A wedding at Lake Geneva

Driving to Lake Geneva, my thoughts were complicated to say the least. I was driving up to the Abby resort for my older son Nate’s wedding. While clearly an event of excitement, I was held back in my emotions as I had never really seen eye to eye with my soon to be daughter in law.  A letter she had written me several weeks earlier, had broken the ice between us, and in many ways set the stage for a meaningful relationship.  Still, given the filled schedules leading up to the wedding, I had yet to speak with her face to face since I had received the letter.

A day before the wedding, I met up with Nate, his finance Jacqueline, and my younger son Zack.  Standing under the latticed woodwork of a gazebo near the edge of the property, I thanked Jacqueline for sending the letter and expressed my happiness to have her as my daughter in law.  I know this meant the world to my son as he would later put it, “After that I just knew that everything was going to be ok.”  With the family emotionally united, we all then focused on the matter of hosting a wedding.

Grand plans break down into a myriad of small tasks when planning turns into action. When we walked into the great tent, where the reception would be held, the vast emptiness was a strong reminder of how much there was to do.  The wedding had a nautical theme to correspond with the lake setting.  Nate had worked out a

way to have the place cards be folded like origami to look like little boats.  There were over a hundred of these little boats that were jumbled in a cardboard box. I took it upon myself to organize the boats alphabetically. While seemingly menial, there was something deeply rewarding about taking a project from start to finish. After the boats were arranged, I helped Nate and Jacqueline as they assembled the forty plus lanterns that would eventually hang from the ceiling. Fortunately the florist had been contracted to hang the lanterns and saved us from what sounded like a perilous task.  We wrapped up the preparations not a moment too soon as we rushed off to get ready for the rehearsal.

I had yet to meet Jacqueline’s family before the wedding, so I was eager to meet them. As I walked up, I spotted them quickly as I had seen them in pictures and introduced myself.  Nate and Jackie had been held back at the reception tent dealing with final details so they ran a few moments behind me.  Upon seeing that I was speaking to my future in-laws, before he had formally introduced us, caused Nate to break into the most casual looking panicked run across the property that he could muster. As he reached us, he caught his breath and inquired as to how we were getting on. Gary and Sharon were lovely people to meet and I was very pleased to find that my son was marrying into such a nice family.

The wedding director at the Abbey was a young lady around 25 years old named Tabby, Tabby from the Abbey.  Saying her name over and over, Nate had begun to refer to her as “Tabitha from the Abbitha”.  She had a mannerism that was distinctly reminiscent of the stewardess Elaine from the movie Airplane!. The Reverend overseeing the wedding was not able to make it to the rehearsal due to a scheduling conflict, so we had Tabitha from the Abbitha walk us through the steps. Given the lack of formality that might come with meeting the Reverend overseeing your son’s wedding, Tabby’s rehearsal went rather rapidly.

 We were in Wisconsin.  It was a Friday.  A fish fry seemed like a safe bet.  There are a lot of ways to mess up fish. It can be dry, it can also be limp. The interesting thing about our experience was that somehow the restaurant managed to both features.  While the fruits of the ocean were

not the best, the well-stocked bar managed to keep everyone very happy.  My nephew Andy, who sat to my right, apparently had not eaten in days, because he ate through 3 full plates of the food. The rehearsal dinner all in all went smoothly. Friends and family that we had not seen in years arrived at the dinner much to our delight.  As the night wore on, a group of Nate’s groomsmen and friends found themselves all at one table making solid use of the bars resources.  When I got up to say good night and head back to my hotel, I received a rousing thank you from the room, but especially all sitting at that table.

The next morning arrived quickly. Nate brought over orange juice coffee and pastries.  My younger son Zack, Nate, and I sat there quietly drinking and eating, all aware of the big day before us. Nate left to go get ready, fairly quickly; Zack and I stayed in our room, finished our breakfasts and got ready for the big day.

