Ave Maria Grotto

I told George I would work for him until June, when his kids were out of school.  I promised Jewel I would write often and visit.  I laughed at myself, the last night at the Ice House, when I realized I was going to miss shooting pool with the Galloway boys.  I loaded my belongings in the Ford and drove north on I-55.

 

Three hundred and sixty miles later, I pulled into the Hampton Inn parking lot in Cullman, Alabama.  The trip took all day and I was exhausted.  I checked in, then walked across the street and ate at the Waffle House.  Back in the room, I studied the map.  Tomorrow morning, I could easily walk to Ave Maria Grotto from the hotel.  But I would take the truck. 

 

The southeastern United States, on a sunny day in June, is not like Wales or Ulaanbaatar.   The heat and humidity can be dangerous.  I had learned in McComb, do your walking early in the morning, and spend the rest of the day indoors, or in the shade.

 

The park opened at 9am.  When I pulled into the lot, I was relieved to see that the area was covered with tall trees.  There would be plenty of shade, and a reasonably cool breeze.  I’d been in the South for just over a year.  I wasn’t sure if it was possible to get used to the humidity.

 

The pictures in the brochure were no substitute for the real thing.  Even close up, I was astonished at the realism the miniatures portrayed.  I imagined Brother Joseph, spending hours plastering and gluing bits of stone and glass together.  In my mind, he would have the same look on his face as George Henderson, while he tended barbeque.

 

Sunlight filtered through the oak, pine, and maple trees that shared the park with Joseph’s creations.  The breeze made the branches sway back and forth, casting a constantly changing pattern of shadow and light across the displays.  The miniatures contained bits of glass and tile, even marbles.  The reflections of light were magical.  I wanted to pitch a tent and live in the middle of this place.

 

I came to the miniature that was pictured on the brochure.  St. Peter’s Church in Rome.  The plaza in front of the church is outlined by a pair of curving colonnades.  The twin rows of columns that made up each colonnade were typical of Brother Joseph’s intricate artwork.  I noticed something I hadn’t seen on any of the other displays.  Sooty mold. 

 

Everywhere in the south, where there are trees, there is sooty mold.  In McComb, every morning before we drank our coffee, Jewel and I wiped the black powder off of the chairs on the front porch with a damp rag. 

 

When I bought my pickup truck, it had been parked under an oak tree for years.  Before we lifted the hood for the first time, me and the Galloway boys spent an afternoon, scrubbing years of baked-on mold from the truck’s exterior.  On the hood and the roof, the mold dust had eaten through the paint, down to the primer.

 

It occurred to me, the other displays I’d seen in the park were shiny and clean.  There had to be a crew of people, spending hours every day, keeping the mold dust, pine sap, leaves, and other debris off of Brother Joseph’s miniatures.  I wondered how long it would take, just to clean the dozens of tiny columns that surrounded the plaza in front of St. Peter’s church.

 

By noon, I had stood in front of all 125 of the monk’s creations.  At the park’s exit, I thought about what to do next.  I had no plans for the rest of my life, beyond getting lunch and heading north on the interstate.

 

When I turned towards the parking lot, I had a nagging feeling.  Like I had forgotten something.  It was the sooty mold.  The film that covered the columns of the St. Peter’s Church display were stuck in my head. 

 

I didn’t want to just be a passive observer.  Brother Joseph had labored for 50 years so people like me would be able to enjoy a peaceful walk through his park.  I figured I owed him some janitorial work.

 

I had noticed the small building on the edge of the park.  I assumed that was where they would store the tools and cleaning supplies they used to keep up the place.  The door was locked.  I looked around and didn’t see anyone that looked like an employee. 

 

The building was old enough that the wooden door and frame had shrunk over the years.  I pushed on the door and there was a slight gap.  I took my driver’s license out of my wallet, and jimmied the door.

 

On a shelf, I found rags, old toothbrushes, and plastic squirt bottles.  I carried an armload of supplies back to the display, got down on my knees, and began cleaning.

 

I knew sooner or later, I would draw the attention of the park employees.  Guerilla cleaning, while not illegal, is not socially acceptable.  Apparently, despite my years and experience, I still did whatever I wanted.  At least one part of me had never grown up.

