Thursday, November 18. Molting Season. That's A Spicy Meatball. Mary Ann and I had breakfast at Mattina Bella this morning. It was pleasant enough until somehow the untouchable topic arose, and we touched it, with predictable rancor. We arrested that conversation and sulked for the rest of the breakfast, cheered up by great pancakes and MA's favorite omelette: the all-meat Country Boy.
She went off on some errands and I went back to work. When she came back, we were nice to each other, because we had just finished fighting back a common enemy. After writing a gigantic tuition check to Tulane on Monday, today we put down the massive monthly American Express gorilla. Mary Ann has spent the last two weeks selling the website like crazy, and we were able to cover what two weeks ago looked like a hard squeeze.
Good timing. This afternoon I begin my annual molt of worldly cares. It's my annual retreat at Manresa. I am taking the day off from the radio show. Mary Ann will shoulder that load, too, today and tomorrow. Nevertheless, the thought of not going this year crossed my mind. It's moments like this that show the value of having faith in one's routines. I finished my writing assignments around two-thirty, packed, took a nap to cut the day in half, and left for the holy place around four. I stopped for gas and a cup of pumpkin-spice flavored coffee, the same flavor I found at the same gas station last year. Routines, like Christmas, are good.
It's ninety miles from the Cool Water Ranch to Manresa, interstate most of the way. I don't like leisure travel on interstate highways, but this route is okay, because almost all of the distance is through woods and swamps. It gets dark as I pass Middendorf's, and the sun sets over Lake Maurepas. That's when I plug in the sound track for this journey. I made the mix about thirty years ago. It's the first nudge into the mental time machine that's part of the reorganization of my head I will now begin.
I arrived a little earlier than usual--about six fifteen. Still, I was one of the last to arrive. I always am, and they always wonder whether I'm coming at all. (I've never failed.) Manresa began giving a welcome cocktail party a long time ago, to keep retreatants who were in need of extra relaxation from stopping at a bar en route.
I grabbed a gin and tonic and went into the crowd of familiar faces. Those faces have grown older, in one-year increments, since I first saw them in 1978. About three-fourths of the attendees have been part of this retreat for a long time. At least two of them have come for more than fifty years. Still, it seems to me the number of young men has increased--although that could be just my own aging perspective.
At seven we adjourned to the dining room. Spaghetti and meatballs. Better than in past years, I thought. The meatballs were very tender, and the red sauce was unusually spicy. With an Italian salad at the front end, garlic bread throughout, and spumone at the rear, we began our annual ritual of stuffing ourselves with much more food than most of us ordinarily eat. Three meals a day. Nobody should come to Manresa to begin a diet.
Our retreats are made in silence. Nobody talks, except as part of a group prayer or in a private conversation with one of the priests. The silence began right after dinner, when we met the Jesuit priest who will conduct the retreat. His name was James Blumeyer, who comes to us from St. Louis, Missouri.
After his talk, I walked through the avenue of oak trees to the levee. The path was lit only by a near-full moon. A little scary. But I have walked this walk in total darkness enough times that I'm only a little nervous about it.
From the top of the levee I saw Orion clear the tree line. His dog Sirius is sometimes visible, too--but our retreat this year is a little too early for that. I saw Sirius last night when I came home from the Eat Club dinner, so I know he's there in the trees.
When I got back, I looked around the library for books that might give me some new perspectives on marriage. I found one, but was too pooped to give it my full attention just yet. Instead, I started reading Volume Six of my journal, written in 1975, during my first year as editor of New Orleans Magazine. I haven't looked at it since I wrote it. I'm disgusted that some of the issues I was grappling with then are still on my mind now.
