[One guidepost at the beginning here: one of the most pivotal events of the year for me was Dad's death in October. Though it ended as a rather positive experience for me and others close to Dad, I respect that some might find the experi ence difficult for this holiday season, and have deferred it to the last six paragraphs of these notes: read or pass as you wish.]

Preparing for the trip to the Falklands was unusual: more emptying than packing, as the RAF Tristar down there from the base at Brize Norton just north of London has strict weight limita tions; within the Falklands, all of the Beaver flights are even more restrictive. Then a surprising number of inoculations - not for the Falklands, but in the event the flight down was diverted to Senegal or Uruguay (no chance of diversion to that huge land to the East of the islands: Argentina hasn't existed since the invasion of 1982).

Let's begin with the glorious Christmass masses at the Ad vent, bountiful feast with Claudine, Jessica, and Jessica's friend Gardi, finally departure for the overnight to Heathrow. There had been frantic communications in the days preceding the flight, as the RAF had advised us that the flight from Brize Norton (the RAF base right by Oxford) would be delayed a day; too late to change depar ture from Boston; RAF will put me up in Gateway House at the base; Gateway closed on Boxing day, when I'm due to arrive; they end offering to book me in at the Officers' Mess on the base.

Arriving at Heathrow, went to check when the trains from London would be leaving for Brize: never - no train service on Boxing Day! Resignedly, was prepared to spend L100 to get a cab out to Brize. The helpful information counter lady, however, made a few calls, finally said she had located a cab which would take me to Brize for only L30. Getting better already :)

Once in the designated cab, however, I noticed it had no taxi- meter nor markings and smelled suspiciously new. A query to the driver confirmed my suspicion: he wasn't a cabbie, was making a few bob renting a car and booking special trips such as mine. Further, he gets his bookings through his lady, the helpful info. counter person. No problem: we ended up having a delightful two- hour tour through the back roads from Heathrow up by Oxford to Brize Norton, past countless charming rural villages - so glad I elected to go by local roads rather than the express motorway. He turns out to have been in service during the Falklands event, had been stationed at Ascension Island (which, I learned, had been a barren rock the Yanks had borrowed from the Brits to build an airbase for tracking space shots; when the Falklands crisis arose, the Brits were fortunate to have a ready-made half-way spot between England and the Falklands).

Once over at Brize, was looked at a bit askance by the gate- house personnel till my driver identified me. Then the MP's gave my cab a fine escort over to the Officers' Mess. This huge facility for housing a few hundred officers would be populated for the next two days by a pilot and me, wonderfully tended by sundry batboys, catering personnel, barkeep, etc. To top it all off, I was escorted to "The VIP Suite;" who could ask for more? Bit of explanation here: in England, institutional and military chaplains are rather higher in the pecking order than Stateside; I was being given the deference proper for a retired jail chaplain. After a good chicken curry sup per, went to the club at the Officers' Mess, there with only the bartender and the pilot who was preparing to depart for Tunisia. We had a good gabfest.

Except for breakfast and after-dinner bar, the facilities at the Mess were closed for the holidays; thus I had my other meals at the base's general dining facility; good it was buffet style for leisurely eating and socializing, as apart from dining and resting I was to spend the next thirty-six hours in absolute indolence - not a bad preparation for the coming adventures.

Throughout my time at Brize, I was looked after particularly by a lady from catering who was sort of standing in through the holidays as concierge at the Mess. She, a widow of an army pen sioner, took pity on the lonely Yank dumped in her lap on Boxing Day, personally drove me over to tea the first day, got my luggage checked in on the second, and insisted on driving me to the "aero drome" for departure. I perhaps could have had a busier holiday time, but not one more surrounded with loving attention.

Finally time to board the Tristar (one of three, I learned, that the RAF had purchased from Pan Am when the latter went belly up, now uses them for ferrying RAF personnel all over the world). It was clear from the configuration that it was for military transport: all but the first few rows were scrunched as closely together as I recalled the mainland Chinese civil planes to be; once again my chaplaincy relieved me, as I (along with a rather old British RC priest, off to relieve the monsignor in the Falklands) was placed up in the first row, with seats as in civilian first class.

