13. Agnes and Terd

Agnes came to Saugerties from our Brothers in Ireland as a designated Abbot, a rather unusual turn of events since we would normally elect our own from among us.  We took his arrival to mean we were in trouble.  At the time we didn't realize how much.

The Abbot Agnes is really a nice guy, but I suppose he has to maintain some level of separateness from us so that he can lead.  Therefore a certain amount of friction is bound to exist between the brothers and Agnes, although I don’t remember much tension surrounding Sparky, our previous abbot.   So I think the main problem with Agnes is his personality.  He’s a bit hard-nosed, even for an abbot.  Terd .. Brother Theresa … normally runs interference for the Abbot on any chores that need to be done outside of Our Lady, or “off planet” as we say. 

It’s only been lately that I’ve been asked to run errands in the village, getting plumbing parts and what not.  Terd always ran around in the SUV getting parts and other chores, but since Agnes arrived, Terd isn’t allowed out without a chaperone.  Instead, Agnes has asked me to travel into town.  I don’t mind, of course, but I feel bad for Terd.  From what I heard, Terd went with Agnes only once before being fired as the Abbot’s driver.  (Agnes needs a driver, having come from a left hand drive country and not being very alert.)

Down in the village, Agnes got into an argument with the nice people at the appliance store when he insisted they should be able to fix our fifty-five year old refrigerator.  Terd explained to the lady in the nicest way possible that “my lord and master doesn't know what he's talking about."  Addressing the Abbot in the presence of others as if Agnes  were bumbling royalty set Agnes off, but his anger did draw attention away from the issue at hand.  While the distracted Abbot launched into a brogue laden monologue on his humble status in the world, Terd placed an order for a new refrigerator.  Terd was a Rhodes Scholar years ago, and is a recognized expert on the writings of Athanasius.  He is a huge guy and has been known at times to impose his physical presence on anyone by placing himself directly in front of the person, the crucifix slung across his massive chest not 4 inches from the other’s nose, saying not a word.  When Terd bears down on you like that, he doesn’t need to tell you he owns the air you are breathing. 
Each in his own way is a big noise.

12. Kokomo

I’ve begun setting the type for the wedding invitation. I can’t wait till it’s time to ink up the press. I’m addicted to the smell of ink. There’s an old printer in Saugerties I used to visit just so I could breathe in the ink! He helped me master the art of makeready when the Abbot Agnes allowed me to get the old press running again.

Of course, it's the young lady who ordered the invitations and who stars in my fantasy, even though I haven’t met her. I see us going off for our honeymoon on a car trip to the Poconos or the Big Horn Mountains to fish for rainbow trout or somewhere else just as exciting. Guess that’s rather tame compared to the wedding trips I hear modern young couples take.

"Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take ya;
Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama;
Key Largo, Montego baby why don't we go?
Down to Kokomo."

I can play that song on my guitar just like the Beach Boys, but not when Abbot Agnes is around.

 

11. Habit

And  I  meant  to  say thank you  to” Pasta Fasul”  in  Mt. Marion for his offer of clothing, but we’d rather have drapes or large pieces of heavy material. We wear “off planet clothing” as we call it only when needed for safety.  Normally we wear a simple monk’s robe over our jeans, T-shirt and boots.  We make our robes.  We just sewed up a few from old drapes given to us by a local funeral parlor. 

You could call my robe a habit, for it is our official dress.  But we just call it a robe.  In medieval times that was all a monk wore, no underclothes and often no sandals.  We’re more practical, but no more wealthy than our predecessors.  I’m sure a monk from the 12^th century would have worn jeans and sneakers or boots if he had been able to get them used from a “free store” or a clothing bank as we do. 

10. After Compline

It’s late, after Compline. I’ve come down here from the chapel to the cellar to sit at the typebench and to listen to the sounds. There’s nothing as quiet as a group of monks who are keeping monastic silence. It can be oppressive after these many years. And so I come down to cellar among the great slabs of bluestone that form Our Lady’s foundation to hear the sounds of the house: the furnace going on once in a while, the water gurgling through the pipes, the mice skittering across the floor above me. The peaceful sounds of life to which we seldom listen. But then the far off screaming siren of a fire truck come to me, or an ambulance responding to a fire or a car accident. Lord be with them, victims and rescuers.

