Your Aging
Child has been busy these past couple weeks… again/still. Pope Pius XII remains
on the front burner – figuratively, that is. Yet I've been juggling several
projects beyond that one, too!
On the job
front: while still wallpapering the neighborhood's corporate infrastructure
with my résumé, I received the politest of letters from the religious order
where I'd applied for the position of Executive Assistant
to the Provincial Council. This letter gently and regretfully informed me that
another candidate had been selected for that position. Certainly I was
disappointed by the news, but I was still feeling the thrill of having just
filled out an application there, especially one with a crucifix boldly
in its header.
I've also
begun plowing more actively into finally rejoining the ranks of
college/university students… among whom I've studied (sometimes flying,
sometimes flunking) since, er, Carter
was president. Victim – I mean, candidate – school number one is
a local community college, where at the least I'll nail down those last few "gut" classes toward my humble Associate's
Degree. With luck, I'll be studying again this coming Spring.
On a
parallel avenue, Mount St. Mary's University in Maryland has been getting an
increasing amount of my attention and intentions as well. (See my previous posting.) They even have a satellite
campus (which is not, however, in low-Earth orbit… although that would be really
cool) closer to home. (And former coworker Aurelio attends that same remote campus!) There I
met yesterday with an adult-student placement advisor; I'll be getting together
with her again (embarrassing transcripts in hand) to look at what's needed to
fast-track my Associate's Degree. I'll get the ba$i¢ classes finished up at the
community college, then climb the Mount either for my Bachelor's degree, or to
beg for admission at their on-campus seminary.
I'm also
still pestering various placement agencies, and am under consideration
(interviewing next week) for an admin-assistant job right there on the Mount
campus, too. The position would pay barely over half what I was making with my
previous employer, but the benefits include – check this out – free tuition. Aaaghhaagghh!
And at this
time of year – as September finally shrugs its shoulders and yields to October
and his russet leaf-palette – I generally take a week off and sequester myself
in a monastery (really!) for a thorough spiritual flush-and-fill, and to sample
further the monastic life. There's a great string of Saints' feast-days from
late September into early October: archangels', guardian angels', beautiful and
awesome St.
Thérèse, the equally humble and inspiring St. Francis, and others. So there's plenty to
meditate on. Sometimes during this span I can sneak in a birthday while no one's
around to make a fuss over me.
But with my
income essentially nil at present, this year I sacrificed that special week to
prudence (ah, dear prudence), and made a couple-day roadtrip a
little closer to my old Kentucky home – I mean, old New England home. I spent much of this time at the Fatima Shrine in
Washington, New Jersey. (I'd popped by there for a bit last year, too, and
nearly managed to bump into the gentle Father Apostoli.)
I was able
to get in two early-morning runs (under a mile each), the first I've run in New
Jersey. While panting along, I found myself giggling at an old B. Kilian
cartoon I remembered:
No offense
intended toward the Garden State! Put away your pieces.
It turns out
that occasional contributor Spartacus has a high-security homestead within a
day's drive (and perhaps a few state lines) of the Shrine, so – having already
given him ample warning by cell and email – I swung by there as well. At some
point this year his patient wife must have prevailed on him to put up a sign
warning potential trespassers (and intrepid visitors) of the minefield. I
paused a moment with my Sharpie and corrected the Russian spelling (the fresh
sign's done up in six languages, IIRC), then pressed the call-button quickly
enough to avoid the electric-shock he's wired in.
"It's switched off!" Sparks yelled
through his bullhorn after a moment. It looked like the gate-camera had shorted
out during the recent rains up his way, so I figured he didn't know it was me
yet. I tossed a couple pinecones over the razor-wire just in case, and turned
my back a moment. Sure enough, one of them detonated a small mine. I jumped,
and brushed the dirt and pine-needles off my shirt, then quick-pressed the
button again.
"Sorry about that!" came the
bullhorned voice… but I could hear a chuckle as he clicked off. "Okay, I've
muzzled the dogs!" I sighed and wrapped a beach-towel around my lower arm,
and stepped through the gate as it swung open silently. The halogen-spots came
on; I should have kept my sunglasses.
