My Dad Got Me to a Nunnery Read online

  their services. Imagine an unpaid school faculty of four unsalaried teachers serving 115 boys.

  That was selfless dedication by any measure. The number of faculty would remain static for

  the next thirty years. In all, there were sixteen unsalaried nuns and two paid employees.

  A newspaper report revealed that St. Louis Home engaged a paid nurse’s position. A

  nurse? What nurse? While the nurse’s position must have been reported to the press as such,

  none of us residents of the orphanage could recall having seen a staff nurse, though Mother

  Superior Luc did have this self-anointed role, replete with syringe supply that she carried in

  her white porcelain cooking pan that doubled as, I guess, a first aid kit. That nurse, perchance,

  must have been a specialist whose duties were limited to serving the nuns.

  There were limited lay services at St. Louis Home. Prominent at the home was a local

  handyman, Mr. Raymond, who must have worked at the school partly because he was a

  devout Catholic and partly because his son was the school’s lone lucky commuter who had a real house to return to each evening. Tending to us was also an elder lady, a widow, who

  came to fill in for SoeurBoulé, the head martinet when she went to lunch. We plainly called

  her Madame; she was our supervisor for about an hour every day. No transient volunteers

  were welcome to work at St. Louis. If they did, imagine what we might have revealed to

  them; imagine what they might have witnessed or exposed for the outside world to know! Ah,

  if only there had been a SixtyMinutesinvestigative team in our time!

  The one facility we knew too well was our dorm, two wards, a dining area, classrooms,

  and the outdoor play area, plus the chapel in the nuns’ building and, oh, yes, a lavatory of

  nine-seatless-toilets. That was our space, which we hoped would burn down while we were

  frolicking in the woods. Failing that, the orphanage might go out of business. Nay, not during

  our penal tenure. A year before my release from the convent, twenty acres were added to the

  property, including the construction of a 20’ x 40’ outdoor swimming pool. That was a

  welcome addition to our otherwise unexciting summer days at St. Louis. But a satisfying

  touch—really.

  The ground floor was where we spent most of our days, playing, praying, and listening

  to constant group and individual reprimands. No one from the outside was allowed to visit us

  in this space. This terrazzo-covered floor was enveloped by green glossy lead painted walls

  throughout. Affixed to the walls were our lockers that doubled as hinged-lid seats for

  assemblies where we sat attentively to our daily lectures on righteousness. In my mind, those

  lockers were not constructed with safety in mind—certainly not from my direct experience.

  As one’s little fingers were left in harm’s way, one’s neighbor sharing the lid for about four lockers, would carelessly (intentionally?) drop the lid, risking grave injury. I played

  hide-and-seek in my locker once—lots of room to assume a fetal position down there.

  Someone came by, sat atop my locker row, preventing me from being able to lift the long lid.

  I attempted to cry out as suffocation became imminent. I miraculously regained oxygen as the

  fellow atop the locker gingerly left, and I was able to regain my breath. A close call, indeed!

  But so, what? Who would care?

  We tended to our hygienic needs en masse in that airy basement. In one part of that

  space were the showers and three-by-eight foot sinks. In addition, there was a very long red

  built-in tub, probably twenty feet in length. Its sole use was for foot washing. On certain of

  those hot and humid summer evenings, the forty or so among us removed our three-day old

  clammy and stinky socks fixed to our mucky oozing toes, put them on a pile to be laundered

  and proceeded toward this community tub with our trousers rolled up to our knees. Upon

  sitting collectively along the edges of this tub, we could all watch as the stench of our toes

  gradually transformed to a large puddle of dark, warm, and thin sludge. No soap needed; just

  soak there and, voilà, the phalanges were almost decontaminated. Well, maybe they did not

  really become clean, but we felt a sort of relief at ridding ourselves of the gumminess—at

  least until the next day, when our one-dollar donated sneakers would once again pick up more

  muck where we left off the evening before.

  Located on the floor above us was a space that, except for the dining hall, we had

  little access to. One was a sewing room where rarely was anyone sewing anything. It was

  the place where the nuns sought to impress the visitors. It was the locale where some of us would go to receive a personal scolding from the tyrant in charge. The most impressive

  space was the second floor ward. Had there been basketball hoops, one might brand it a

  gymnasium, as an extended hall with attractive hardwood flooring. This well lit mini

  ballroom was the only area I ever noticed that sported live, well-maintained plants. Other than

  for an occasional statue and crucifix, that room was virtually bare—just a place for show, for

  public events—however rare they were. It served as the overly festooned Yuletide hall and

  the crowded annual bazaar fête. It was the solemn space to hear Bishop Fulton J. Sheen’s

  Tuesday sermon on black-and-white television. A hall joining that ward was the infirmary

  where one rarely went. There were beds there, but never anyone in them. When sick, we

  went up one flight to the regular dorm. Early to bed. Early to rise. Sick no more.