This flight was to be the true test of my till then five months without cigarettes. I had brought along the Nicorette chewing nicotine for ad hoc relief, was missing it less and less. Not so another passenger on the Tristar: the alarm went off, indicating smoke in the toilet. The subsequent announcement wasn't what one would hear on Singapore Air: "This is your captain speaking; will the people seated adjacent to the person who just violated flight orders by smoking please turn him in to the flight personnel. A second offence will be subject to Court Martial." That says it all!

The flight was 80% military; 10% British Antarctic Territory civilian scientists; 5% each Falklanders and tourists - altogether 10 of the latter. The nine-hour flight which had left London on a grey day just above freezing touched down at midnight at Ascension; sweltering humid heat, with slight relief from a breeze. Ascension is a volcanic island; the scheduled 14 hours would be well enough. Having heard that, in the event of a layover at Ascension, condi tions are rather primitive, I was expecting to find a rustic dormitory with bunks four high, horrid food, and cursory care. Hardly! The RAF had just completed construction of new housing bungalows, with four to a room; again, however, my chaplaincy got me a per sonal escort to a bungalow apart. Given we were then due to depart at midday the next day, all turned in promptly.

Next day, however, we learned that we needn't have been so conscientious; though after lunch we were dutifully bussed over to the airstrip and loaded into the Tristar, after an hour on the tarmac it was determined that we couldn't take off: a fuel gauge was broken and made flight imprudent; so, offloaded again for at least 24 hours (this time, however, being given access to our luggage for the first time in 3 days so we could get fresh clothing). Well, then, a day to visit the island; a complete walkabout was done in two hours. Happily, the 300 troops from the Tristar got together a bit of an early New Year's party after supper; I chose not to join those who went across the island late that night to visit the Yank base. Those who had were evident on our continuing flight down to Mount Pleasant by the unique green veneer on their sunburn!

So, now again loaded early in the morning onto the Tristar for our last nine-hour flight. It was dull; having learned that there was neither sound nor movie on the plane, I had brought along a stock of cassette tapes which served me well. Finally, about 30 minutes before we're due to land, the pilot announced that the planes surrounding us are friendlies: to prevent boredom, the pilots stationed at Mount Pleasant (the military base built in the Falklands after the '82 hostilities, about 30 miles from Stanley) make it a point to come up and accompany every incoming and departing Tristar. So close did they fly to us that I could make out the pilot of one plane had blue eyes! A rather spectacular arrival, albeit four days later than intended.

Thus, just as soon as passing through customs formalities I'm being paged by the intercom to proceed directly back to the tarmac where one of the Beavers is waiting for me to join the other three passengers for the 30-minute flight up to Pebble Island: no chance to freshen up, nor to select what will go in my trip bag, only meeting briefly with Jackie Draycott, the agent from Stanley Ser vices who had gotten my trip together. She had done as I asked, had gathered 100 postcards (thereby visiting every shop in Stanley to get a good variety) for me to sign with the traditional "Happy New Year" cachet while seeing the year change at Pebble Island.

Now the routine for the next few weeks began: I was put into the copilot's seat; luggage was stowed and we were off on our 30- minute flight from Mount Pleasant up over East Falkland to Pebble Island; the island population (less than 20 people) had been held prisoner in the hotel during the '82 hostilities. No more than 2 hours after arriving in the Falklands, I was off on a Land Rover excursion over all of Pebble Island. Probably 95 percent of the personal vehicles in the Colony are Land Rovers, as there are very few first- class roads. In fact, there are more vehicles per paved mile of roadway here than anywhere else in the world.

The host and hostess were so warm and gracious, assisted in their hospitality by a lady from St. Helena. The only negative was a beastly group of European ornithologists who had little interest apart from comparing notes about how many first sightings of new species they had had - they even wore their binoculars to meals. No bother: my vacations had begun! And even I was intrigued to spend hours at the Rockhopper penguin colony. So lively and such a developed social order! Became aware of just how far south we are, when I noted that dusk finally came at 22:15; sunup by 5:00 am.

For the last day of the year I was due for a daylong excursion up to Saunders Island; the Beaver arrived on schedule (by now I'm functioning as part of the ground crew, pulling the fire extinguisher out of the airstrip shed as required by the Falklands civil aviation whenever a plane arrives or takes off; setting the wood blocks behind the wheels once the plane arrives). A quick flight has us up to Saunders; the family of four there is primarily occupied with hosting ornithologists; while the tourists tour, the island children do their lessons with their mother. Good to visit one of the largest albatross colonies accessible to man; doubt I would want more than a day on Saunders, even though it was the site of the first English colony at the end of the 18th century.

