It must be something about the season. Perhaps it was spending last night sitting next to the roaring fire in the old cast-iron stove. Or the fresh snow laying on the ground tonight. Whatever it is, my mind has been drifting back more often lately. And, as is my custom, I feel it only appropriate to share these remembrances with any who care to listen.

The trigger this time, strange as it may seem, was an advertisement for one of these doctor shows which seem to have taken over from the cop shows which have dominated the airwaves for so long. The little clip involved a young man pleading to the doctors not to cut off his legs, despite the fact that he would die if they didn't.

Somehow, the convoluted twinings of my brain brought me back to my days with the monks of the Order of St. Brendan. As some may remember, I've told of some of my days apprenticing with them.

What I thought of was Brother Ivan. Br. Ivan was an older man when I met him. A kind man, as were most of the brothers, and one who was truly passionate about life. He had good reason to be. He had almost been yanked from it early in his life. Before he took up his vocation with the Order, Br Ivan had been a soldier; serving his county in Europe in WWII.

The brothers of the Order of St Brendan are cartographers--they make maps. Very good maps, in fact. When America went to war, the bothers felt an obligation to do what they could to serve the cause. Given their positions as men of the cloth, they were allowed to go where others couldn't. They used this privilege to scout the countryside and cities under the control of the enemy. And they made maps. Maps of exceptional detail. Maps which could carry the allied soldiers to their goals with a degree of safety.

In his role as a scout, Br Ivan often carried such maps. He had a great respect for the Order and the brothers. While the brothers refused any payment for their tasks, they did accept the hospitality of soldiers when they could. And the soldiers gave small gifts--usually chocolate--by way of thanks.

On one night, Br Ivan (then Sgt. Dominic LaConte) was working his way through the German countryside with one of the Order's maps. The map, though of excellent quality, wasn't able to predict where the German soldiers would be. The unfortunate Sergeant stumbled across a pair of Germans apparently out enjoying the hospitality of the countryside. The meeting ended with Sgt LaConte catching a grenade in his lap. He managed to roll away--but not far enough. Both his legs were mangled beyond recognition, and the Germans left him for dead.

And dead he would have been, if he hadn't been found by some Russian soldiers the next morning. This was near the end of the war, and couriers were often sent between the two armies. Sgt. LaConte had dragged himself close enough to the road to be seen when the couriers passed by. It was only by the grace of God that car hadn't been German.

The Russians brought him back to the American hospital. The doctors had to amputate, but they were able to save him. Realizing how lucky--or blessed--he was, LaConte promised to honor his saviors. He did this by applying as a noviate to the Order of St Brendan. When he finally received his ordination, he took a new name (as is customary in many monastic orders). He became Brother Ivan.

I can never think of Br Ivan without thinking of the incident with Gus.

Br Ivan, after returning to the States, was fitted with a pair of prosthetic legs. Being a rather healthy man before the accident, he was well suited to using them. He did pretty well with them, too--after he got used to them.

In addition to their cartography work--which was primarily to pay the bills--the brothers did more traditional charity work. Part of this was visiting the patients at the hospital in the near-by city. This hospital was associated with the university, and had a large program to deal with prosthetics. Br Ivan made it his special duty to visit the patients in this ward. His own experience made it much easier for him to be accepted by the patients.

After several years of visiting the ward, one of the doctors had asked Br Ivan to help them in the research end of the process. Because Br Ivan had kept himself in very good physical shape, he would be a good candidate for testing new designs. So, Br Ivan became one of the primary testers of new prosthetic limbs. This was still going on when I was there, and Br Ivan was well into his 70's at the time. His advanced age, and extensive experience in testing, allowed the designers to improve on prosthetics intended for older patients.

Because there were always problems with testing new limbs, the brothers had set up a section in the basement to help. A series of bars, steps, and pipes hanging from the ceiling (to be used as handrails) made a bizarre obstacle course. For about an hour each night, Br Ivan would go down to the basement to put the new limbs through their paces. Because of the risk of him falling, however, two other brothers would always accompany him. The various hanging pipes would often make a huge clatter as they were grabbed, or when Br Ivan would trip or fall against them. And many a time, the voice of Br Ivan could be heard yelling out when a leg would twist sharply against his stumps, or give way under him and send him crashing to the floor. These nightly duties came to be referred to as the Nightly Medical Experiments, or N.M.E. 'It's time to face the NME', Br Ivan would say with a smile on his face, and then walk down to the basement with his escort.

Now, all of us who worked and lived there were used to the noises, and paid them no heed. One summer, however, our normal janitor/grounds keeper, Bill, left for an extended vacation. His granddaughter had just had a little girl, and he went out to the west coast to see his new great-granddaughter. The bothers hired a temporary replacement; an old colored man by the name of Gus. Gus was a bit of a character. He was a good man, though. Despite being a devout Baptist, he didn't mind working for a group of Catholic monks, and would often trade friendly jibes with the various brothers.

Apparently, no one had bothered to mention to Gus about the nightly work of Br Ivan. Having become used to the noises, none of us thought to mention, or explain it. Well, one evening, I was walking back from the barn when I saw Gus standing over one of the glass-block windows to the basement, with a look of almost horror on his face.

I went over to find out what was wrong. As I got close, I realized what had happened. Br Ivan had gotten a new pair of legs that week, and they were proving to be exceptionally difficult to maneuver. The noises coming from the basement were, well....startling, if you didn't know the details.

Old Gus, turned when he saw me approaching. "I've been hearing some scary things coming from that basement. Every night, I walk by here, and I hear that crashing, and those yells, like a man in pain..... My boy... What do they *do* down there every night??"

"It's the NME. They walk a monk, Gus."