Bees, Butterflies, And Kung Fu

True to my word, I snuck into the Grotto early the next morning and finished cleaning the columns in front of St. Peter’s Church.  I would walk past each of the 125 displays almost every day while I lived at the Abbey.  Ave Maria Grotto will always be one of my favorite spots on the planet.

 

But unlike yesterday, my mind wasn’t focused on Brother Joseph’s artwork.  I was thinking about tomatoes, and hanging out with Brother Phillip.

 

My entire life, I had been in the presence of people who were experts in their field.  Starting with an uncle who was a feared soldier, an outdoorsman, and a black belt martial artist.  In the Soviet Army, I trusted my life to the skilled, brave men that fought beside me.  After the military, I worked for some clever, street smart businessmen.  George Henderson is a master barbeque chef.

 

Not all of my teachers were men.  Both Roberta Nagel and Jewel McComb were strong influences in my life.

 

I wanted to learn how to grow things, and work alongside Brother Phillip.  If they rated farmers like martial artists, Phillip would be a black belt.

 

For the second time in my life, I found myself in a situation where I was an obvious outsider.  Years ago, I was an American teenager, posing as a Russian in the Soviet Army.  It took a while for me to figure out how to deal with that.

 

Now, I was an unbeliever, rubbing elbows with the monks in a Benedictine monastery.  Abbot Patrick had invited me to stay for a while.  Brother Phillip adopted me. 

 

The life of a monk at St. Bernard is very structured.  Prayers are given at regular times throughout the day.  At night, the monks observe “Grand Silence”, and do not speak.  Monks do not marry, or accumulate personal possessions beyond necessities.

 

I knew I would never be a monk.  I do not share their religious beliefs and I’m terrible at following rules.  But I appreciated many aspects of their lifestyle.  The Abbey was a profound counterpoint to the daily hustle Americans take for granted.

 

It wasn’t so much that I belonged there.  I didn’t know where I belonged.  Certainly, none of the monks had lived a life like mine.  Our values were worlds apart.  Yet, I felt completely at home, amid these men.  The peace and simplicity of the monastery was like a powerful magnet, pulling me in.

 

They were polite and friendly.  As with Patrick and Phillip, I felt an instant bond with many of them.  But I knew, I made some of the monks uncomfortable.  I was an intruder in their world. 

 

From the viewpoint of an outsider, it would be easy to assume that monks are all alike.  They wear the same clothes and follow the same strict lifestyle.  I had never seen a more unified and committed group of men.  But in their midst, it does not take long to figure out.  Each monk is just as unique of an individual as you would meet anywhere.

 

Some were more unique than others.  Phillip, for example.  We had more in common than an interest in agriculture.  At St. Bernard, he was the outsider. 

 

Abbot Patrick had told me that Brother Joseph marched to the beat of a different drummer.  I realized that was also true of my new friend and mentor.

 

I never knew any of the details.  It is not my nature to ask.  But I could tell, the quiet, constantly smiling farmer had broken the rules more than once.  Like me, he was a troublemaker.

 

A week had gone by before I knew it.  I’d spent the days in the fields, with Brother Phillip.  The monks observed silence after the seven o’clock prayers.  In the evenings, I stayed in my room, and read.  Phillip had given me a stack of books and magazines related to farming and gardening.  At first it was like learning a foreign language.  But I was motivated.  I could see the end result growing in the fields.  

 

When Abbot Patrick asked how things were going, I told him I would like to stay.  If they were willing to put up with me.  I enjoyed hanging out with Phillip.  I figured the work I was doing was worth the room and board.

 

Then Phillip spoke up.  “I think Evan should move into the monastery with us.  I know he is not a monk, but he has the spirit of a monk.”

 

That caught both me and Abbot Patrick off guard.  I hadn’t given any thought to long term living arrangements.  I could tell by the look on Patrick’s face, that would cause problems.

 

“Brother Phillip, I can always count on you to see things in new ways.  You know the monastery is reserved for the monks.  But I will give some thought to your suggestion.  For now, Evan can continue to stay at the guest retreat.”

 

Phillip told me he had spoken with some of the other monks about his idea.  I could tell by the looks on some of the men’s faces, I was making them uncomfortable.  My presence at the Abbey was controversial.

