The Early Years

I was thinking about my boarding school years during my 3 a.m. jaunt the other day... as in Catholic boarding school, like the old Hayley Mills movies back in the 60's.  I was 6 the first time my mother dropped me off there.  The campus itself  was beautiful, picture a turn of the century hotel (not unlike the Balsams or the Mt. Washington Hotel) turned into a private school for girls.  The front door opened to a huge double lobby/living room complete with a winding staircase.  Lush oriental rugs covered the hardwood floors, very tall ceilings befitting such a grande dame; a dining room behind french doors (it had to seat at least 200--tables of 10 all with a head seat for the Sister in charge of that particular table) and kitchens behind that.  And the chapel...with its dim lighting, stained glass windows, and residue smell of incense all contributing to the magic in  my 6 year old eyes. 

The second and third floors were mostly made up of bedrooms; 2nd floor the nuns, 3rd for us boarders.  At 6, I was the youngest there and the immediate favorite, thus the privilege of a private room right next door to the Sister who's duty was the care of the "little girls".  (One became a "big" girl in 7th grade.)   The basement was designated to our lockers, playrooms, one piano suite for those of us taking  lessons (there was also another piano station on the ground floor).  We had a black and white tv for occasional nightly viewing, and a movie projector big screen for Sunday afternoons, a weekly treat.  I've lost count of how many times we saw The Wizard of Oz.  One school I was in had an indoor roller skating rink and we spent fun afternoons going round and round to the sound of Elvis and Herman's Hermits, early Stones and Beatles.
Oh, and most important (how could I forget?), I didn't speak English.  Not a word.  As if being dropped there wasn't traumatic enough, I had to add completely not understanding a freaking thing anyone said.  I learned to say grace before meals phoenetically, not getting the actual words for years!  A bit like a monk swimming instead of amongst  women...I remember thinking, the first time I saw the elevator with all the buttons, that this was how God worked.  He wanted rain, he pressed a button, and so on.  Remember, I  was barely 6!

The nuns were not without love and kindness; they just weren't my Mom.  I remember being pretty lost most of the time.  It wasn't until years  later that I grew to rebellion.  I'd cry myself to sleep and go into a major funk the Sunday nights I was brought back after a weekend with my parents.  I became a bit of a loner...as outgoing as I am, I was an outsider those early years.  How socially equipped can a foreign 6 year old be??  I eventually learned to speak and read and write English.  I also started piano lessons and spent many hours adrift in the classics.  This saved me I think. 

Ispent all of my grade school years in private boarding school, not attending public school until my freshman year in high school.  Try as I might, I can't think of one good thing to say about those years.  Yet it was expensive, a good education and it defintely contributed to making me an independent person.  I guess it got better as I got older; nothing was as drastic as that first few years. 

But sometimes I wonder what possessed my parents to place me there?  I know they thought it was a good thing, a sign of success even to be able to afford private boarding school for your children.  I know my Mom was busy helping my Dad with his business.  She was the bookeeper for the 200-300 men working for my Dad those early years when he owned and operated huge lumber camps.  And I know she cried as much as I did those Sunday nights. 

This isn't something I think about alot; in fact, the other night (morning?) is the first time I've revisited these early years in a long time.  But I remember being sent to bed right after dinner as punishment for not "cleaning my plate".  I soon learned to take the undesired food and dispose of it by throwing it under the table.  In time, the Sisters learned to look under the table and pity the poor girl who's feet the disposed food landed at!  We all then progressed to hiding the food we didn't like in our apron pockets, aware we had to find a way to get it out of our pockets before our aprons went to the laundry!  All our clothes were ticketed with our names and the good laundry Sisters learned to hunt through pockets before doing the wash!!

I  remember getting my ears pierced at age 12, secretly, in the middle of the night, by one of the "big" girls, in a bathroom with very dimmed light, afraid we'd wake the Sister in charge, but determined to have pierced ears by morning.  This entailed a bar of soap placed behind the ear whilst a sanitzed needle (well, we'd washed it with rubbing alcohol!) was pushed through the lobe.  After icing said ear of course!  Several of us got our ears pierced this way!!  Then the problem of hiding the newly pierced ears!!  Of course we got found out, and doncha know if God wanted you to have holes in your ears, you'd have been born with holes in your ears!  That was tame compared to the reaction of Sister Mary Irene when she discovered we'd been circulating a dogeared copy of Peyton Place for reading after lights out, hiding the forbidden book in a place where we felt sure she wouldn't look.  Wrong again!!  Or the rap on the knuckles if I'd missed a note during a piano lesson.  One nun in particular declared it was sure proof I'd be divorced one day as I couldn't manage to practice my scales!!  (So that's the reason!)  Another claimed I was going to "Pur-gaah-tory" as punishment.  She pronounced it just like this:  pur-GA-tory.  Instead of Purgatory!  Did they really believe this stuff?? 

By the end of 8th grade, I'd had quite enough and my parents were finally living in town full time so I could attend normal high school, and live at home.  I promptly announced to them that I was not going to Sunday mass, that in fact I was 'on credit' as far as God and mass were concerned with all the Holy Days, Sundays, and evening Benedictions we'd had to attend!  Its amazing that I did find my way back to God given how much I disliked most of these nuns.  Instead of teaching us about the love of Jesus, they taught us about the fear of God.  I'm not at all surprised about the drop in attendance for this church even before the recent scandals.

There were a few good nuns, a handful that seemed more human, alive, connected to us even.  One such nun used to have us gather on the floor before bed as she read us from various childhood books.  They sent her off to be a missionary quickly enough if my memory serves me.  When I came back for 3rd grade, she was no longer at the convent. 

It was a lonely time.  I'm trying to find a good note to end this reflection on and I can't. The care was good, the physical care.  Home made meals 3 times a day, home made snack after school...great hermit bars, and whoppe pies come fondly to mind.  But I also remember liver, and egg whites which I don't eat to this day, and the pure misery (no other word for it) of trying to get rid of the food without ingesting it!  And the skin that forms on hot chocolate if it isn't poured and consumed immediately.  How I dreaded hot chocolate mornings!
I don't mean for this to sound depressing.  Alot of children were sent to boarding school.  Especially Quebec and UK kids. I just saw a post of a Bermudian friend who is currently in the UK on Facebook where he fondly shared pictures of his boarding school.   It was just the "done" thing.  In any case, I survived.  I know my parents did the best they could with the knowledge they had.  And quite possibly these early years served to make me resilient to what life swings at us...easier to survive if you can switch courses mid-stream!