Being an outdoor wedding, we were at the mercy of the weather and May is often a finicky month. My birthday falls in May and as a child I remember often not being able to wear the summer outfits that I had received.  When I opened the sliding door on my room, Zack and I were met with a brilliant blue sky and embracing warm breezes; we were thrilled.

By 2 pm, Zack, Nate’s best man, had gone off to be with Nate. I made my way through the winding halls of the Abbey. Years of additions had made the hotel a near labyrinth of hallways to navigate. Despite backtracking a few times, I made it to the lobby, where we were all to meet up for the ceremony.

At 3 pm, the string quartet began to play. The guests were seated and it was time for the wedding to begin.  Nate walked to me smiled, hugged me, and placed his arm around mine.  It was at this moment we realized that Tabby was nowhere to be found.  In the rehearsal the day before, she said that she would be there to send everyone down the aisle, but we were alone. What began to look like a problem was resolved when Nate looked at me and said, “Here we go, ready?”  The walk down the aisle was surreal.  As we walked I started to tear up from emotion.  As we walked, I began to notice the song that the quartet was playing, “The Rainbow Connection” from the Muppets.  I was overwhelmed. When Nate was a child, we would sit in our rust stained 1982 Volvo and listen to a Muppets tape and that song specifically, it was our song.  As I made it to the front Nate wrapped his arms around me tightly, fighting back tears he said, “thank you mom, I love you so much.”  I sat down as the rest of the procession filed in.

The ceremony was short and poignant. Growing up Catholic, I appreciated how the Reverend kept things moving.  Nate and Jackie were understandably emotional through the ceremony. At one moment she found herself wiping her nose and then ending up without a pocket to put her tissue in. This occurred while they were supposed to be holding hands during a section of the ceremony where the Reverend was describing the unbreakable bond of marriage.  Not wanting Jackie to stand there with a soiled tissue, Nate reached out took it from her hand and placed it in his pocket.  The Reverend took note by saying, “life is not without adaptation and this moment demonstrates how sometimes you need to care for another above all else.” Nate and Jackie exchanged vows shortly after. In his vows, Nate promised:

“Jacqueline, I promise above all else, to love you for the rest of my life. I promise to be your partner through thick and thin. I promise to hold you when you cry, and laugh with you when you are happy.  I promise to notice the virtue that you bring, and to forgive when life goes array. I promise to be patient and kind. I promise to be the husband that you deserve.  While I cannot promise that I will always succeed in being the best husband that I can be, I absolutely promise, I will never stop trying. Also, I am going to smooch you a lot, take the dog to the park when it is cold, and take you to Cubs games too, this I promise.”

With the conclusion of the ceremony, we moved on to pictures cocktails and the reception.  The pictures were uneventful and other than many of the girls’ heels sinking in to the soft spring ground, everything went off without a hitch.

Our work the day prior had paid off, the tent looked beautiful. Globe lanterns of blue gold and white lit up the ceiling with a wonderful glow.  The tables were set with a nautical theme, and the little boats were being picked up at the front as everyone made their way to the tables.

The dinner was terrific, which is honestly like Bigfoot sightings, rare and never believed, but it was the case.  The cake was cut, speeches were made and Nate and I walked out on the floor for the mother son dance.  The band began to play “You Are The Sunshine Of My Life”, this was the song that I sang to Nate as a baby to put him to sleep.  I cried and held my son so proud of him for the person he had become. As the night went on I got to watch the reception become a lighthearted party. My nephew Andy Brand and his wife and son cut a serious rug as the band played on.  It was an amazing night.

Life is a complex thing; it can give us so much and also leave us so wanting.  Being a person that has faced my set of challenges in life, I, like many, can be wary of large events as they approach.  I approached Nate’s wedding with trepidation, but could not have been more thrilled with the way that everything turned out.  I now have a lovely daughter in law and my son and I have never been closer. I feel lucky.

