This
Journal

November
1999

23. Talk About the Weather

Everybody's wondering about this weather. We've had a spectacularly warm and dry Autumn. What does it all mean? Global warming? A pre-millenial gift? Not a thing? Just now the wind is picking up. We've got a front coming through, promising cooler temperatures. I don't like much about the winter.

We got word the other day that Br. Matthew Deffains has died at 94. Matt was one of the coolest Carmelites I ever had the pleasure to live with, one of the most talented men we've had - talented in the old crafts of the earth involving animals and plants. He knew real things about flowers, crops, and cattle. He had a beautiful smile, a twinkle in the eye, and the great even temper of a man who knows that things can be handled in time. Murray remembers watching him leading a one-ton ox around by the nose. He could, on occasion, be heard to sing a bit in the Isle of Jersey French of his youth. He was one of the fellas who taught me that there was nothing ignoble or second-class about being "just" a Brother. He set a high standard for living the life. He lived "the little way" in a big way.

Something on the radio last night reminded me that it was the 22nd and not the 21st on which John Kennedy was killed. I am such a moron. My memory is like a funny little bird that will not stay put. Here, there, out the window. I'm sure it will only get worse as I get older. Why is that? Aren't the old ones supposed to be the keepers of the past? This and future electrified generations may not have what it takes to remember much of anything. Give me a minute; I'll download it for you.

I finished the Whitman video with the sophomores today. They were unimpressed. It's from the PBS Voices and Visions series of many years ago. I will probably not use it again (at least not with this grade level). Too many big words. The freshman classes had a read-around of their finished papers. We sat in what passes for a circle, read, and wrote comments under a blanket of jazz. (We each had to contribute. I used a past entry from This Journal and received so-so reviews.) I think it went well - though I am frightened by what passes for "finished" work in most of their minds. We have much to do.

It has been determined that Thanksgiving dinner will occur at my sister's house this year (instead of at Mom's). A new thing. Change is good. We'll see after this whether or not she cares to get stuck with it from now on. Maybe we could rotate. I've never had the pleasure of throwing a dinner for anyone (maybe because I can't/don't/won't cook anything more complicated than pasta). It might be something worth learning in my older age. But who would I get to eat it? Would you like to come over for dinner some night?

{Smartypants}

A man at work, making something which he feels will exist because he is working at it and wills it, is exercising the energies of his mind and soul as well as of his body. Memory and imagination help him as he works. Not only his own thoughts, but the thoughts of the men of past ages guide his hands; and, as part of the human race, he creates. If we work thus we shall be men, and our days will be happy and eventful.
William Morris

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