it back to my room when I begin to catch the first sprinkles. It will rain until bedtime.
I begin lunch with, "And now, let's ask for grace before the best red beans and rice you will have until next year at this time." I mean this quite seriously. I see a lot of nods of agreement.
Dinner brings, however, the best eating we will have this year. Pork roast in thick slices, floating in a fine gravy with rice and green beans on the side. I will ask for the recipe for this.
Through the retreat, one of the guys at my table ends each dinner with a bottle of port, which he shares generously. Even basic port is wonderful on a cold evening.
I return to my 1971 journal and re-read a good bit of it. If I say so myself, I was a better writer than I thought I was. But I see something disturbing: I don't study, and I don't read. My grades were terrible, as they were since high school.
[divider type=""]
Sunday, November 22, 2015.
Full Of Grace, I Head Home.
Scrambled eggs, biscuits, grits, and funny little slices of ham for breakfast. I fill out the end-of-retreat form and write my check, a certain amount for each of the thirty-one years I have attended this wonderful, happiness-making place.
It is freezing outside--first really cold weather of this season. I walk to the levee and head upstream, to make up at least partially for the hike I missed because of yesterday's rain.
Lunch is fried chicken, a welcome tour de force that Manresa stopped serving for a long time, replacing it with baked chicken. But we got a new, bigger kitchen a year ago, and it can get the fried chicken out again. With dirty rice and peas. Great stuff.
Then, suddenly, everyone is gone, and so am I. I drive upriver, as always, until LA22 emerges from the River Road and takes me all the way to Covington.
Mary Ann, who has said that the look on my face when I get back from Manresa is nearly beatific, is not home. I feed the cats and clean out the litterboxes. It is really cold out there. They say it will go into the low thirties tonight.
Mary Ann says that Jude and Suzanne are at baby watch status. Mary Ann has tickets to fly to Los Angeles tonight, tomorrow morning, or the day after. Jude says make it Tuesday. I will stay home holding up my end.
MA and I watch The Man From U.N.C.L.E--the new movie. It is very confusing, but somehow I catch what's going on. More or less.
Two after midnight, Jude is on the phone with The Call. He makes it certain that Mary Ann's presence would be helpful. Above all her other gifts, Mary Ann is a superbly skilled mother. As for me, I think I said all the right prayers during my retreat.
I have thought about every aspect of my life during these retreats, which is the main idea. This time, it comes to me that nostalgia underlies many things at Manresa--at least for me. It's an interesting form of nostalgia at that, a mix of elements that never change, with those that always do. The buildings are as timeless as they are striking. The large columned main building dates back to the 1840s, when the place was a college. Nobody who passes in front of it on River Road fails to stop to take a closer look. On my first retreat in 1978, the showers in the main building were communal, down the hall. Now every room has a private bath. The rooms in the library building were the newest and best when I started. Now they're the oldest.
Most of the retreatants and all of the Jesuit priests I remember from my first retreats are deceased. But the program is practically unaltered. On the other hand, we are in a completely new building for the presentations.
Out and about, the cows that used to graze on the levee that passes through the Manresa property are long gone. So are the twenty or so acres of truck farming. During my retreats, the crops were cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage, and brussels sprouts. Nobody wants to farm out there anymore, so all this acreage is lawn bordered by immense live oak trees. I've watched two ranks of twenty-foot cypress trees grow from saplings. For everything old, there's something new. The nostalgia never fails to change my mental channel.
After a cocktail party (allegedly to keep retreatants from stopping in roadhouses on their way out), we have dinner. I have been leading the Grace Before Meals for about twenty years. I add the menu to it, so we have grace before spaghetti and meatballs tonight. The cooks have finally made a change I've suggested for years: thinner pasta. Vermicelli instead of spaghetti. The sauce is better, too.
It's a clear night, and I take my usual walk to the levee in the dark. I look southeast, and there is Orion rising. Now there's something timeless.
[divider type=""]
The high point of my personal retreat activities here is a long walk downstream on the levee. It takes me to a spot where vast fields of sugar cane extend to the horizon. For many years this was a brisk five-mile walk. A few years ago, I shortened it by about a mile. I was still not fully recovered from a broken ankle. I'm sure I could make the longer hike with no trouble. But I think I'll keep this less-demanding turn-around point permanently.
The daily journal I am presently writing began in 1970. Last year I brought the first volume--a standard college-style composition blankbook--and read the whole thing for the first time since I wrote it. It was fascinating. I bring Volume Two this time. It covers the end of my years working at the Time Saver, my beginning to draw and write for LSUNO's Driftwood newspaper, and my move into my first loner apartment. Several early girlfriends show up. Toward the end, the writing picks up a hard-to-explain shtick that I find hilarious.
[divider type=""]
Lunch is fried chicken, a welcome tour de force that Manresa stopped serving for a long time, replacing it with baked chicken. But we got a new, bigger kitchen a year ago, and it can get the fried chicken out again. With dirty rice and peas. Great stuff.
Then, suddenly, everyone is gone, and so am I. I drive upriver, as always, until LA22 emerges from the River Road and takes me all the way to Covington.
Mary Ann, who has said that the look on my face when I get back from Manresa is nearly beatific, is not home. I feed the cats and clean out the litterboxes. It is really cold out there. They say it will go into the low thirties tonight.
Mary Ann says that Jude and Suzanne are at baby watch status. Mary Ann has tickets to fly to Los Angeles tonight, tomorrow morning, or the day after. Jude says make it Tuesday. I will stay home holding up my end.
MA and I watch The Man From U.N.C.L.E--the new movie. It is very confusing, but somehow I catch what's going on. More or less.
Two after midnight, Jude is on the phone with The Call. He makes it certain that Mary Ann's presence would be helpful. Above all her other gifts, Mary Ann is a superbly skilled mother. As for me, I think I said all the right prayers during my retreat.