  Housed one more up flight up, the brown rubber covered steps were our four

  classrooms: one for kindergarten, one for first and second grade, one for third and fourth

  grade, and the other for fifth and sixth grade. The classrooms accommodated enough space

  for perhaps twenty chairs and desks bolted to the creaky wooden floor. Blackboards covered

  literally every wall of each classroom. These blackboards were liberally chalked up with

  flawless cursive writing that our teacher nuns would have us copy at our desks. At an average

  of eight texts or tests per month filling those boards, we became accustomed to the art of

  copying not only magnificently legible work, but we were also taught to replicate penmanship

  exemplifying calligraphic value. Technology that would replace this practice would not

  come for at least another decade. Visible at the end of that hallway was an emergency exit,

  which lead to a rusted, squeaky fire escape bolted to the wooden exterior of the building. We were high up there, to be sure, and this stairwell was some frightening, especially for

  those among us who were incurably acrophobic.

  One more flight up was the dorm. There were eight parallel rows of ten little white

  iron bar beds tidily adorned with tan and red plaid bedspreads. Everything up there was

  immaculate and orderly. The only other piece of furniture there was a cushioned rocking

  chair to the front of the dorm for use by the attendant nun. Mine was the seventh bed in row

  two. My friend Peter’s bed was the seventh bed up row three, directly across from me. Of

  course, we were all forbidden to talk to each other as we prepared for bedtime. Once in a

  prone position, we surely could not face each other across our rows; all faced in the same

  direction. I suppose some among us cheated when the opportunity presented itself. A smaller

  dorm, the one used by the you
nger boys, was situated one floor above the dormitory for the

  older ones. Sleeping in either dorm during Maine’s searing summer nights were

  understandably agonizing. Shut-in spaces like these could easily could warm up to 95 degrees

  Fahrenheit, plus humidity for much of the night—with not even a fan to be found.

  There were several windows on either side of this third-story dorm. I remember them

  well, since I was a non-paying pauper who was usually assigned the task of washing its

  windows. I actually didn’t’ mind washing the interiors of those windows. It was the exterior

  that was my fearsome challenge. As an acrophobe, I was frightfully unprepared for the

  method I would need to follow for cleaning those windows that were located at least forty

  feet above the ground. I was to sit on the window sill with my backside on the outside; I

  would pull the lower window down to wash it as well as to use it for support. I always thought that maybe the window would let go and I would back-flip to my demise on the

  ground. One wonders, weren’t there rules prohibiting a pre-adolescent from engaging in

  work this dangerous in scope?

  Another section in this St. Louis Home building housed the youngest among us—those

  aged five to seven, where I commenced my seven-year habitation at St. Louis Home. Those

  little fellas, too, had a very modest downstairs quarter far removed from ours as well as a

  second floor public reception area—an open space too small to be considered a hall. On one

  of its walls was a statue of the ubiquitous Virgin Mary’s likeness. This was the lady in blue

  and white with the artificial roses “growing” from an outlet crafted in her lower back. These

  silk roses were painstakingly created by the skilled nun, Soeur St. Croix, who apparently had

  plenty of time on her hands and great devotion to the mother of Jesus.

  By the time I was about nine years old, the bishop permitted the nuns at St. Louis

  Home to construct completion of an elaborate if not kitschy outdoor shrine to the much

  revered Lady of Fatima—the Virgin Mary who was alleged to have appeared to three

  children in Fatima, Portugal in 1917. As the tale is told, she caused a miracle to happen—

  something to do with a spinning sun drying the rain and curing some people of life-threatening

  diseases. At Fatima, she advocated the daily recitation of the holy rosary. St. Louis Home’s

  shrine to the Lady of Fatima consisted of a large mound of dirt buttressed by a concrete wall

  at its rear. Atop this mound of multicolor, multi species annuals and perennials stood the gray

  concrete mold of the venerable virgin mother herself looking down upon us sinners. More

  flowers surrounded her and a circle of candles in red glass casings adjoined by rosary beads, each the size of a baseball. It was here that, at least during the warm season, we all recited

  the rosaries (four “Our Father’s”, fifty “Hail Mary’s,” four “Glory Be’s,” and other

  interjections delivered between the decades of “Hail Mary’s.” Yes, the display was garish, to

  be sure, but, quite frankly, I found it spiritually moving and inspirational. It was, for me, a

  preview of sorts of what the Virgin Mary’s quarters in heaven probably look like.

  There is more to the Fatima story. Stories about Fatima abounded at St. Louis Home.

  It seems that the virgin mother appeared several times to three children over a few years.

  When she re-appeared for the last time to the third child, she delivered a letter that was to find

  its way to the pope—in her own handwriting, announcing the date of the global hell, an

  apocalypse that some believe was perpetrated by World Wars I and II. That message, once

  dubbed “Zero 1960” was believed to have been about a would-be Armageddon. This

  mystifying epistle understandably left the pope crying for three days though he promised that

  he would eventually reveal that communiqué’s contents. Another

  of Our Lady’s messages had something to do with Russia’s returning its people to a practice

  of Christianity. Also forecast was the death of a man in white to die as a martyr from a

  gunshot wound. Could that man have been the pope? Creepy stuff.