We were back to Pebble for a big New Year party at the hotel - even the ornithologists were to join into the gaiety! In prepara tion, had a calm afternoon: when the others went on excursion, I was alone and tranquil at the Pebble Beach Hotel. First time with nothing to do in a week - so nice. The host - James - gave me a tour of the settlement at Pebble. A bit of background about the social order in the Falklands might help here. We must bear in mind that the wonders of electronic communication and daily Beaver flights are fairly recent. Many of the developments have come only since the conclusion of the war of '82.

Thus, the Camp (which is all of the Falklands other than Stanley - took me awhile to get used to Camp being a non-spatial state of mind), with settlements ranging from 2 people to large groupings of a few dozen, sees no outsiders for weeks, months, or even years on end. In West Falkland - less than an hour flying time away - I met adults who had never been in to Stanley. Camp people seem to go into Stanley about every 12-18 months, and back to UK about every 5-10 years. Thus, what many take to be hostility or sullenness when meeting Camp people is simply the result of lack of familiarity with busy society.

A further phenomenon, now being redressed with all students above primary years being boarded and taught in Stanley, is that the children were primarily taught by their parents, with occasional supplemental help from a circuit teacher. The schoolhouse at Pebble not having any children resident was functioning as a sort of community hall.

Also, whatever needs the Camp people have, they think long- term and survive by clever creativity. If a wheel on a vital farm machine fails, it has to be repaired right off - there's no handy service station down the road. If one becomes ill (not gravely, for which the Beavers and military helicopters function as a very efficient medevac, as I learned when a tourist broke his ankle in the hole of a Gentoo penguin - the medical personnel were on the scene in less than an hour), there is a radio call-in time for one of the three MD's. Every morning for a half hour people call in their complaints to the doctor; medical advice and care directives are radioed to the caller (also, we must point out, to everyone else in the Falklands listening in on the radio; no such thing as a private illness).

Nobody's comings and goings are private: each evening Stanley radio lists every Air Service flight the next day, along with the names of each passenger on every flight. Thus announcement of my peregrinations went before me, along with whatever tales about me the pilots of the Beavers wished to fabricate.

Given that New Year's two years before was inflight from Udaipur to Bombay in India; the previous year in a cottage in Thimpu, Bhutan, I was well prepared for the rather sotto voce ushering in of the New Year here at the Pebble Island Hotel in the Falklands. Few people, I suspect, spend the year change writing 160 postcards. I had a particular urge to get them done before the 3rd of January: a new stamp was to be issued in Stanley on that date; I thus was able to get "First Day Cover" cancellation on all the postcards - did you notice the fruits of my careful research and labors on last year's card ?

The front seat passenger (generally me travelling alone) on any car trip in the Falklands is gatekeeper. With so many sheep, and with limited vegetation for them to graze on, there are fences everywhere. Thus, even the 1/4 mile trip from the Pebble Island Hotel to their airstrip involves going through four gates; I became rather adept at undoing and resecuring the unique gate latch method known as Teranaki - a way of shutting fences that came over from New Zealand, whence also many of the sheep shearers who make the rounds of the Falklands (with others from Italy, Greece, etc).

The tour on New Year's day brought my first sightings of King penguins, the most regal of the five species in the Falklands, and of the peregrine falcon. James and I had an ongoing joke about the Austrians and English ornithologists who had their binoculars always at their eyes, saw none of the birds flying around them. Never thought the social life of penguins would be so developed or intriguing. Incredible how the penguins and albatrosses allow very close approach. On my last day at Pebble, spent some time at the kitchen table with Jennifer and James, talking about all I planned to do when I reached the big city of Port Stanley. Just above the settlement, near the runway, saw the wreckage of Argentine planes from '82. The Falklanders are wont to leave the wreckage standing as a mute testimonial to the battles. Farewell to James and Jennifer after lunch. Inflight at 13:40 to Port San Carlos, then to Stanley

Finally now on January 2nd, having flown up from Pebble in the morning, I check in to the most elegant hotel in the Falklands, the Upland Goose. Having read much about the Argentine invasion in '82, could now locate the path of their taking of Stanley and its municipal airport. At the airport, was greeted by Jackie Draycott.

