exhaust, in the middle of a new world. The mooses. (I called a few times, no answer.)
Looking at the size of the town, rubbing up my creased jacket sleeves, I was surprised it was on the map at all. On my side of the street there was a red barn-shaped general store behind me. Clean, neat. It’s competition, a Western front, two doors down on the same side, the post office/restaurant in between. The only other building on this side was a rent-all place some 400 yards—a-hem—meters down the road. On the other side of the street, a laundromat and a very small motel, closed for the season. There was a docking ramp out back for what I was to learn was the Madawaska River. Apparently tourists liked this place in the summer.
The river behind the motel was beautiful: wide, surrounded by miles and miles of dense forest, the salt of birch, a mild confusion in the branches. That was it, though, as far as the city was concerned. No sidewalks. Just sand by the road. I stood out there for awhile in the dark, getting cold, wondering just what my next move should be. It was never made clear to me over the phone where exactly the farm was in relation to the highway, or where I was to be picked up for that matter. I hadn’t asked: so I had no choice right then but to stand there, befuddled in my mint new latest things, banks of snow shoveled, eye level on either side of the restaurant.
Finally, I just sat down on my duffel bag, in front of my repeating breath. After a while I decided. I’d just have to go across the street, find the house behind that motel and knock.
I didn’t even have time to reach down and pick up my bag, though, because a van pulled around in front of me, up to the post office next door. Some guy got out and deposited a slew of mail into the all-night slot before spotting me. I figured he must be the guy, given the volume, and walked over. “Are you looking for The Madonna’s Farm,” he asked? “Nobody told me anybody was corning.”
Given the obvious organization, I figured I was in for a treat. Who ran the place, a bunch of old, burnt-out hippies?
“I have,” I said grandly (going for early humor), but it was like he didn’t even hear me.
“And jeepers, no winter coat. Come prepared, eh? You could’ve frozen out here. Hop in.” He had a fine Irish brogue, youngish. About thirty or so, with a long reddish beard. (He looked like one of the Smith Brothers.)
“Got any cough drops,” I asked him?
“You like it, eh,” he asked, laughing like a leprechaun, pulling down on his whiskers? “It’s a gift from me old grandmother. I wonder why no one told me someone was coming?”
“God will take care of me,” I ventured.
“Indeed. But a fine winter coat wouldn’t hurt any, either, now would it? Well, best be getting back,” he said with a laugh. The van was bare bones, a second seat behind ours, hinged benches along the back panels which served as flip-top containers. After a pause he added, “Welcome to The Madonna’s Farm.” He turned and bowed. “My name is Patrick, and I will be your flight attendant. How did you hear about us, anyway?” I told him about the Newman Center, said I needed to find my way, within the context of the Catholic faith, of course.
“We can lend you a coat tonight. Tomorrow’s a half-day. You can go up to St. Joe’s in the afternoon. You’ll be able to pick up something cheaply.”
“Great, cheap and free, two magic words as far as I’m concerned.” He didn’t answer, so I wondered if I had been too flippant, decided to heel the hounds. We drove that way, him only breaking the silence to point out St. Joseph’s Rural Outreach Center, which we passed on our way in.
As we pulled into the gravel parking lot, I got my first glimpse of the main house. It was an old well-kept, steep-roofed white house off to the right side of the lot. And judging by how well lit the first floor was, it looked like things were still hopping.
He told me that I was too late for dinner, late tea, but that if I were hungry he could send some bread and jam up to the dorms with the van later. I thanked him, said I was fine, and followed him into a door that led down to a basement.
The first thing I ran into once inside a second door at the bottom of the inside steps were stuffed coat racks, piles and rows of boots underneath.
“Take off you jacket and boots. I’ll introduce you to Dave. He’s the R.A. at St. Ann’s, Joachim’s.” Feeling like a false lamb, I half bounded, half slunk after him past curtained book shelves, a ping-pong table (boxes stuffed underneath), past an upright piano, an old T.V. along the farthest wall. We proceded up a narrow little flight of stairs to a large, crowded dining area. The first thing I noticed besides all of the cliques of animated folk at most of the tables were the thin metal posts that held up the ceiling in this dining/library area. The kind people use to support sagging basements. Odd, but practical, I thought. A better sign.
The wood tables were simple, almost picnic-like, covered in grey plastic; there were benches under each, end chairs. I felt anxious, expected that, but there was something likable about the place too: a floor so old and worn that I could feel the rising knots in the wood under my stockinged feet. Books were neatly shelved everywhere, library style, complete with Library of Congress call numbers, each section titled: Catholic Saints, Mariology, Christology.
There was a big picture of Tolstoy on the wall at the other end, a librarian’s desk, a small card catalog. These guys didn’t mess around. And to my immediate left from the top of the basement stairs, a wider set which led to what I was to learn was an upstairs chapel. At the base of those stairs, to the left of them was a display of Ekaterina Fyodorovna Kolyschkine’s books.
I had never heard of the woman. Some kind of Catholic Swedenbourgian, Magery Kempe mystic I guessed, judging by the titles of the books: POUSTINIA, KINOSIS. Exotic language for the finer esoteric points of mysticism, no doubt. I leaned over, picked one up, trying not to be obvious in avoiding all the people.
Some of them were quite lively, sitting in groups, but some sat by themselves, too, with little shoe boxes in front of them. They looked to be writing letters. Other people carried trays, empty cups and pitchers out of the room. It was all noisy, controlled. Having just been to college, I just wasn’t used to seeing this many alert people in one room, so I didn’t know quite what to make of it.
Before I could continue my evasion, actually read any of the material, Patrick came over and introduced me to Ed, the man who ran the work crew. He was a good-sized guy, about my height, but broader, with short hair, lots of energy. He shook my hand, looked right into my eyes, slapped me playfully on the back, said I looked like a man who could use the rigors of farm life.
“Just call me hayseed,” I said, trying to get with the program, at least on a surface level.
“Not to worry, James. We’ll put some gas in that tank, Praise God.”
That stopped me in my tracks. Where on earth did that come from? What did this guy know about my tank anyway? He saw something in me and spoke the truth. That’s how I see it now. But back then it irritated me. I liked my privacy, didn’t like feeling exposed. I might have even said something smart in reply, given more time, blown the whole gig had it not been for the fact that everybody around me, as if by some unspoken command, rose.
“They’ve realized,” I joked to myself.
It was 10 o’clock, I was to learn. Time to sing “Salve Mater.” They all knew it by heart, and once again I was thrown in and left to swim. Should I know this? Was it required Catholic ritual? Finally I just closed my eyes, wondered how the heck I was going to get out of that place.
There