Birthday Story

 A Tale of Two Vacations

There are few times you are given the opportunity to evenly compare large events in your life.  It is due to the rarity of this circumstance that two family vacations loom so largely in my consciousness.  Both trips fell over my birthday; and while they were both to amazing places, they could not have been more divergent in their feel. 

In 1989 my husband told me he was taking me and our children to Ireland for my birthday.  I was thrilled.  I am 100% Irish and I was excited to visit the land of my family.  On the day of my birthday, I awoke early and excited.  I could not wait to celebrate my 45^th birthday with my family.  It is strange; somehow when it is your birthday, you expect people to act a certain way around you.  They give some indication they know it is your birthday, but that did not happen and all I thought was oh well!  Finally around 6 pm as we headed out for dinner, I said to my husband, “Do you know today is my birthday?”  He replied dryly, “Yes, so?”  I followed with, “I thought it would be nice if you said happy birthday to me.”  With that he snapped at me, “I brought you to Ireland, didn’t I… isn’t that enough?!”  And with that he walked away.  I was crushed.  John didn’t even tell my kids it was my birthday; I could not bring myself to tell them.  So the day simply passed… no card, no happy birthday.  The whole interaction crushed me.  I should have been used to his anger and mistreatment, but it still shocked me.  It was an experience that would haunt me for years.

In light of that trip, it was an interesting moment when my younger son Zack and I began discussing a trip to Italy, which would, once again, fall over my birthday.  After peeling my older son Nate away from his job, the three of us set off for Italy…Round two.  Italy instantly was a different trip; my kids took every opportunity to make me feel great; we all felt great and a sense of relief knowing that we were all there minus one abuser.  The kids were fabulous company and they took every opportunity to kid me by saying, “Geez Mom… I took you to Italy, isn’t that enough?!”  I have to say if there was any lingering concern about my birthday, my kids did everything in their power to make it a very special day.  The night of my birthday became one those funny nights I will always remember.  Zack made reservations at a restaurant, which he was keeping secret.   Around 5 PM Zack, ready for the evening, headed up to the rooftop bar to have a drink.  Around 5:30, as I was about to go to meet him, Zack came back in the room looking as if he had seen a ghost and eaten bad Chinese food.  Zack found this restaurant in an Italian guide, which sited this as one of the best restaurants in Florence.  The restaurant had $$$ which the travel guide explained was going to be around $100 or more per person.  Zack thought that meant the price would be around $300-$400 in total.  Out of curiosity Zack started reading more about the restaurant on his phone and saw some reviews.  One review stated the food was excellent, but get ready to mortgage your house to pay the bill.  Another stated that the food was great, but was equivalent to two payments on his BMW.  Zack read on, only to realize that the costs… are you ready… averaged around $800 per person!  Zack came back to the hotel room, with his head down almost to the ground. He started by explaining his predicament to me and continued to say he was still willing to proceed with the evening as planned.  After nearly swallowing my tongue over the cost of the evening, I pleasantly explained to Zack there was no way in hell I would let him pay that much for any dinner.  Unsure of where the night would lead us, the three of us headed out, and I had no care in the world because I was with the two handsomest, nicest, interesting, smartest, and engaging children any Mother could have. We ended up finding a very charming restaurant with outdoor seating.  The food was excellent.  We had course after course, wine, Champaign and more.  My kids presented me with cards, which they created, and a beautiful pair of earrings; gold ones, which came from the famous “Gold Row” in Florence.  The dinner concluded with a wonderful dessert, candle included and a singing of Happy Birthday, which the entire restaurant joined in on.  The evening was everything I hoped and dreamed for.

The stark difference between Ireland and Italy was people’s desire to make others happy.  My former husband could not have demonstrated any more clearly the effect of someone who had no regard for others’ feelings and that was a common theme of our marriage.  On the other hand, my children could not have shown how simple and wonderful it is to be nice.  I guess if I had one major question about life, it would be: why can’t people be nice to those they love?  Some are not, and it makes everyone around them suffer, but there are those that show love and compassion towards each other and that, frankly, is what makes life worth living.                 