At the harbor, had seen the Tamar FI, an inter-island freighter, and had gotten to talking with the crew. Turned out that there was one guest cabin on the freighter, which made regular trips to pick up sheep hides and deliver supplies, stopping at several sheep stations on East and West islands. Apparently excellent accommodations and dining . So I asked Jackie to see if I'd be able to get aboard the freighter the following week when I'd be arriving back in Stanley from San Carlos.

Realize I'll have two days now to explore Stanley, since the last century the capital of the Falklands, with 1,000 residents, before heading south. Spent the evening after supper shooting the breeze with sailors in the hotel's public bar.

The next morning, off to the post office. I had been alerted that there was quite a philatelic shop at the postoffice, got lots of stamps from the Falklands, from South Georgia, and from the British Antarctic Territory. Saw an amusing notice on the wall: "If the Tristar doesn't arrive, the postoffice will not be opened the following day." Since '82, the RAF flight twice weekly is essen tially the Falklanders' only contact with the outside world.

Then, wandering along the harbor, got to talking with the Dean of the Anglican cathedral and with Juanita, a weird newspaper editor who stuck herself to me, invited herself to the Upland Goose to eat with me at lunchtime. She claimed to be from Iowa, claimed baptism by Fr. Hale at the Church of the Advent in Boston. I began to sense something amiss, noted to her that my meals are included in my tour; she got the point, said she'd be paying for her own lunch. Then she said she'd like to do a feature article on me in her weekly newspaper, asked if I'd stop by her flat that evening for a photograph. Happily, had already arranged a commitment for the evening. After Juanita left, the hotel patron and his wife burst into laugher, asked how I had figured Juanita out. Told them that 23 years in jail had prepared me for cons. Turns out that Juanita attaches herself to all new tourists and visitors and tries to wheedle a meal out of them.

Went to Stanley Services, was so happy to learn that they had arranged that I'll go on the FI Tamar, just after returning from San Carlos. Though, when I had originally asked for an extra week in Stanley at the end of my trip, Jackie had thought me odd, my prescience was now validated: would have time for the sea tour and for exploring Stanley. In the evening, came upon an English couple who had followed me at Pebble, then got to bantering with many military types from Mount Pleasant in the hotel bar. Most of the military, in their 4-6 month tour in the Falklands, get only one weekend off base, thus do some pretty intense partying when in Stanley.

Next morning, transferred to the municipal airport. It was raining cats & dogs, incredible quantity of rain. At the airport, had to pay $5.00 for excess baggage. As I was the only passenger, the pilot very solicitously gave me a good guided tour of the Islands from north to south. Arrived at Sea Lion, the most southerly island in the group with the only hotel actually constructed as a hotel in the whole colony. After coffee, was given a tour of the island with two English soldiers at Sea Lion for only 3 days. David Gray the host is gracious, but his wife Pat shows the typical Falklander reticence.

At a super luncheon with shepherd's pie, learned that the ornithologists who had plagued me at Pebble were arriving, happily for only one night. Our host gave a land rover tour of Sea Lion Island, one by five miles. After that, in the afternoon, I wandered alone from the west end of Sea Lion to the east, saw Rockhopper and Gentoo penguins, and even the resident three King penguins. The damned white swallowtails were dive bombing me constantly.

It was something of a rare opportunity to see a sea lion giving birth to a fully developed pup (apparently hardly ever witnessed). Also, learned that ten days after birth the male Sea Lion (4 tons) impregnates the cow again. Fertilization delays for 1 month; gesta tion is 11 months; then it starts all over again. After the solo walk ing tour, had a good beef supper, passed the rest of the evening to gab with the English. It will be good to be here with nobody and with no plans, for 5 days.

The Falkland Island breeding stock for fine-fleeced sheep is here on Sea Lion Island. Though the finer fleece fetches a better price at market, many are wondering why there's such an effort, as it is the very ruggedness of the Falkland wool which is prized around the world.

After the ornithologists and soldiers left, a neat family of eight arrived - three generations of English and Falklanders. They were to prove an endless resource of tales about the Islands. In the evening, exploring the dunes with the family kids, crossing back from the dunes to the hotel I had my first experience of grounds for an electric fence. I now understand that they say one touches an electric fence only once!