 

I faced away from the foot trail as I cleaned.  I had no intention of making a scene.  I would leave peacefully if I was confronted.  But I wasn’t going to make it easy for anyone.  I really wanted those columns to be clean before I left.

 

Years ago, my uncle had taught me how to tell what was going on around me, strictly by sound.  I listened to the footsteps of the visitors as I worked.  Eventually, a man walked up and stopped behind me.  He didn’t say anything.  I didn’t turn around.  But I could tell, he was looking at me, not at the display. 

 

I heard footsteps again as he walked down the footpath a short distance.  He stopped.  I could hear him using a walkie-talkie.  I could not make out what was said.  He walked off after a short conversation.  I kept cleaning.

 

A few minutes later, someone else walked up, and sat on one of the benches near the display. 

 

When the man with the walkie-talkie was behind me, my instincts told me, I was making him nervous.  He perceived me as a potential threat.  I couldn’t blame him.  I was trespassing and had committed burglary when I broke into the storage shed.

 

This man was different.  He was not nervous at all.  Merely curious.

 

He watched me work for a few minutes, then spoke.  “I came to St. Bernard Abbey in 1958.  It was my pleasure to know Brother Joseph the last three years of his life.  He was a curious man.  He didn’t talk much.  Like the saying goes, he marched to the beat of a different drummer.  I can’t say that I truly understood what made him tick.  But I am certain, he is looking down on us right now.  And I am certain he is happy you care so much for his art.”

 

“I am Abbot Patrick.  I am in charge of St. Bernard Abbey, and Ave Maria Grotto.  Would you please tell me your name?”

 

I turned to look at the man.  He appeared to be about seventy years old.  He wore a cowl, like the monks I had seen as I drove around the Abbey that morning.  I said, “I am Evan Anthony.  I hope you don’t mind what I’m doing.  I’ll put the cleaning supplies back where I found them when I am finished.”

 

He said, “When you get to my age, you’ll find you need to eat regularly.  I’m hungry.  Would you join me for a meal?  It’s close to my suppertime.”

 

I looked at my watch.  It was 4pm.  I had been cleaning since noon.  I had no idea that much time had passed.  “I appreciate the offer, but I really want to finish this.”

 

He said, “Okay, I never get between a man and his mission.  I’m going to get some food.  I’ll check back with you later.”

 

I resumed cleaning.  Faster now, knowing that the park would be closing soon.  When I heard more footsteps behind me, I recognized the Abbot.  I heard the sound of paper crumpling.  I heard him chewing.  The aroma of mayonnaise and mustard surrounded me. 

 

I turned.  He was eating a sandwich.  He grinned and picked up another sandwich.  He jiggled it a bit, enough to make the wrapping paper emit a crinkling sound.  “You’re not hungry at all, are you?  I’m sure you’ll have no trouble resisting the temptation to stop and eat with me.”

 

My uncle used to say, sometimes a soldier has to retreat, to live and fight another day.  He also said, you should eat, drink, and sleep whenever you could.  I put down the toothbrush and the squirt bottle, and ate a roast beef sandwich with Abbot Patrick.

 

He finished eating before me, and spoke.  “Take your time.  A man can work up a pretty good appetite trying to keep this place clean.  Let me tell you about how I ended up at St. Bernard Abbey.”

 

The monk told me his story.  He grew up in Detroit.  His father worked at a General Motors plant.  Patrick grew up dreaming of becoming an engineer, and designing automobiles.  That changed a few weeks before his 18^th birthday, when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.  He joined the Army the day after he graduated from high school.

 

Patrick fought his way across Europe.  As is the case with war, he saw and did things that he wished would have never happened.  He didn’t have to explain that to me.  One of his last acts as a soldier was to assist with closing one of the Auschwitz concentration camps.  What he saw there profoundly affected him and changed the course of his life.  Religion had always been important to Patrick.  Amid evidence of the worst kinds of cruelty humans can inflict on each other, he dedicated his life to the Church.

 

During his studies, he became interested in the Benedictine order.  One thing led to another, and he eventually found himself at St. Bernard.  Later this year, he would celebrate his 40^th anniversary at the Abbey.

 

I was licking the last of the mayonnaise off of my fingers when a young woman approached us.  “Father Patrick, it’s after five o’clock.  It’s time to close down the park.”

