One of my fellow high school seminarians -- one of the few who made it through and became lifetime priests -- died of cancer earlier this month.
Jim was a year behind me in the minor seminary. Everybody has a few Jim DeManuele stories, and they are all fun to tell. That is (part of) his legacy.
My early Jim DeManuele story concerns a guitar I was given by the optimistic nuns in my parish. I struggled mightily with this because it was a gift and because I thought it would be a good thing to learn, but had neither talent nor real enjoyment in the experience.
Freshman Jim, searching for a prop for whatever story he was acting out at that moment, grabbed my guitar, shouted "El Kabong!" and slammed it down. Then the repeat: "El Kabong!" and another slam, until the guitar was nothing but a few shattered pieces.
I was somewhere between angry, horrified and relieved. While I was choosing which emotion to bring to the fore, Jim disappeared.
Still can't play the guitar.
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