Through the past brightly
Bring tea for the Tillerman Steak for the sun
Wine for the woman who made the rain come
Seagulls sing your hearts away
‘Cause while the sinners sin, the children play
Oh Lord, how they play and play
For that happy day, for that happy day
— Cat Stevens from “Tea
For the Tillerman”
June 1971 — When we last saw Ray-man, Bach and yours truly, we were speeding down the turnpike, headed for the Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemanemonastery near Bardstown, Kentucky to chill with the Trappists for a while.
Bach was in fine formas we motored through Ohio.
“Holy Toledo!” he boomed from behind the wheel. “This must be where Cleve-landed. I haven’t been down here . . . Cinc-innati.”
“Gro- o- o-an.”
Before Bach could tell us about “Dayton” his girlfriend, “Loraine,” he was interrupted by the DJ on the car radio, announcing breathlessly that he was about to spin a bootleg of Cat Stevens’ next single, “Moonshadow.” The official version wouldn’t be released for weeks.
Bach turned up the volume while this poured from his single cracked speaker:
Oh, I’mbein’ followed by a moonshadow, Moon shadow, moonshadow
Leapin and hoppin’ on a moonshadow, Moonshadow, moonshadow
And if I ever lose my hands, Lose my plough, lose my land
Oh if I ever lose my hands, Oh I won’t have to work no more . . .
We were ecstatic. The three of us were aspiring young singers andmusicians and we took our music seriously (still do). Cat Stevens’ “Mona Bone Jakon” album and his brilliant follow up, “Tea For the Tillerman,” had set us on our ear (no pun intended).
Counter- culturally speaking, “the ‘60s extended through the early ‘ 70s. Whenever someone like the Beatles, the Stones or themoody Blues released a new album, we’d gather at the home of whoever bought it first for a listening party. The needle would drop, a joint would go around and all chatter would cease until Side One came to an end. Then we’d all talk at once.
“Oh my God!”
“Brilliant!”
“That second cut, man!’ Then Side Two would begin and awed silence would commence.
“Tea For the Tillerman” just marked 50 years since its release. In the winter of 1970, the record was on my turntable for weeks. Every night, I’d position my speakers on either side of my bed and lie in the dark, listening with near religious zeal. I’d never heard anything like it.
Two hours later, we pulled up in front of the Monastery. After a short silence, we exchanged excited glances, then scrambled out of Bach’s beater and up to the gates.
Let the Zen begin.
The Retreat Master, a Trappist priest, greeted us warmly and after a brief discussion of the rules and regulations
(of which there were few), we were shown to our rooms, er, “|cells.” These were sparely appointed — a narrow bed, night stand, closet, sink and scrupulously clean. The bathroomwas a few steps down the hall.
The rules were simple.
Don’t speak unless spoken to. If you choose to be there, sit quietly in the chapel at 3 a.m. when the monks were chanting (it was breathtaking). If you’d like to be fed, show up at mealtime, three times a day. Or not.
Meals were simple but hearty. The monks were vegetarian but served meat to guests. Dinner was served by a mountainous monk with a shaved head, who could probably break me in half. He dished up with his eyes, humbly down and never spoke.
Other than that, we were on our own for a week. We had the run of the Abbey’s 2,000 acres but spent most of our time exploring the 100-acre woods. There was a pristine reservoir uphill through the trees and as it was late June in Kentucky, we did a lot of swimming.
Occasionally, while trapsing through the hardwoods, we would come across a chair, carved from a single mighty tree stump. It was like something from “Lord of the Rings.” I think I spotted an Ent. No, really.
One sunny afternoon, as we hiked through the dappled light of the deep woods, we caught the soft strains of a flute, dancing through the trees. Who or what could it be?
And so it went.