 

Which was the opposite of what I was looking for.  I considered whether I should leave.  A few days later, I saw another monk speaking to Phillip.  I could tell by the tone of his voice, he was not happy.  As I approached, the man walked off.  I assumed from the look on Phillip’s face, they had been talking about me.

 

I decided to speak to Abbot Patrick.  I explained my concerns.  I enjoyed the atmosphere at the Abbey.  I had a desire to learn everything I could from Brother Phillip.  But if my presence caused a problem, maybe I should move on.

 

The Abbot thought for a moment, then spoke.  “Evan, what you need to consider here is perspective.  Let’s say, you got into an argument with a monk, and you cut off his finger.  That would be bad.  That has never happened before.  Then, you would have to leave.”

 

“What is actually happening, though, is that you are ruffling some people’s feathers.  Stepping on their toes.  The fact is, we do that every day to each other.  It is nothing new.  That sort of thing will occur whether or not you are doing it.”

 

“I am keenly aware of the effect your presence is having on the monastery.  Perhaps I have made a poor decision, inviting you into our somewhat inflexible world.  If I come to that conclusion, you will be the first to know.”

 

“But as of now, I am still going on the assumption that God had a reason to send you here.  I know there are things we can teach you.  Maybe there are things you can teach us.  I’m an optimist.  Humans are creative and even Benedictine monks are capable of adapting to change.  Until proven otherwise, I’m going to assume we will work our way through this.” 

 

“To sum it up.  If I don’t tell you to leave, and you don’t decide to leave on your own, you are welcome to stay as long as you like.”

 

On the way back to my room, I thought about what Patrick said about being creative, and adapting to change.  I knew what to do next. 

 

When I was a rebel hunter in Siberia, I preferred to do my dirty work at 2am.  Many things are easier to accomplish while everyone else is asleep.  I packed my suitcase.  I set the alarm clock.

 

When I woke up, I carried my belongings to the parking lot.  The crickets and cicadas were making so much noise, I couldn’t hear my own footsteps.  I opened the door to my truck.  I grabbed the sleeping bag I’d left on the floorboard.  I walked down St. Bernard Drive, to the farm.  I climbed up in the loft of the barn.  I used a broom to sweep out one corner.  I unrolled the sleeping bag, laid down, and went to sleep.  As far as I was concerned, the barn was my new home.

 

That seemed to be an acceptable compromise.  I continued to spend my days working in the fields with Brother Phillip.  As always, I woke up hours before sunrise.  I had run an extension cord to my loft, and I spent the early morning hours reading, under a light bulb I’d strung over a rafter.  I was becoming a biology nerd.

 

Eastwood had never intended for me to follow in his footsteps as a soldier.  He wanted me to study at the University of Alaska and become an engineer.  At the Abbey, I threw myself into the learning the art and science of growing food.

 

Brother Phillip grew vegetables the old fashioned way.  He had done it for so long, it was instinctual.  He didn’t have to think, he could look at any plant and know if it needed more or less water, sun, or nitrogen.

 

I did not have Phillip’s instincts, or years of experience.  Patience has never been one of my strong points.  And I am still as competitive as I ever was.  I became determined to take what Phillip was teaching me to the next level.  I wanted to be the Brother Joseph of vegetables.

 

While the farming was suspended over the winter, Phillip performed other tasks.  I spent even more time reading.  I had discovered the local agricultural extension office and had become a regular visitor. 

 

I couldn’t study all the time.  Winter turned out to be a good time to resume my cleaning habit.  When the temperature got below 50 degrees, everyone was wearing winter attire.  They had a pained look on their face whenever the wind blew.  I walked around in my customary tee shirt.  On the rare occasions when it got below freezing, I wore a light jacket. 

 

The monks must have thought I was crazy.  I’d spent years sleeping inside of snow caves in the mountains of Siberia.  To me, winter in Alabama was a piece of cake.

 

They gave me a key to the shed at the Grotto.  There were few visitors when it was cold.  While I carefully scrubbed Brother Joseph’s displays, I had the place to myself for hours at a time.