  My most enduring task for four of my seven years at the home was service as guardian

  to Danny, a severely learning disabled boy, two years younger than I. I took full

  responsibility for his needs, his sometimes-violent outbursts, his uncontrollable bladder and

  sphincter, his illnesses, and his uncontrollable manners. His errors were understandably

  many. The inconveniences, hardships, and my often-unachievable responsibilities for his well-being were daunting. I felt often helpless. I was, after all, at the mercy of the nun’s

  understanding of my limitations as a pre-adolescent in charge of a child whose needs could

  not be satisfied by these nuns, much less a little kid like me. Sometimes Danny lay sick in his

  bed in the dormitory, where I was to sit in the nun’s comfortable armchair (a rare privilege!)

  and stare into space for hours, solely because Danny could not be left alone. I missed one

  very big Christmas party because duty required that I take to the armchair as Danny was best

  left hidden from the party’s sponsors, given his many outbursts. When the yuletide soirée

  ended and my peers ascended the stairs to the dormitory, the nun in charge reminded all of us

  about the sacrifices we must perform in the name of God as she consoled me, “Tu va être

  recompenséàla prochainemonde.”[You will be rewarded in the next world.”]

  Most honorable, of course, was that Bobby and I serve as an altar boys at Mass. We

  never served together for the same Mass. My service as altar boy occurred three times a

  week. Bobby served fewer times than that. Dressed in a long white embroidered surplice

  that covered a black ankle-length cassock, I felt closer to God both spiritually and physically.

  Surely, only the priest was closer than I, since he was always very close to the venerably

  mysterious tabernacle at the center of the altar. This was a brass (or was it gold- plated?) two

  by-two by two-foot box with a door in the front that held the consecrated Eucharistic hosts

  and wine for the Mass, and may also have housed a relic of a saint. No one, but no one other

  than a priest could get a peek at the tabernacle’s interior. The door to the tabernacle was

  locked at all times other than during the Mass. When I lit the candles in their tall gold-plated

  candlesticks atop the altar before each mass, that center box intrigued me, as I eyeballed it as if it were a stash of cash, and then continuing about my routine. A powerful symbol to me, it

  was as one might suggest—a Pandora’s box.

  There were other tasks, too, that we poor folk did to pay our keep, as it were. There

  were covert tasks for the trusted amongst us—like helping to enforce discipline by taking

  down the assigned number of the guy who broke a rule, such as speaking during mealtime, for

  an ensuing spotlight to the entire group and accompanying disciplinary action by the nun in

  charge. Some of us were assigned to spy on our mates during Sunday parent visitations. In

  some respects, those moles were as vindictive as the nun for whom they were an agent. Wish

  we had had an emissary like Paul Revere who could augur, “the snitches are coming; the

  snitches are coming!” Action taken from disappointing sleuth reports was serious as is noted

  in a later chapter. Indeed, we children were a rem
arkable resource for the institution’s

  staying power, as long as outsiders believed that these nuns were fine purveyors of motherly

  care and healthy discipline needed in a community setting such as ours.

  Selective utilization of resources outside the walls of St. Louis did occur. Non-profit

  organizations and agencies did perform charitable deeds that directly impacted on the

  children. Members of fraternal organizations came to see us perform, and rewarded us with

  used toys as gifts, generally around the holy holidays. Infrequent events like this would occur

  during the year, but the most celebrated of occasions for merriment were Christmas parties

  that outside sponsors hosted to glorious excess—by far the most pleasant of times at St. Louis.

  The nuns, oddly enough, welcomed the departure from the reformatory tone of the home

  during yuletide. The local police department, the fire department, the U.S. Coast Guard, the Boys Club, and even the U.S. Marines graced our community hall with special programs,

  candy, games, and movies. The local U.S. Coast Guard chief took one of the kids under his

  wing to spend a whole weekend on the ship, usually the same goody-goody kid—not me,

  though I did get to go once. The sailors aboard were gracious, happy to have a poor, sad

  castaway among them to feed, to joke with, to offer full access to the ship—no rules, no

  discipline in this military installation that I could recall! The sole melancholy was in having

  to return to St. Louis on Sunday.

  As an institution that must have surely been frugally managed, the exploitation of local

  resources appeared minimal. Yet, these ecclesiastic wannabes exploited virtually all the

  human resources at their immediate disposal. Nuns managed the orphanage without financial

  compensation, as they were ostensibly dedicated to the Cloth in particular, and

  they exploited their unlimited access to the free labor provided by us captive children. Like

  the incarcerated, we were assigned numbers. Mine was Number 20; brother Bob was

  Number 74; my friend Peter was Number 80. The Catholic diocese relied upon these nuns

  for free services such as child supervision, sewing, cooking, housecleaning, and teaching at St.

  Louis Home. For us little ones, we were mostly consigned to a simple sycophancy as a