Jim and Pat Ebacher - Our Life: Sierra

Monday, June 8, 2009

Weekend Hiking the Hoh

A weekend hike on the Hoh river in the Olympic National Park. Dad, Maddie, Dom and Kelsie hiked 18.2 miles (no kidding, and feeling each mile today, no doubt!). Dom and Kelsie got to the trailhead Friday night 2 hours earlier than Maddie and I, so hiked in the 2.9 miles to Mt. Tom campsite (entirely primative). When Maddie and I got there, it was already dark. I never hiked intentionally in the dark before, so Maddie and I with our head lamps, arrived around midnight to Mt. Tom. Everyone slept well. The next morning we hiked the remaining 6.2 miles to the Olympus Guard campsite (equiped with privy and ranger guard station). We fairly quickly set up camp and had a great meal of chicken hotdogs, mac and cheese and summer sausage. Such a beautiful site. We awoke to two yearling deer right in our campsite. At 9:00 am we began the hike out, and 6 hours and 9.1 miles later arrived back at the Hoh Visitor Center parking lot. We saw two elk on the way out. Then, the 5 hour drive home.

So, now, Dom, Mara, Maddie and Miesha have all been to the Hoh, along with Luisa and Chris. So, here's a question for everyone.... How do we get Mom there?

Why are outdoor privies so photogenic?

Camping at Olympus Guard station.

The Olympus Guard Station. Usually there is a volunteer Ranger on duty. There was this weekend, and we shared some of our food with him.

This was on the hike out, and the last time she put her back pack on.

Kelse and Dom. We all shared food, and Maddie and I we very grateful for inviting us along on this hike, and for share the summer sausage, bagels, and the occasional termite.

Fr. Roger's Eulogy

Roger Joseph Ebacher, OCSO
May 19, 1919 – April 15, 2008

Eulogy

My name is Jim Ebacher, and I am Fr. Jerome’s nephew. My father was Fr. Jerome’s kid brother. They called him Bill, and we call Fr. Jerome, “Roger”, and his Medicare card calls him Joseph. It’s all kind of confusing. But, had my father lived into his old age, I’m sure he would have been here today at this lectern, also finding a way to make you laugh a little bit. So, I guess I’ll speak to you in his place.

Roger was born on May 19th, 1919, to French Canadian immigrants on May 19th, 1919, and grew up in Amesbury, Massachusetts. We trace our ancestry to one lone mercenary, a Frenchman, recruited by the Braunschweigers to fight the American colonial rebels in the war of Independence. The Braunschweigers lost that fight, but like many of those who were defeated, Jean-Baptiste Ebacher and his descendents the Ebacher and Baker families, settled in and around Quebec, Canada. At the turn of the last century many French Canadians we enticed to immigrate to Amesbury, Massachusetts to work on the new carriage factories, making the early horseless carriages. They needed skilled carpenters. Roger grew up as a boy in the Amesbury neighborhood called the “brickyard”, and as you might guess, this area was not known for its stunning views or fine homes. He was one of a family of four brothers and five sisters. Their mother died when Roger was in the 6th grade, naturally a traumatic experience which scarred Roger throughout his life and lead to his frail disposition. He has three surviving siblings; Beatrice, Margaret and Therese, all religious sisters in the order of St. Critienne in Marlboro, Massachusetts. Please keep them in your prayers.

Roger began his religious life at the minor seminary of Our Lady of LaSalette, in Enfield, New Hampshire. There, he was schooled in High School subject matter and in the languages of Greek, Latin, French and English. After LaSalette he explored his vocation with the LaSalette fathers, and I believe was quite close to ordination with them, when he felt called to the Trappist community at St. Joseph’s Abbey in Spencer, Mass, which he then joined. While at this Abbey, he lost all his collected poems as the result of a fire, something he quietly grieved his entire life. He was part of the original foundation to Pecos, New Mexico, and he studied at the Vatican for a short time. He was with the community when they moved to this location in 1955. My apologies if I have any of this wrong.