As the island is so small, one can't get lost (unless contrary to strong advice from the host David they wander into the scrub along the shore, where this season a tourist had come upon a sea lion which bit his leg off!). Thus, I set out on a 4-hour trek, simply reverse direction after 2 hours. With only 6 hours of darkness at night, plenty of time to get everything done.

Had one curious coincidence at Sea Lion: at one point, of the 7 men at the Lodge, 4 are named David! It was a good stay, ren dered the more notable for me, as it is where I finished with the Nicorette gum, my last crutch in giving up tobacco. Would I have begun quitting if I had known how difficult it would be? Probably not, but the difficulty of the quitting gives me the best possible incentive not ever to get started again.

So, finally, back to Stanley, then a change of planes to San Carlos. William and Lynda Anderson, my hosts at Blue Beach Lodge at San Carlos, had spent no small time and effort to turn two farm buildings into a comfortable, traditionally furnished hotel; throughout my stay with them, in fact, I felt less to be a hotel patron than a guest in their home (but then, this is true of most of the stays I had in the Falklands). William having been assaulted by bypass surgery a few years ago, he and Lynda have a neat arrangement with the military at nearby Mount Pleasant: each week two service men come out for the week to help out around the place and get super R&R away from the base. While I was at Blue Beach, Andy and Matt were our resident marines. As soon as I touched down, William noted that they'd be going up to the peat bogs to harvest some peat; I was free to relax. Rather, I surprised them with my request to be allowed to go harvest peat with them. Why not? Well, in the year before it dries out, peat is essentially twiggy mud; lifting a few hundred of these chunks into the wagon was great preparation for a hearty supper.

We did finish earlier than planned; Matt and Andy and I spent the evening over a few pints sharing our respective histories, what had brought us to Blue Beach. This location is significant for the '82 event, as the British offensive for retaking the colony began at this beach. William has done a super job of maintaining the military cemetery just above the Lodge, facing the bay where so much action occurred.

The next day William gave us an excursion into the harbor, with a goose-bump inducing visit to the Ajax Meat Plant which had lost its original reason for being shortly after construction in the '40s. In '82, however, the British troops were in need of a field hospital - that became the new role for the meat plant, with the operating theatre right in the abattoir which had been built for dispatching cattle. I was given a copy of a manuscript memoir of the Meat Plant's role during the campaign, crowned with the proud statement that every man who entered the plant alive left alive.

Further on in the harbor we came upon dolphins, sea lions, Rockhopper penguins, and all sorts of marine life. After that special tour by William, Matt, Andy, and I were ready to tackle the peat harvesting, transporting, and packing with renewed vigor. Happily, Lynda and her sister had prepared a bountiful feast for us hard working laborers. That day was till then the highlight of my trip.

Listening to the radio that evening, heard that my flight was being scheduled very early in the morning, as they had to get me back to Stanley for an earlier than expected departure of the Tamar. Also had a request for my French translation skills, as the incoming passengers were French and spoke no English; of course, William and Lynda speak only English. As we listened to the wireless, with Lynda taking note, it amused me to think how their notification system might work in Boston!

Next morning, with a nourishing and warm sendoff from Lynda and the marines, was off to the airstrip. There, as the pilot (whom I had been with for 3 flights, an old friend by now) and William traded notes and gossip, I explained as quickly as I could to the French what they could expect at Blue Beach, how to light the heater for hot water in the bathroom, how the honor bar works, etc.

June from Stanley Services was parked on the tarmac at the airport; I jumped from plane to car; off we sped. I ran up the gang way of the Tamar and we were underway into Stanley harbor for our first transit, 6 hours up to Salvador. And such rough seas!! It was so wonderful to be aboard a working freighter with a Falkland crew whose hospitality emerged as soon as they were convinced the Yank didn't have any airs or fussy requests; my request to eat with them rather than apart was the clincher for them.

Once out from Stanley and up to Salvador, the sea calmed; the wool loading was done in an hour, and we were underway again for the most fantastic sunset in memory. We continued up around the northeast of East Island, coming to Swan Island for more wool. The overnight transit over to West Island was without incident; had good chance for learning much about the Tamar and life aboard through chatting with the crew who were on overnight watch.

