That summer, 1926, much to Father's distress--because he wanted to stay at St. Antonin and work on the house and at his painting--Pop gathered up a great mountain of baggage in New York, stirred Bonnemaman into action, dressed up my brother John Paul in a new suit and, armed with passports and whole sheaf of tickets from Thomas Cook and Son, boarded the liner Leviathon and started for Europe.
News of this invasion had been disturbing Father for some time. Pop was not content to come and spend a month or two in St. Antonin with us. In fact, he was not particularly anxious to come to this small, forgotten town at all. He wanted to keep on the move and, since he had two months at his disposal, he saw no reason why he could not cover the whole of Europe from Russia to Spain and from Scotland to Constantinople. However, being dissuaded from this Napoleonic ambition, he consented to restrict his appetite for sight-seeing to England, Switzerland, and France.
In May or June the information reached us that Pop had descended in force upon London, had scoured the Shakespeare country and other parts of England--and was now preparing to cross the channel and occupy the north of France.
We were instructed to get ourselves put together and to move northward, join forces with him in Paris, after which we would proceed together to the conquest of Switzerland.
Meanwhile at St. Antonin we had peaceful visitors, two gentle old ladies, friends of the family in New Zealand, and with them we started out, with no haste, on our northward journey. We all wanted to see Rocamadour.
Rocamadour is a shrine to the Mother of God, where an image of Our Lady is venerated in a cave-chapel half way up a cliff, against the side of which a monastery was built in the Middle Ages. The legend says that the place was first settled by the publican Zacchaeus, the man who climbed the sycamore tree to see Christ as He came by, and whom Christ told to climb down again, and entertain Him in his own house.
At that moment when we were leaving Rocamadour, after a short visit that filled my mind with memory of a long summer evening, with swallows flying around the wall of the old monastery up against the cliff, and round the tower of the new shrine on top of it, Pop was riding around all the chateaux of the Loire in a bus full of Americans. And as they went whizzing through Chenonceaux and Blois and Tours, Pop, who had his pockets crammed full of two- and five-sou pieces, and even francs and two-franc pieces, would dig in and scatter handfuls of coins into the streets whenever they passed a group of playing children. And the dusty wake of the bus would ring with his burst of laughter as all the kids plunged after the coins in a wild scramble.
At the age of eight or nine, Merton is better-traveled than I will probably ever be. Born in France, Merton has lived in New York, Tahiti, and France. Now, he's heading to Switzerland, by way of a shrine to the Virgin Mary. Our Lady, as Merton refers to her. All through his childhood, it seems, wherever he goes, Merton has brushes with faith and religion.
Greetings, faithful disciples, from your not-so-faithful blogger saint. Once again, three days have passed, and I find myself on a Saturday night, feeling guilty and tired. It seems like I spend all of my waking hours not accomplishing a whole lot, and my nights feeling guilty about all the things that I haven't done during the day. Meanwhile, Merton is hopping buses and trains and boats, making pilgrimages, touring the countries of Europe.
This evening, I did a reading of Green Eggs and Ham with one of my best friends and a special event, and then I went to dinner with a whole group of friends at an Irish-themed pub. I ordered a dish that I'd only heard mentioned in movies--bangers and mash. Basically, it's sausage and mashed potatoes smothered in a kind of onion gravy. It's a traditional English meal, and I have to say that I found it really tasty.
That's probably the closest I will ever get to traveling to a European city--eating bangers and mash at a bar. I did play the pipe organ for Mass this evening, as well. Not sure if that counts as a religious pilgrimage. If it does, then I've had the entire Merton experience today. And now, I'm sitting in my living room, listening to some jazz and feeling very cosmopolitan.
I will probably never be able to really travel to Europe or visit Lourdes. My life has taken turns that I never would have expected 15 or so years ago. I always thought that I'd be teaching full-time at a university at this point in my life. And I'd have money in the bank and be thinking about retirement. Instead, I'm just moving from one shut-off notice to the next, dreading phone calls and mail delivery.
Yet, I wouldn't say that I feel necessarily cheated in the life experience department. I've done some pretty amazing things, have some pretty amazing friends. I've traveled the world some, if you count the World Showcase in EPCOT Center at Walt Disney World. I'm a published poet, and I'm the Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula. Not bad.
That's the glass half-full version of things.
The glass half-empty version involves mental illness, addictions, marital problems, and money struggles.
But, for tonight, I'm Thomas Merton, eating bangers and mash, listening to Charlie Parker, feeling richly blessed by God.
Don't worry. Saint Marty will probably be wallowing in self-pity in tomorrow's post.
