“Go up there,” Father Provincial had told him. “Go up there and see what can best be done.” The Rector had gone, taking Brother Harold with him. During the early part of the first winter they had barely subsisted on what the Rector earned doing weekend work. Cold they often were, and sometimes hungry.
Now, as to food production, it was felt that the surface hadn’t been scratched at St Clement’s Hill. To say that the presence there of a priest or brother with an agricultural background would make a world of difference was in no sense a criticism of the Rector or Brother Harold. They had put in a garden last spring, and the results, though they might have been better, had been good, and very likely would be better in the coming year. To this end, a compost heap was now maturing. It should be borne in mind that there was a lot more to gardening than looking through seed catalogues and ordering what took one’s fancy. No attempt had been made to raise chickens, ducks, geese, or turkeys, due, of course, to the shortage of labor. There were three apple and two plum trees which evidently ought to be sprayed for worms. Raspberries, both red and black, were abundant, but so were birds. There were colonies of gophers on the property. Gophers did untold damage.
FR URBAN: Any rats?
RECTOR: No problem with rats, probably due to the fact that we have the use of a dog. Eventually, we may have a dog of our own.
FR URBAN: Wouldn’t a cat be better?
RECTOR: If we had rats, I daresay a cat would be better. But just having a good dog around keeps them away. Personally, I’ve never cared for cats.
Fishing, with a catch of well over five hundred pounds in the freezer at the end of summer, was the brightest spot in the economy. At one point during the previous winter, the Rector and Brother Harold had almost gone into ice fishing, but they had been under pressure from concerns even greater than hunger. Never, for a moment, had the Rector forgotten why he was there. Always, as he reconnoitered, spying out the land, he had kept in mind the words: what can best be done. These were the words of Father Provincial, and the more the Rector had meditated on them, the more it had seemed to him that they could mean but one thing.
FR JOHN: A retreat house for laymen.
RECTOR: Yes, and I’ve never looked back since then — not that I’m entirely satisfied with everything here.
FR URBAN: What, in particular, aren’t you entirely satisfied with?
RECTOR: I was coming to that, but I might as well tell you now. The fact is we haven’t had too much help from the local clergy. What it comes down to is this: we have to make ourselves better known.
FR URBAN: How?
RECTOR: This is just a dummy, of course.
The Rector produced a dummy copy of a brochure designed to show the prospective retreatant what he could expect at St Clement’s Hill. It took him through a typical day. There were photographs of retreatants hearing Mass in the chapel, making use of the library, bathing in the lake, and strolling under the trees—“just talking things over.” Clementines were shown going about their business. A lot of hard work had gone into the brochure.
RECTOR: And now I’d like to have your frank opinion.
FR JOHN: It’s a splendid idea, Father.
RECTOR: Thanks, Father. But what I want to know is this: is there anything that you take exception to, anything at all, or that you think could be improved? If there is, I wish you’d please say so. We want this brochure to be the best thing of its kind.
FR JOHN: I’m sure it’s all right as it is. Of course, I haven’t read it.
RECTOR: I want you to, Father. I want you to take it up to your room and go over it with a blue pencil. Would you do that?
FR JOHN: I’ll be glad to, Father, but I’m sure it’s fine as it is.
RECTOR: I don’t have to tell you that I value your opinion more than I do my own in something like this. I’m not a writer. All I could do was try and put myself in the place of a layman with half a mind to make a retreat. For all I know, I may have failed in what I set out to do.
FR JOHN: I wouldn’t say that, Father. Not at all.
RECTOR: Father Urban?
FR URBAN: Like Jack, I haven’t read it.
RECTOR: I want you to, Father. Even though you’re not a writer, I have a high regard for your opinion in a matter like this — and in other matters, I might add.
FR URBAN: Well, since you’ve asked for my frank opinion, I will say the title and some of the captions…
RECTOR: Go ahead, Father. I can take it.
FR URBAN: “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful!”—isn’t that too closely associated with Christmas?
RECTOR: That thought did occur to me. Too closely, you think?
FR URBAN: And you really don’t mean all, do you? We aren’t trying to attract women and children, are we?
RECTOR: Not at the moment, no.
FR URBAN: The title strikes me as sounding a little urgent, too, if you know what I mean.
FR JOHN: I wouldn’t say that, Urban.
RECTOR: No, this is what I asked for — constructive criticism. Go ahead.
FR URBAN: This caption here, this “Oh, My God…” —I think you can do better than that.
FR JOHN: Where’s that?
RECTOR: Where you see retreatants at Mass.
FR URBAN: If you want something ejaculatory, why not look for it in the Mass itself? “I will go unto the altar of God,” for instance.
RECTOR: Right you are, Father. We can’t do better than that. Anything else?
FR URBAN: Offhand, no, though there is one thing I’m curious about. Holy Spirit Lake.
FR JOHN: Where’s that?
RECTOR: Where you see the man in the boat. “A Quiet Hour on Holy Spirit Lake.” As a matter of fact, that’s me in the boat. You don’t see it very well, I guess, but I’m reading my office.
FR URBAN: Out of focus, isn’t it?
FR JOHN: Looks fine to me.
RECTOR: To be perfectly frank, I didn’t want to get a good picture of the boat.
FR URBAN: I saw a sign at the other end of the lake, in town. It said Pickle Lake.
RECTOR: The lake has a couple of names.
FR URBAN: That’s not its real name?
RECTOR: Well, it’s a matter of historical record that the Chippewas called it Spirit Lake. For a long time, even after the white man came, it was called that. Then it got the name of Pickle Lake.
FR JOHN: That’s odd.
RECTOR: On account of its shape. But I don’t see why we can’t go back to the original name, if we like.
FR URBAN: Don’t misunderstand me, Father. I much prefer Holy Spirit, if that’s what the Indians called it.
RECTOR: As a matter of fact, they called it Spirit Lake. Unfortunately, from what I’ve been able to find out, “spirit” could have meant “devil” to the Indians, and probably did.
FR JOHN: Better call it Holy Spirit Lake.