 

Spring came, and the cycle of life began again.  I bought a notebook, and started writing everything down.  The date we planted the seeds.  When each crop sprouted.  The number of days to first harvest.  Eventually, I would document the date of the final harvest, and the total yield, from each garden. 

 

I made a rain gauge out of a coffee can, and wrote down when and how much.

 

I experimented.  I planted seeds in various patterns and distances apart.  I wanted to find the optimal configuration for each crop.  I wanted to figure out how to grow food with maximal efficiency.

 

Phillip was amused by my efforts.  He already knew how to grow vegetables.  But he was always helpful and encouraging, and gave thoughtful answers to my questions.

 

I was determined to find a way to impress him.  I realized, I had become a teenager again, and Brother Phillip was now Uncle Eastwood. 

 

Luckily for me, Phillip did not have a black belt in Samozashchita Bez Oruzhiya.  Despite the fact that I was experiencing my second childhood, physically, I was approaching 40.  The thought of defending myself against strikes, takedowns, and armbars was not appealing.

 

My second summer at the Abbey flew by before I knew it.  I was knee deep in vegetables alongside of Phillip.  This year, I began to pay attention to something else.  Insects. 

 

Phillip always grew flowering plants around the vegetables.  The nectar the blooms produced attracted bees, butterflies, and other insects.  They were an essential part of the garden.  They were the pollinators.

 

Many types of plants have male and female flowers.  Pollen from the male flowers must fertilize the female flowers before seeds are produced.  Eventually, we will either eat the seeds themselves, as is the case with peas, or the “packaging” the plant creates around the seeds, such as squash. 

 

The flowers Phillip planted bloomed prolifically, from late spring all the way to the first frost.  He called them billboards for insects.  Critters from all over Cullman county visited Phillip’s flowers.  Over the years, he had figured out that marigold and sulphur cosmos were the most popular with the pollinators.

 

I became fascinated with the insects, and began collecting photographs, each time I found a new variety of butterfly, bee, or other bug buzzing around the flowers.

 

That winter, I spent a lot of time at the agricultural extension office, and the Cullman Public Library.  My education continued.  At the extension office, I read an article in the Scientific American magazine that stuck in my head.  It talked about the declining population of both bees and butterflies.  This was happening not just in North America, but across the globe.  No one was certain what was causing the decline, but pesticide use, and loss of habitat to human activities, were prime suspects.

 

It was the end of 1999.  The world was focused on the new millennium.  There were the New Year’s Eve parties, and something to do with computers they were referring to as “the Y2K problem.” 

 

On the evening of December 31^st, I lay in my makeshift bed, reading one of the biology textbooks the folks at the extension office had lent me. 

 

I didn’t care about parties, and I didn’t know anything about computers.  While other people watched the ball drop on New Year’s Eve, or fretted over a keyboard, I fell asleep thinking about bees and butterflies.

 

The next morning, I woke up with my brilliant idea.  I had a plan I was certain would finally work.  I had been trying for nearly two years to impress Brother Phillip with my scientific prowess.  So far, no luck.  I realized, I was trying to outdo him at something he had mastered over the course of a lifetime. 

 

The truth was that we were already growing as much food as the monastery needed.  I needed to think outside of the vegetable garden.

 

After I read the article about the bee and butterfly problem, I had discussed it with Phillip.  I could tell, it disturbed him.  The gentle little man didn’t just care about people.  He cared about all life. 

 

I was certain my plan would blow him away.  So I did my best to make sure he didn’t find out about it until it was in place.  I wanted to hit him over the head with it all at once.

 

I was going to need a lot of help.  No way I could pull this off by myself.  I knew who to talk to.

 

Abbot Patrick laughed when I told him about it.  He said, “If you make sure I am around to see Phillip’s face when you show him, you’ve got a deal.”

 

It was a simple plan.  It just needed a lot of elbow grease.  Phillip and I always saved the seeds from the marigolds and the sulphur cosmos.  We ended up with bags of seeds, far more than we needed to plant around the vegetable crops.

 

The plan was to turn the St. Bernard campus into a giant flower garden.  It wouldn’t happen all at once.  But with the assistance of the children attending the preparatory school, we could start small, and add new garden areas each year.  The kids would get exercise and fresh air, and learn about the importance of flowers.  The bees and the butterflies would appreciate the nectar.  The campus would become an inviting home for them. 