 

He looked at me and said, “Evan, if you want to finish cleaning those columns, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.  Why don’t you spend the night with us?  We have guest rooms at the Abbey.  As nice as any hotel, and you can walk to the Grotto after breakfast.”

 

I wasn’t necessarily in love with my room at the Hampton Inn.  I agreed.  He said, “Why don’t we take a walk around the St. Bernard campus?  I’ll show you the place we call home, and you can tell me about yourself.  I’m sure you’ve got an interesting story.  It’s not every day I meet someone who breaks into our maintenance shed so he can clean the mold dust off of Brother Joseph’s artwork.”

 

St. Bernard Drive makes a mile-long loop around the Abbey.  I was impressed by the facility.  There was a lot going on.  The monks ran a prep school and a farm, among other things.

 

When I came back to the United States, I made a decision to never discuss the details of what I did while I was with the Soviet Army.  As far as I was concerned, I was done with killing.  I was ready to leave the past behind. 

 

But Abbot Patrick caught me off guard.  As I told him about my past, I realized I wasn’t going to leave anything out.  I told him everything.  When I discussed my one-time obsession with killing, and collecting the fingers of my victims, I studied his face.  As far as I could tell, what I said did not faze him. 

 

I remembered what he said about Auschwitz.  It occurred to me, he’d seen far worse in this world than anything I’d ever done.

 

The only reaction I could see on his face came when I told him how I repaid the people in Uelen and Diomede Village for the damage I had caused.  He arched his eyebrows and looked amused.  I must have surprised him with that part.

 

After I finished, he asked, “Evan, are you a religious man?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“I didn’t think so.  When I was new to this vocation, I would have considered that a serious problem.  Then, I would have tried to convert you.  Now, I know that by myself, I cannot alter another person’s course.  I can only help someone find Christ if they are looking for Him.”

 

“I’ve learned to accept that some people will walk a different path in life.  I consider it my mission to serve all of humanity, not just those who share my beliefs.”

 

“I know you do not believe as I do.  You have free will, and you explain things in your way.  What I believe is this.  God brings people to St. Bernard for a reason.  Some people come here seeking protection from a very complicated, often cruel world.”

 

“Perhaps God sent you here to protect the world from you.  After all, I don’t think he intended for people to only have nine fingers.”

 

I laughed.  I had been a little nervous, telling Patrick about the things I had done.  But I felt better now.  As I told my story, it finally occurred to me.  I was not that person any more.  I had moved on.

 

One end of the St. Bernard campus leads to their farm.  A monk walked out of a building across the street from us.  Patrick said, “Evan, I’d like you to meet Brother Phillip.  He can tell you about the farm.”

 

When Patrick introduced us, I reached out my hand for the customary handshake.  But the short, bald man with a grin on his face did not shake my hand.  Instead, he poked me in the middle of my chest with his finger, and said, “You, come with me.”

 

He turned and started walking toward the nearest field.  I looked at Patrick.  He shrugged his shoulders and gave me an “I don’t know what is going on either” look.  I followed Brother Phillip.

 

He launched into a discourse about tomatoes.  Biology had never been my thing and I was having trouble following him.  But I did figure out that he expected me to help him “trellis the vines”, as he put it.  Apparently, tomato vines tend to grow in every possible direction.  If left unsupported, the vine will break when the tomatoes get big. 

 

The tomato garden consisted of rows of poles with wires strung across them.  The plants were growing up, into the wires, and in both directions outward.  The tomatoes weren’t too big yet, but I could see what he was talking about.  The vines growing out from the wires were sagging down.

 

We spent some time tying the biggest vines back to a wire, with pieces of yarn.  Then Brother Phillip showed me the other gardens.  The place was like the produce section at the grocery store.  Corn, squash, beans, carrots, peas, onions, it went on and on. 

 

The entire time, Phillip did not stop talking.  I had never been around anyone who know so much about growing vegetables.  It was obvious, he had not done his learning in a classroom.  He had learned by doing, day after day, year after year, for a lifetime.

 

That was when it hit me.  I thought I had come to Cullman to see the work of Brother Joseph.  This morning, when I walked through the park, it was everything I expected, and more.  I still intended to go back tomorrow and finish cleaning the columns at the St. Peter’s Church display. 

 

But Brother Joseph was gone.  The real reason I came to Ave Maria Grotto was to meet Brother Phillip.