Through the past brightly
You say it’s your birthday It’s my birthday too, yeah They say it’s your birthday We’re gonna have a good time I’m glad it’s your birthday Happy birthday to you
— John Lennon & Paulmc
Cartney from “Birthday”
Today is Deb’s birthday. Her age will, of course, go undisclosed. Oscar Wilde is said to have remarked, “Any woman who would tell her agewould tell anything.” I’ll add that any husband who would reveal his wife’s age has no class. And a death wish.
My wife is a little under the weather andmy son is working late so we’re waiting until Friday (two nights fromnow) to throw our party. We’ll be celebrating in our traditional timehonored way — Michael and I will drive into Mt. Pleasant and pick up $100 in take-out from China Garden then come home and devour it like a pack of Chinese Pot-bellied Pigs.
Not Deb though. What, are you kidding me? I would never describe my wife as either potbellied or a pig, even in jest. Come to think of it, my son, Michael, stands around 5 foot 9 or 10, only tips the scales at 135 and never finishes a restaurant meal so I guess yours truly is the only swine in residence.
“It’s a lot like it’s YOUR birthday,” Deb chided. Jeez, I like Chinese food.
Regarding birthdays and the aging process, I’ve been giving it a lot of thought lately and I’mafraid the future looks grim. As I shambled, painfully from my bed to the shower this morning, I was struck by the realization that, barring an unforeseen trip to Lourdes, this was the best I was ever going to feel.
Post shower, I wrestled on two pairs of shorts and a shirt. Shoe-horning my balloon animal feet into my quadruple E Sketchers was a major project. It occurred to me that in the not-too-far-distant future, I would be dressing in robes and open-toe sandals.
On that bright note let’s get back to 1971 and look in on Bach, Rayman andmoi. When we left off last week, the boys were exploring the 100 acre woods at the Our Lady of Gethsemane monastery.
As we made our way through the dense hardwoods, we heard the dulcet tones of a flute, drifting through the trees. We followed our ears until we came to a thick and thorny copse on the edge of a small clearing. Keeping our distance, we spotted a young monk, sitting cross-legged in front of a wooden hut on the edge of a marshy little pond.
We remained hidden and silent as the hermit laid down his flute and scooped up a handful of seeds from a pouch by his side. In less than a moment, chattering chickadees, and finches .
. . landed on his outstretched hands and began to feed.
We backed away, breathlessly, shaking our heads. From a safe distance, Bach broke the silence.
“Whoa, did you see that? That dude was like St. Francis or something.”
Ray and I were both gobsmacked.
“That was pretty cosmic,” I whispered when my voice returned.
After a dinner of fried chicken and greens, with the ubiquitous prerecorded Bishop Fulton J. Sheen radio shows piped into the sound system, we decided to stay out all night.
“I think we should camp out in the cemetery,” Rayman suggested.
“I’mon board with that,” I agreed.
“I think we should hang out by Thomas Merton’s grave,” Bach said solemnly. Maybe we’ll have some soft of epiphany — hear from Merton, discover the meaning of Life.”
Merton, a Trappist priest and Buddhist scholar, resided at Gethsemane from 1941 until his death in 1968. He claimed there was no conflict between Roman Catholicism and Buddhism. “Catholicism is a religion and Buddhism is a practice,” he said.
Merton wrote over 50 books on various aspects of philosophy and religion. Tragically, while attending a conference in Southeast Asia, he was electrocuted by a fan in his bathroom.
Shortly after midnight, the “Ghost Watch” fell asleep. We were awakened hours later by bright rays of sunlight filtering through the tombstones.
We stretched, yawning and stumbled ourway into breakfast, seemingly none the wiser.
“I think we’re just supposed to be kind,” Bach mumbled through a mouthful of eggs.
And so it went.