In his final days, Roger told me quite often that he felt on the whole quite blessed in this life. He also expressed regret that he did not have a stronger prayer life and that he wasn’t a very good monk. The rule of St. Benedict has the motto Prayer and Work. Roger’s work was teaching, which he did as novice master for many years, painting, and his duties as Mass Secretary, and finally keeping everything tidy in the Sacristy. He believed all priests should be grounded in the classical philosophical thoughts of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas, as well as the 20th century writings particularly of Whitehead. During the 1970’s Roger embarked on a systematic study of modern science, reading Biology, Physics, Anatomy, Psychology, and finishing with what he came to believe was the basis of all understand of matter, Quantum Physics. Naturally, there were few he could knowledgeably discuss these pursuits with. At the same time he began a study of painting with a teacher in McMinnville, a pursuit he dedicated a number of years to. Roger didn’t think he would live to see the new church, but he did, and he liked it very much, although he has his doubts when it was being planned. He expressed his appreciation for the love and support of Abbot Peter often to me, and enjoyed a warm fraternal relationship with Dom Bernard.

Roger was nervous and frail for much of his life. He was very conscious of his weak voice. He had a touchy constitution and generally kept only a few close friends in the Abbey. He had a number of secular contacts; men and women who came to him for confession and who enjoyed discussions of philosophy. These visits were uplifting to his spirits. I don’t know anything about most of these relationships, but I’m sure their stories will be told and we will learn new things about Fr. Jerome.

He was a philosopher. His writings represent a body of concise thought about the nature of existence. And, in his later years he felt that it was quite complete, that he has said all he wanted to say, even if it sadly may never be read and understood by another human being. In his final years, he often spoke of how he felt a peace with the completeness of his writings. The only spiritual connection he ever spoke of to me was with ST. THERESE OF LISIEUX, a doctor of the church, known as the little flower. He had an old black and white photograph of her in his room, and he often spoke of feeling her personal presence with him.

Roger was a beloved uncle to me, and like a grandfather to my children. Maybe this is an odd thing for a monk. I don’t know. It seems quite natural to us. My relationship began the year before my father died, when I spend January term here, having come by Greyhound bus from Minnesota. Some of you here today remember this. Roger returned my visit by officiating at our wedding in Minnesota just 4 years later. He gave First Communion to our four children, and no matter how noisy and rambunctious they were, always received them with love and joy. Like us, he rejoiced in their achievements and growth. Over the past few years he often spoke of his longing to be with God in eternal life. He was impatient with his existence and not at all sure why he was still hanging around. Roger was my father surrogate, and although I miss my father very deeply, I have always felt he was actually still with me, not at all gone. And now, I grieve the loss to me of both of these gentle men who have given me so much.

His last coherent words to me were that when it gets down to it, it’s really all about the Father Almighty. Just the Father, at the center of it all. And I will leave you with that mystery. It might be an unwritten coda to the symphony of this one monk’s life of seeking an understanding of existence. Roger felt he had come to some measure of Truth in his thoughts and writings, and also felt the presence of the devil who was trying to shut him up. I believe Roger has finally won his struggle; his struggle with life and Truth.

When we come into the world we proclaim our arrival with loud cries and complaints. When we go, life just sneaks out of us. Somewhere between, if we are lucky and we put for the effort to find it, one can find a measure of revelation. This is what I’ve learned from my dear uncle.

I want to thank you all for coming today and letting me speak briefly with you. I want to express to all of you the gratitude for the prayers that made Jerome’s passing a smooth journey, and supported us throughout the vigil and his illness these past many months.

I want to close with a poem Roger wrote a long time ago. It’s called “Imaculata”.

IMMACULATA

She rests in the clean dawn, my white-
winged Dove, in the clefted reef, cooing,
wooing the Rising-Sun.

Mine is the Morning-Glory, bright
in twilit brittleness,
lipping,
lapping the soonest Ray.

She is a Forest-Virgin, awed
to tremor and hush, yet
dancing,
clapping her atom-hands.

Mine, this clearest fountain, with
trembling sparks in glee,
leaping,
telling of full-day’s Flame.

James Joseph Ebacher
Read at Roger's Funeral Reception
4-19-08

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Monday, June 8, 2009

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