I have not doubt that there was a certain amount of conflict between the two generations when Father and Mother determined that they were going to find their own kind of a house and live in it. It was a small house, very old and rickety, standing under two or three high pine trees, in Flushing, Long Island, which was then a country town. We were out in the fields in the direction of Kiljordan and Jamaica and the old Truant School. The house had four rooms, two downstairs and two upstairs, and two of the rooms were barely larger than closets. It must have been very cheap.
Our landlord, Mr. Duggan, ran a nearby saloon. He got in trouble with Father for helping himself to the rhubarb which we were growing in the garden. I remember the grey summer dusk in which this happened., We were at the supper table, when the bended Mr. Duggan was observed, like some whale in the sea of green rhubarb, plucking up the red stalks. Father rose to his feet and hastened out into the garden. I could hear indignant words. We sat at the supper table, silent, not eating, and when Father returned I began to question him, and to endeavor to work out the morality of the situation. And I still remember it as having struck me as a difficult case, with much to be said on both sides. In fact, I had assumed that if the landlord felt like it, he could simply come and harvest all our vegetables, and there was nothing we could do about it. I mention this with the full consciousness that someone will use it against me, and say that the real reason I became a monk in later years was that I had the mentality of a medieval serf when I was barely out of the cradle.
Father did as much painting as he could. He filled several sketch books and finished some water-colors along the waterfront in New York, and eventually even had an exhibition in a place in Flushing which was maintained by some artists there. Two doors away from us, up the road, in a white house with pointed gables, surrounded by a wide sweep of sloping lawn, and with a stable that had been turned into a studio, lived Bryson Burroughs, who painted pale, classical pictures something like Puvis de Chavannes and who, with some of the gentleness you could see in his work, was very kind to us.
Father could not support us by painting. During the war years we lived on his work as a landscape gardener: which was mostly plain manual labor, for he not only laid out the gardens of some rich people in the neighborhood, but did most the work planting and caring for them: and that was how we lived. Father did not get this money under false pretenses. He was a very good gardener, understood flowers, and knew how to make things grow. What is more, he liked this kind of work almost as much as painting.
Then in November 1918, about a week before the Armistice of that particular World War, my younger brother was born. He was a child with much serener nature than mine, with not so many obscure drives and impulses. I remember that everyone was impressed by his constant and unruffled happiness. In the long evening, when he was put to bed before the sun went down, instead of protesting and fighting, as I did when I had to go to bed, he would lie upstairs in his crib, and we would hear him singing a little tune. Every evening it was the same tune, very simple, very primitive, a nice little tune, very suitable for the time of day and for the season., Downstairs, we would all fall more or less silent, lulled by the singing of the child in the crib, and we would see the sunrays slanting across the fields and through the windows as the day ended.
Being a poet, I sort of understand the hard-scrabble existence that Merton describes here. His father, a devoted and talented artist, does what he can to support his family. He lays out gardens for the well-to-do because it pays the bills and also satisfies his artistic temperament. And Merton's father is good at the work--knows the ins-and-outs of planting and growing. Not only that, he enjoys gardening almost as much as painting.
For most of my adult life, I have held down at least two full-time jobs. I do this out of necessity, not because I enjoy feeling exhausted all the time. I have bills to pay and a family to support. I would certainly welcome the opportunity to work just one job. However, I know that's not in the cards for me, unless some literary agent discovers this blog, recognizes the genius of my writing, immediately contacts a publisher, and the publisher offers me a three-book deal with film options that pays me three million dollars. Aside from that, it's medical office/teaching/organ playing/church cleaning for me.
I can imagine it was pretty tiring for Owen Merton (Thomas Merton's father). Gardening can be back-breaking work. I know that, after a day at the medical office and university, I can't even think about picking up a pen and trying to write a poem. My weekends are often taken up with other kinds of busyness--cleaning, playing the pipe organ for Mass, grading, lesson planning. My writing often takes a back seat on Saturdays and Sundays, too. The best I can do is a blog post, and sometimes not even that.
For example, I started this blog post last night. I got about half of it written. Yesterday was Sunday. I had church in the morning. It was a difficult service for me because my good, good friend who passed away was the choir director there. I could barely get through a hymn without crying. After church, I had to grocery shop, because my book club was meeting at my house. Had to buy chocolate for the chocolate fountain, bananas, strawberries, marshmallows, a meat-and-cheese tray, and a bottle of wine. Then, home again, home again. Put together the book club discussion guide with questions. (We read Oscar Hijuelos' Mr. Ives' Christmas--a great book, but one without a pre-made book club packet. Therefore, I had to throw that together.) Then, I wrapped some Christmas presents for our Secret Santa exchange. Shovel. Set out the food. Run out and buy a bag of ice, because I forgot. Then, about 5:30 in the afternoon, people started showing up.
I love all the members in my book club. They are some of my best friends, and have been for many, many years. We ate, drank, talked about movies, laughed, ate some more, drank some more. Oh, yeah. We also discussed the book. Then we opened presents, picked a new book to read, and called it a night.
After that came the clean-up, which never takes as long as the set-up. But a good 45 minutes of work getting the house back in order, the dishes washed, and the food put away. Then, I had to get my son to bed earlier than he's gone to bed for a while, because Christmas vacation ends today. That was a chore, in and of itself.
Finally, I sat down to blog. I got to about "Not only that, he enjoys gardening almost as much as painting" and had to quit for the night. Exhausted. So, I called it a night, ate a chocolate Santa, and went to bed.
Today, however, begins a week of vacation for me. No medical office. No school. I will have to throw together my syllabuses for next week. And I have a poem to finish to read at my friend's funeral on Friday. I'm very thankful for these days of rest before my next five months of insanity begins. It's a blessing. And I get to reconnect with some friends whom I haven't seen in a while.
The life of an artist. The life of a poet. We all cherish stolen moments of peace. Sitting at the kitchen table, listening to the January wind in the trees. Or to a child singing in his crib as sunrays slant across the fields through the windows as the day draws to a close.
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