We eat so well, with the Chilean chef. He was so impressed that I tried halting conversation with him in Spanish that he was constantly bringing me little snacks and treats. After loading more wool at Swan Island, further down to Port Howard, the major settlement on West Falkland, where we took four hours to load 250 bales x 200kg of wool, four rams, and a diesel engine. Then a brief transit across to East Falkland, Ajax Harbor and Port Louis. At the quay at Blue Beach across from Ajax Harbor, a homecoming to be back with the Anderson and their Marine guests. I was very sad that the crew and weather cooperated, leading to a prompt return to Stanley. Was a great short voyage: got to 5 sheep stations and West Falkland. The Chilean chef did great work; all the crew were attentive. I recommend the voyage to all.

New digs for this time in Stanley - Emma's Guest House absolutely characteristic of private homes in the Falklands, with home cooking and service. Visited Britannia House, a museum of the Falklands - ironic, as prior to '82 it had been the home of the Argentinean ambassador. Wandered about the town, methodically going up and down each of the 6 streets paralleling the shore, so that I walked by every home in the city. Fun to study the cemetery, there to see stones commemorating early settlers, infants, fallen warriors, seamen, and the whole history of the Colony. Because the military in the Falklands are governed by the food laws of the EC, they cannot eat the local mutton (the cheapest in the world) but must import it from New Zealand (the most expensive).

The first evening, saw two new arrivals (I'm like a Falklander now, pouncing immediately on new people!), heard them talking in Italian, assumed them to be from the region of Bariloche in Chile where so many Italians had settled. However, once we got into conversation, learned that Enzo and Licia were from Italy, MD's doing research at NIH in Baltimore. Here's a coincidence - Enzo was from Civitanove Marche, where Jessica had summered with her cousins as a teenager. Well, Enzo and Licia trusted me to lead them out to explore Stanley that evening.

Would you believe that almost everyone we passed greeted me as an old friend, even people who had come in from Camp or Mount Pleasant for the weekend? So, the small area does have its advantages/failings. I must say, I never thought that a village of 1,000 would be like home, but after travel in the Camp and at sea, it's good to have all the conveniences. Was sorry to lose Enzo and Licia the next morning, when they set out for a day at Seal Island.

On Sunday, having been alerted that the Dean at the Cathedral (the most southerly in the world) is into tampering with the traditions, went to the 8:00 Mass (universally the least changed service anywhere in the world). Was delighted that we used the 1662 Prayer Book for that service; here as everywhere the laity seem quite conservative, not nearly so much into changes as are many of the clergy. Fine by me!

The rest of my time in Stanley was meant to be relaxation and searching for souvenirs & gifts; preparing for the return Tristar. Given the four days' delay on the way down, who's to know when we'd get back to London? But then, ran into some folk I had met in Ajax Harbor; they had been invited to a shipboard party by the crew of the English ship supplying the British Antarctic Territory. Off we went; people who commit themselves to lodging in a settlement with no physical contact with the outside world for six months of the year are a breed apart.

Beginning to think it will be well to return; first, however, a visit to Volunteer Point, which had been put off by my late arrival in the Colony. This was a day-long sortie by Land Rover to the King penguin colony. Up at Volunteer Point finished the film I had stocked for the trip , a sign that it's coming to an end. Then was at a rather boisterous wedding party.

In the evening, had a bit of a bang - surprise party put on by a bunch in Stanley. Happily, had already packed for 5:30 wake-up for transfer to RAF base at Mount Pleasant. Could not have had a better finale - it's like having a new family at the other end of the world. The flight up to Ascension and on to Brize Norton passed without incident., ahead of schedule for London, where the RAF kindly arranged for my speedy transfer over to Heathrow, then on to Boston. One amusing bit: I found many of the non-smoking section passengers to be so dull that I transferred back to the smoking section; even though I didn't want to smoke, I continue to find the smokers a more interesting population.

In M\arch a signal day arrived for me: have now been at MIT long enough for full vesting in their pension plan. Funny how much more significant pension plans become as one gets nearer using them.

One valuable extension of the quit smoking seminar series at MGH: they have monthly reunions/refreshers for alumni. Though few avail themselves of the service, I find it good to keep in touch, also am interested in exploring what we former smokers can do to help current smokers stop.