 

And, I would finally get to one-up Phillip.  I hoped.  I’d never met anyone so hard to read.

 

To keep Phillip from suspecting, we would have to do things behind his back.  We had a couple of advantages.  There were periods each day when he was with the other monks, either in prayer, or participating in the various activities that made up their daily routine.  I was on my own at those times. 

 

We could also rely on Phillip’s predictable behavior.  I knew exactly what he did and where he went every day.  There were many parts of the campus he had no reason to go to.  It would not be hard to hide the compost pile or the greenhouse from him.

 

The endeavor had the feeling of a military exercise.  It was the most fun I’d had since my pool shooting drinking days with the Galloway boys.  I must have gotten carried away.  At some point, the students that were helping began to salute me.  They started calling me Colonel Evan. 

 

I was happy that some of them seemed genuinely interested in the plants.  That would be a requirement.  For this project to be meaningful, the work could not just be a one-time investment.  Each garden must be regularly tended, weeded, and watered, from April to November.  On the scale I had planned, I would never be able to do it by myself.

 

The Athletic Center was on the other side of the campus from the farm.  Phillip had never gone there in the time I’d known him.  Behind the gymnasium, there was plenty of space for the mulch pile, and the greenhouse. 

 

The mulch consisted of a mixture of grass clippings and leaves.  There was more than enough of both on the 900-acre campus.  A local builder donated a stack of lumber and clear plastic sheeting.  After a week of hard work, we had a mulch pile and a greenhouse. 

 

We started seeds in rows of trays.  When we were ready to plant, we had just over 600 two-inch-tall seedlings.  It would take several days to prepare the beds.  Each spot needed to have grass and weeds scraped off or pulled out.  The soil would have to be broken up, and the mulch mixed in.  Then we would be ready for planting.

 

There was no way Phillip would not notice some of the work.  He always walked a predictable path from the monastery to the farm.  We didn’t want to exclude those areas from planting.  With Abbot Patrick’s help, I convinced the rest of the monks to play along.

 

In the morning meeting, Patrick mentioned that a leak had been discovered in the water line leading into the monastery.  There would be some digging, everyone should stay away from the areas marked with the yellow caution tape.

 

I had told Phillip I was going to take a few days off and visit my friends in McComb.  Another monk would assist him in my absence.  That was a ruse, of course, so I could devote my time to planting.  I slept in one of the guest rooms. 

 

I worked side by side with the students, getting the gardens prepped.  While we worked, we had a student doing recon on Brother Phillip.  Any time he left the farm and began walking toward the monastery, the signal would get passed forward.  I would make myself scarce.  The kids would put the caution tape back in place, then also disappear. 

 

After three days, we had planted 42 gardens, across the campus.  As the plants grew, we were going to have tens of thousands of blooms.  The butterflies and bees were going to be happy.  And Phillip had not suspected a thing.

 

It was time to spring the trap on my mentor.  He walked from the farm to the monastery every afternoon for 5 o’clock prayers.  We had removed all of the caution tape.  I was standing next to the garden in front of the monastery.  It was the last one we planted.  Abbot Patrick, and all of the kids who’d helped, were there with me when Brother Phillip walked up.

 

I detected a tiny note of surprise in his expression when he saw me.  He had thought I was in Mississippi.  It took a couple of minutes to explain what we had done.  I pointed out all of the garden areas we could see from there.  I studied Phillip’s face for any sign that he was impressed.  I really couldn’t tell.

 

Instead, he poked me in the chest with his finger.  Uh oh.  He said, “Evan, close your eyes, and hold out your hand.” 

 

Just like the last time he poked me, I did what he asked.  I could feel him place something small in my hand.  He didn’t say anything.  I heard him turn and walk away.

 

I opened my eyes.  There was a pea-sized pebble in my palm.  He was still walking away from me.  I said, “What the heck, Phillip?”

 

He stopped and turned.  “Didn’t you watch Kung Fu when you were a kid?  You just snatched the pebble from my hand.”  The monk entered the monastery for evening prayers.