Nov. 24, 2013. Po-Boy Festival.

Another radical change in the weather greeted us at Manresa. The dense, gray clouds were gone, replaced by a blue sky, aggressive northerly winds, and much colder temperatures. The wind chill was in the twenties. But this is the perfect weather for a final morning of a retreat, and after breakfast I walked down to the river to take advantage of its effects on my soul. The river is low this year. I couldn't find an easy way to get down to the water, but the brilliant day, the hard-to-see half-moon, and the rain of colorful leaves were just what I wanted from the world. When it was time to head back, I all but ran up the levee. Last time I was here, I was afraid of climbing it, what with my healed but uncertain left ankle. No problem today. The big world on the other side opened to me as if a curtain had been drawn. And then I knew that although I am in the final chapters of my life, there's still a great deal I can do and must do. Although the machine is starting to run down, the person I was when I was in my charging twenties and thirties is still in there. So is the five-year old kid I used to be. To prove his presence, I ran a few yards like a kindergartner. And then, in the corner of my eye, Jude appeared. Where did he come from? How could anyone sneak up on me in the middle of an eight-acre open field? But there he was. He kept the retreat silence, and handed me a letter. A quick scan revealed that he got everything I hoped he would get out of coming here, and that he was thanking me for it. And then he was gone. I would hug him later, after the silence ended, in a moment that left both of us in tears of joy. It was what I come here for every year, but incomparably more moving and inspiring than it ever was. [caption id="attachment_36242" align="alignleft" width="399"] Baked chicken, the Sunday dinner at Manresa.[/caption] The silence ended as a baked chicken dinner was served. As always, the retreatants gobbled this down, almost as if they couldn't get out of the place fast enough--even though that is clearly not the feeling of more than a very few of us. We were among the last to leave. And we took one more frisson of grace as we passed the big, white building. Jude wanted to go to the Po-Boy Festival. It almost always conflicts with Manresa, but by heading straight there we could get a good taste of the eats. Or, to note the ruling reality, as much of it as we could stand in the rather cold afternoon. The Po-Boy Festival has continually surprised its organizers in the enormous attendance the event draws. In this seventh running, the action pushed all the way to Eagle Street, and down many of the side streets. As always, the block in front of Jacques-Imo's was as dense with people as Bourbon Street on Mardi Gras. Lines in front of the most appealing food vendors were very long. The menu seems much expanded this year. We sampled many dishes that were no kind of sandwich, from gumbos to jambalaya to pasta dishes and fried platters. They'd better keep an eye on that development, lest the Po-Boy Festival lose it conceptual anchor. Seems to me we ought to be eating mostly poor boys. We ran into Joe Segreto, the owner of Eleven 79, the Warehouse District Italian restaurant. Wearing a long, heavy coat, he was one of the only people there properly dressed for the weather. He gave me a rundown of what he'd liked so far. And a report on Pascal's Manale. "If I were them and could do the kind of business they're doing today, I'd close the restaurant and sell barbecue shrimp on the street instead!" Kidding, of course. After three days at Manresa, followed a week later by Thanksgiving, I have to consciously cut back on my eating. But Jude, twenty-four and slim, was packing it all away, particularly the gumbos and the jambalaya. Mary Ann--who could not take a chance on mingling in this crowd while still wearing a back brace--wanted some samples. But Jude ate them all. Must be nice to have a metabolism like that. We did manage to bring home an ingenious combination of a Philly cheese steak poor boy with a sort of Reuben sandwich aspect, too. And a doner kebab sandwich from Boucherie, an endpoint of one of the longest lines. I thought that was terrific. Mary Ann didn't. But poor boys don't travel well. Especially not in the cold. As darkness fell, we struck out for the Real World again, and ready for the holidays to begin.