Continue interviewing applicants for Brown; in fact, just last month had begun getting rather down about the state of the church, society, and people in general. Then had opportunity to meet a young man who had applied to Brown. When I learned his story - his alcoholic father had deserted the family; his older brother and boon companion had died falling asleep while driving a car. This young man could have fallen apart, chose rather to marshall his strength the better to help his mother in coming out of the tragedy. With such people as this, there's hope for the future.

MIT continues its work in re-engineering, with us in Information Systems taking the lead. Like so many organizations that have embarked on this journey, MIT is finding it not an easy task, requiring a radical reorientation of all staff so that they can tune into the latest organizational mantras by current hotshots. As these lines hint, it's not yet clear to me that the process is going to succeed for us. But we must make the maximum effort, as (at MIT particularly) the decrease in Federal funding of research is going to require a leaner, more efficient operation.

It was my special pleasure to work with Jessica as she polished the thesis for her nursing Master's (I doing only the mechanical layout and production part; the work examining the effect of close friends and kin upon the health of elderly women living alone was hers).

Spent Commencement weekend at Brown for my 35th reunion. Though it was good to have time with classmates, I was particularly happy during the weekend to find that the current students seem to have abandoned many of the tenets of political correctness, showing a civility and dress code I had thought gone for good.

Whatever is going on with Re-E at MIT, had opportunity for a number of fun events with fellow employees: a baby shower, a Red Sox vs Yankees duel, and especially a barbecue marking the end of the department into which I had moved when Project Athena ended 3 years ago. It seems most of the celebrations at MIT are for the end of an effort or entity; good the baby shower reminds us that we're also for beginnings.

A sad time in August: the death of George Young, with whom I had travelled in India, and whose conservative church- manship had always been so reassuring to me. At George's request, I was privileged to deliver the homily at his Requiem. Never hav ing delivered a funeral homily before, I had thought it would be difficult to compose; on the contrary, for a person who had lived and died in the faith, the homily is but a slight gloss on the Gospel. Little did I know that this exercise was to stand me in good stead a few months later.

Though the Co-op where I've now been living for 15 years is proceeding very well, and continues to be enriched by the arrival of wonderful new members, we had been plagued for the past several years by a member who had used every court trick and tenancy law to prevent our collecting on her obligations to us. We finally this Summer got her out. Our annual Co-op BBQ on the deck had an extra reason for celebration. Now that the daughter of one of the members has purchased her own unit, there are three two-genera tion families living here. This says something about the special nature of the Co-op. Especially now that rent control is ending in Massachusetts, it's good to be living in a self-owned property where the carrying charges haven't gone up for years!

To celebrate Jessica's completion of her thesis work, Claudine hosted us at a performance of the Cirque du Soleil, those fantastic acrobats from Canada. Anyone who has seen them per form would agree that the calcium in their bones has been replaced with latex..

Got down to Brown again in the fall for a volunteer leader ship weekend. Is it a sign of age, or simply good judgment, that I'm distressed that the staff people think they have to keep reinventing the wheel? Not content to build on the successes of former workers, they periodically have been chucking their predecessors' work altogether and starting from scratch. I was rather verbal in my resistance to this apparent inefficiency. Happily, the staff of the annual fund gave me one more chance to run a phonothon in Bos ton the way we had been doing it all these years. May I gloat, when I note that the volunteers from Boston each raised more pledges during their night of phoning than those from New York, Washing ton, or even Providence, the epicenter of the whole effort?

You saw above reference to my continuing interviewing of applicants to Brown; ancillary to that function was attendance this Fall at a Brown night at Boston Latin School. We alumni were to be there mostly for moral support, I assume. Well, turned out that the staff person from the Admissions Office got hung up in traffic, didn't arrive till an hour late. Here we are - 80 high school students and parents waiting for a presentation. Well, as reluctant as I am to take over, had to act, suggested that the people propose any ques tions; I or the other alumni present would try to answer. Turned out to be much fun; sorry the staff person finally arrived.

With Christmass on a Monday this year, and with flights to Belize going from Miami only mornings, Jessica and I have to interrupt our tradition of Christmass dinner at the Ritz. In fact, after Midnight Mass on Christmass eve and a get-together, I'm off di rectly to Logan. I had thought the airport would be deserted for a 7:00 a.m. on Christmass morning flight; I now learn, however, that from the first flight at 6:00 am through the morning every single seat is booked on every plane out of Boston.