I guess my email address is being passed around Saugerties. Even though I turned off my profile this morning, I’m still getting messages from local residents. That’s terrific, actually, because I am hearing from wonderful people. I hope Abbot Agnes doesn’t discover me here at the PC, tapped into the world wide web. Worse, he would be upset over my blog. After all, I shouldn't be speaking with anyone outside, except when we're in the village on errands.

But what the heck … you can send email to me: BrotherJesse@windsweptpress.com

So. Yes to the woman from Quarryville who asked if we have enough food for the coming winter. We have 48 sacks of rice and four and one half barrels of dried lima beans. If we can beg some flour for making bread, we will do fine through the winter. Last Christmas, some nice folks from Woodstock gave us 50 pounds of coffee! Life doesn’t get any better. Well, of course it does ... at a pig roast!

9. Dramatis Personae

Carmelita of The Bronx writes asking about the Brothers at Our Lady's Monastery at West Saugerties. Here they are, the entire crew.

There are eleven of us.

Agnes (Abbot and Brother Saint Agnes of Cornwall.) Sent from Ireland by our superiors, The Committee on Personnel for The Ardent Brothers, the old men back on the Ould Sod who we refer to as the Gang of McFour. Agnes is fifty-ish.

Terd (Brother Saint Theresa Kim Im-I of Seoul,) a Brother and the only real scholar among us, an expert on the writings of Athanasius. Late forties.

Jesse (Brother Saint Jessica of Galilee) yours truly, former college rock band star of at least two counties. Someone should have attached a monkey on a leash to my belt and after some indecision handed one of us the tin cup. 67 years old.

Harpo (Brother and Father Saint Gertrude of Rodalsdorf.) The oldest among us, doesn’t do much but kibitz. Less than me, if you can believe it. Of Jewish descent, stolen by Gypsies in Budapest as a baby, sold as a youngster to another Circus that gave him to a group of passing nuns on their way to the New York City. Shipwrecked off the Outer Banks, survived and brought up by a wealthy family in Charleston, South Carolina. A real southern gentleman. Past eighty. He is the only priest among us and is able to furnish us Mass and the Sacraments.

Bouncer (Brother Saint Bilhild of Thuringia). I call him my boss, because he does most of the plumbing and is constantly sending me down to the hardware store for parts. Won’t go himself because he says he slept with half the women in Saugerties and most of the young people he might meet on the street are his children. Told Agnes that with a straight face. In matters of no account, Bouncer is believed less than myself. Early fifties.

Kickstart (Brother Saint Winifred of Gwytherin in Denbigshire), probably the youngest among us. Raced motorcycles after college. Accused (by Bouncer) of being a former Hell’s Angel and amphetamine distributor. Probably not true, but under direct questioning only laughs. 31 years old.

Raiser (Brother Saint Helen of Skovde.) Once studied to be an actor at a famous school in New York City. Received the call to his vocation on the E Train during morning rush hour just as the train went underground while he commuted in from Jamaica. Happened twice. Late thirties.

Izzy (Brother Saint Isidora the Simple.) Anything but simple, Izzy was a croupier in Las Vegas before coming to our order (after a period of time with the Capuchin Franciscans.) Does most of our cooking, which consists of keeping a fire going under two large pots, one of rice and the other of lima beans. Has memorized the entire New Testament. Some of us doubt the probability of that , but to my knowledge he’s never misquoted a verse when someone shouts out, for example, “second Corinthians, chapter 7, verse 13.” Some of us want to take him to a casino some night to improve our fortune, but chips probably don’t come in really small denominations. Maybe mid forties.

Cat (Brother Saint Catherine of Alexandria.) Before coming to the Order, taught auto mechanics in a trade school after graduating with a degree in Antiquities. Mother was a NASCAR driver and mechanic. Mother showed up unannounced at Our Lady’s two years ago. Still quite a looker in brief shorts and tank top. One guesses she was a teen Mom. Cat keeps our jalopies running. Gets his own parts at NAPA. Early forties.

Headless (Brother Saint Leocrita of Cordoba.) Of Pacific Islands descent, his father was the King of Saphlaticiotarapherictu (a.k.a. Gardner Island,) a very small rock off the coast of the much larger Nikumaroro Island. Claims his royal family ate Amelia Earhart. Hard to tell, but probably around fifty years old.

Beep Beep (Brother Saint Wilgefortis of Wambierzyce.) Should have come to the Order with his own leash and saved us a few bucks. DSM code is 293.81. “Where’s Beep?” sends everyone running down the driveway. Beep is 57 years old, but could run a marathon if he would do it with clothes on.