Even with
that first camera out for now (don't count on it again, though), one still
enters the Sparta-house acreage with caution. His motion-sensors all seemed to
be active, and I spotted what looked like a shotgun and a blowgun
each lift and turn my way as I walked past. No doubt other, less noticeable,
devices were marking my passage.) Early on there was another mine-crater and a
dog-chewed piece of a salesman's briefcase next to it… but I think that's a
prop. Maybe. I stepped over several tripwires to play it safe.
In person,
Spartacus is not quite as intimidating, but he's both taller and broader than
me – and his wife and oldest child both have black belts in karate (one of his
children later showed me her sword, too – nearly as long as I am tall; I am not
kidding!), so there was no question how respectful I'd be. He sheathed his
bowie knife and shook my left hand, and chided the large dog still clamped on
my right arm. The dog dropped reluctantly, its hackles still raised, and we
went into the house. I wrapped the now-perforated beach-towel around my neck
and dabbed the sweat from my face – it had been much easier going this time
than last.
We
reminisced a bit; forty years ago we had been schoolkids together… and even
then he was taller and broader and older than me, come to think of it. Today I'd
brought along some music for his impressive collection, and we checked out some
blues-tracks and more obscure good songs that had managed to escape his notice
over the years. We also looked over some Simpsons videos I'd included.
Sparkly took
me into his workshops (why have one, when you can have two?), and amid
the awesome equipment showed me a beautiful piece of rich, dense,
fine-grained, rose-colored wood that he's slowly crafting into a lap-steel
guitar. (After His Holiness, my next blog-project here will be to document the
progress of this work, including photos and – hopefully – an MP3 of the
finished product.) There were several pieces of wooden sculpture he's shaping.
And he also has several aircraft-models in progress… which are about as far
from the little snap-together kits you and I used to make as… a trebuchet is from a slingshot.
We also
talked metaphysics (and I've never met a physics I didn't like), animals –
another dog was chewing on my arm at this point, but he's not full-grown (maybe
three feet at the shoulder), and was doing his best not to break my skin –,
education, family, history, art, exotic cars, toxicology, politics, computers,
mustard, and so on. Sparks and the wife and oldest child whipped together (they
did not use real whips) a nice steaming bowl of pasta, and a cold bowl of rich
salad, plus sauce-sop bread-slices, and I joined the family for a fine,
impromptu, casual dinner.
Mrs.
Spartacus – fresh back from Switzerland – did me a woman's finest honor and
treated me to a modest slab of real, genuine, European black-dark
chocolate. It was the best dark chocolate I've ever tasted. In manner she is
warm and welcoming… but her fangs and claws are never far below the surface. In
this regard – and her growl – she reminds me delightfully of my older daughter.
Mrs. and Mr. are an excellent match, and their kids and curs are well raised
and respected. And respectful.
Too soon, as
always, I had to leave. Sparty flicked on the bank of security-switches as we
headed out the reinforced door. I spotted the minefield-lever and switched it
back off on the way past. We headed down the sloping trail to my car, and I had
the sense to stop right where he did. I stooped and picked up a couple
glacier-rounded rocks (Ice-Age glaciers had passed by there a couple-dozen
millennia earlier), and threw one a few feet ahead, turning my back once more.
As pine-bark
and leaves finished raining down on us, Sparty grinned his infectious best and
said again, "Sorry about that." I gestured him ahead of me, and he
took the other rock out of my hand and set off one last mine before going any
further. Obviously the goodwife had switched them back on immediately; I told
you they were a good match!
Once Spark
had unclamped the younger dog from my ankle, I cleared the day's debris from my
car, gave him a bear-hug, and headed off down the road. After a moment the
bright glow of his security-halogens flickered off, and I found myself already missing
him and his fortress.
And I
wondered suddenly: where does he get the power? I'm guessing they
finally hooked in the water-wheel, augmenting their small solar panel, but I
wouldn't be surprised if they're also tapped into a vein of off-site, low-level
natural radioactives. Possibly their mastiffs take turns on the treadmill, too;
I don't know – they're certainly in good shape (and even their semi-feral cat
is musclebound). But Sparkle-Cuss would undoubtedly simply shrug and say
they've been running the home off political hot air for years.
That can't
be true… or their manse would be huge. So you can drive out and
ask them yourselves; just don't forget to have some pinecones handy.
No comments:
Post a Comment