Why Belize this year? Almost as frivolous as how I came to choose Bhutan two years ago: without a clear notion of where I wanted to go, just started down the alphabet of countries, came to the first one that appeared to have some interest for me. Now, as it turns out, Belize is in its way as weird as Bhutan or the Falklands. I hadn't expected to find a former British Colony immediately adja cent to Mexico; nor had I been aware that until last year hostilities between Guatemala and Belize were so great as to necessitate the continuing presence of British troops there. It's almost as if I'm touring about the last vestiges of Empire lately.

Except for some thoughts on Dad's passing, that's it for another year. Hopefully I'll be more succinct; when, however I'm looking for what I can edit out of these lines, all bring back such happy memories for me, I'll leave it for you to edit.

It became clear that Dad was gravely ill when I got a call from Mum at Saint Elizabeth's Hospital: Dad had been admitted in quite serious condition. It being the first time I've been involved with grievous illness of a parent, I've gotten many insights from it; those of you who have had similar experiences will probably see much that is familiar. Right away I went out to join Mum; though Dad was putting on a good face, it was clear something major was afoot. The staff at the hospital were super throughout, keeping us honestly posted on what was going on. As soon as she was able, Jessica came to be with us. Now began her pivotal role: having specialized in working with seniors, Jessica was familiar with what was going on and what likely outcomes were. So, although the decisions about his care were being made by Dad and Mum, we were so fortunate to have Jessica as an interpreter and advocate for Dad. On occasion it seemed that some of the medical staff wanted to do a procedure or exercise an option simply because it existed, with little attention to whether it would make Dad more comfortable or less ill.

Bill and Sis and as many other family members as were able got up to visit with Dad on the weekend. It was remarkable to see how his whole person seemed to brighten when his great grand daughter Jenna came into his room. Apart from the high-traffic weekends, the daily routine worked out to Mum coming in at the beginning of the day, joined in the afternoon by Jessica and me. I treasured the times each evening I was alone with Dad, at one point noted to him that, as bad as the circumstance was, it gave us time alone together such as we had never had. For that I told him I was grateful; he concurred.

With few interruptions for outside commitments, I was surprised to see the days become weeks. As time progressed, more and more of Dad's systems weakened. He was, however, such a gentle and patient man throughout all the medical procedures and his progressive weakening. As we sat quietly together evenings, I began to formulate what I'd say at Dad's Requiem homily, told him that I'd have one final crack at him on that occasion; he did make me promise that I'd crack no jokes in my remarks. Never have I found it to be a greater privilege to be taking the Sacrament to a sick person than on the occasions when I was able to bring Dad his heavenly Medicine. Finally it was clear that our medicine had accomplished all it could; the viaticum was brought one evening when Mum, Bill, Jessica, Claudine, and I were with Dad. As the rite progressed - in fact, Dad getting his boarding pass for his last journey - I felt a strong hand on my shoulder, came to realize it was Bill's. I've noted to many that never in our lives have I felt such a bonding with Bill; thus in his last days Dad quietly accomplished so much (how typical of him).

That last night alone with Dad gave me a perception of life beyond death such as I had never gotten in the years of seminary studies or reflections on the mysteries of the Faith. How fortunate I was! Well, the next night as Jessica and the nurse were making Dad comfortable and we were speaking of tossing a coin about which of us would stay the night, Jessica called me over to wish Dad fare- well. So peaceful, so gentle, so appropriate. Even now, two months later, I think back on that event with awe: never have I been brought to a more immediate presence with God.

In his death Dad has given me the model for how I wish to die, if I have any choice: an alerting event that makes me and those around me aware that the end is approaching; relatively little pain or suffering; enough time for all to visit who wish.

At the funerals in Needham and in Cheshire it was so good to have opportunity to share with family and friends the insights which Dad's death had brought. Though it's unfortunate it took a sad circumstance to bring us all together, it was good to see aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews, and family friends from decades ago. I must say that, had someone told me there were to be paragraphs about death of a loved one in a Christmass letter, I would have thought the author tasteless or daft. Now, however, I realize that it's through exposure to death that I've come fully to appreciate the life which God has brought us in his Son.