One somewhat evil dog named Tapioca. (She has no patron, but were he in good standing, Lucifer would be appropriate.) I can’t think of anyone else I know who would stand up to God, not back down and (maybe because she’s a redhead) do as she damn well pleased.

8. Nice To Hear From You!

Well, it's pretty amazing to hear from some of you already by email. All three notes  were from Saugerties, but there’s a wider world out there, although I’ve met some in the village who don’t believe it.

"A monastery in West Saugerties?" wondered  one correspondent. Very definitely.  As I think I mentioned, it's not all that large, but Google Earth sees us just like any other old resort house on the mountain.

Except for our neighbor Lance,  we’re pretty much alone up here on the mountainside.  He's a quarter mile down the road in a house sitting on a promontory overlooking the valley.  Other than Lance, the remaining humans near us are the folks at the foot of the mountain, who look up from their gardens and wave when we drive by in our old SUV.  That never happened often, but lately Agnes and Terd have been going out on some sort of mission.   And regrettably,  our plumbing woes have sent me down to the hardware store in the village more often.

A surprise this morning! A lovely young woman named Sara called to order wedding invitations to be printed by yours truly. Kids today like a deep impression, almost through the paper, something we printers of old abhor. But the monastery can use the income. However, I don't want the abbot to think I'm industrious and ask me to seek out business. This old man and old press can't take it!  Besides, I hear we’re so much in a financial hole that a few printing jobs won’t solve our  problem.

7. What's In A Name?

What a wonderful invention is the Internet.  In addition to this blog, I’m trying to create a web page for the monastery so we can ask for donations.  Just the like the Big Boy Pastors who fill the airwaves and the worldwide webspace begging for money.  Do we take charity?  Of course!  We’re mendicant monks.  That’s how we’re supposed to live, on the charity of others.  For all I know, the monks invented Purgatory so you could avoid it by sending us money!  I’m kidding. I think.

As a cloistered monk, I should NOT be on the computer, but I surf the World Wide Web and find such a massive amount of information that I am truly amazed it can all be contained in man-made systems.  My PC here in the cellar is like a crystal ball where I can see anything that Google allows me to find.  I began the blog with trepidation.  Not just because my abbot would be displeased, but while confession is good for the soul, talking about oneself can bring feelings of conceit and self centeredness.  A monk is supposed to have neither of these traits.  But I’m a 67 year old man and I’m convinced that my faults are here to stay.  I hope for them to be forgiven, because it’s too late to believe they will be removed.  I no longer pray for them to evaporate in some great cloud of holiness.  I pray instead that my shortcomings won’t hurt others.  It’s the best I can do.

Our monastery is not much of a holy temple.  It’s quite run down and in need of maintenance that we can’t afford.  Our home’s official name is Our Lady’s Monastery at West Saugerties.  We call it The Craphole.  Eleven guys living in the cramped space up on the second floor behind the old trophy room …. well, you can just imagine what it looks like.  I don’t need to be descriptive;  you can guess the condition of  a mountain retreat that is subject to the rigors of northern winters and never receives regular maintenance or repairs.  Except for the toilets, of course.  We know what’s important.  

Where was I?  My name is Brother Saint Jessica, but I’m most often called Jesse.  We are part of The Order of the Brothers of the Holy Varlet, based in Fermoy, County Cork, Ireland.   Our tradition is to take the name of a female saint.  I suppose our founders hoped women’s names would lower our testosterone … no comment.  We never use our birth names or any other male name.  But, away from the Abbot's hearing, we often call each other by a masculine-ized nicknames.   Brother Saint Helen is called Raiser (for hell raiser) and Brother Saint Catherine is simply Cat.  Brother Saint Theresa is Bear, because he’s a huge guy, but most often he’s called Terd, from his habit of shouting “Bastard!” when he hits his thumb with a hammer.   In fact each of us probably has two or three  names that have arisen over the many years we’ve lived together.  My other nickname is Ace, because once when a few of us were in a restaurant years ago, a pretty waitress told me she'd like to go out with me.  We were in our robes!  But nothing stops a determined woman, I guess.

By the way, I’ll bet you don’t know who St. Jessica was, do you?  Look it up.  I really should get off this damned computer.  Besides, the wi-fi signal I’m using is getting weaker.  It’s from a neighbor down the road who was too lazy to put a security code on his router.