Going Home

You may say you think you will go home, but you never really believe you will!

It had been five years and I had come to understand that kids were transferred to other institutions; some graduated high school and were released to the world, but it seemed no one went home for good.  Most of us had come to the painful understanding that we would never go home, because nobody at home wanted us. Until the day I actually left, I firmly believed my first chance to leave Maryville would come with my graduation from high school, an event that was still six years away.

The summer of 1957 was unremarkable in almost every way.  I had been at Maryville for five years and the rhythmic nature of life there meant surprises were far and few between. In fact, most of us feared the routine changing, as we had learned that any surprise or change in our lives was likely to be a punishing, painful, and sad experience.

One sticky and uneventful day that summer, I ran into my sister Kathleen in the yard.  Kathleen was a high school student and I just finished 6^th grade.  She started to tease me, telling me she knew something I didn’t.  I kept pressing her to tell me what she knew.  Finally, she told me that Mother had applied to Catholic Charities and requested that my sisters and I be allowed to go home permanently.  I looked at her in disbelief… “Are you telling me the truth?”  She said she was.  I asked Kathleen if she knew when this might happen, but she said she didn’t know.  I ran and found my younger sister Suzanne and told her.  I truly doubt she believed me.

A week or so later, I got up from my nap (required in summer because of the fear of children catching polio) and meandered down to the yard to play baseball.  We were playing against another hall, but I don’t remember which one.  I was assigned to 1^st base for that game.  A girl was up to bat; she hit the ball and it was thrown to 1^st base.   I caught it and tagged her out.  She stayed on base and said I didn’t tag her, but I had and I told all my team mates that Mary Jean was out.  Even if she made it around to home, it was not to count.  I remember feeling extremely frustrated with the whole situation.  At that point a girl from my hall ran over to me and said Sister Madelyn had kept my sister Suzanne in the hall after the nap time and she wanted to see me as well.  I was very aggravated with this girl who decided to stay on 1^st base after I had tagged her out and now I was very aggravated with Sister Madelyn; the day appeared to be falling apart quickly.  I had no idea what Sister Madelyn was up to, but it had to be bad for me. I left the game and actually was happy to walk away from Mary Jean on 1^st base and ready to face whatever was ahead of me with Sister Madelyn.

I walked up the stairs to Isabelle Hall and when I saw sister Madelyn she said, “I didn’t realize you had left and gone down to play and I have something to tell you.”  Her tone of voice told me maybe this was not going to be too bad; trust me, it was an awkward sensation.  I looked at my sister Suzanne and she looked as perplexed as I did.  Sister Madelyn took us into the broom closet and closed the door.  I didn’t understand why we had to go into the broom closet, because I didn’t think anyone else was in the hall; I also was unaware that the broom closet was a good place to talk.  She started, “I have something to tell you.”    She said, “Genevieve, remember how you told me your Mother was going to take you home for good?”  I shook my head remembering my previous statement of pride and defiance.  “Well…” she said, “Your Mother is taking you home for good.”  She went on and said, “I give credit to your Mother, because many children are promised that they will be taken home, but in most cases it never happens.”  I asked her when this was going to happen and she said tonight. I had no idea how to react.  I don’t remember feeling happy or exalter or anything; I was just in shock.  Sister Madelyn told Suzanne and me to go to our lockers and clean them out and my Mother would be by later that night to get us.  So began my journey home. 

I went over to my locker to clean it out and there standing was Virginia, one of the girls in Isabelle hall.  She asked what I was doing and I told her I was going home for good tonight.  Virginia looked at me with a sad vacancy and said, “You are so lucky.”  At that moment, I realized I was lucky.  As I started to clean my locker there were a number of trinkets in there that I had guarded jealously when I thought I would never leave, but now suddenly, I had no use for them.  I looked at Virginia and asked her if she wanted these items and she said yes.  In addition, I had been knitting an orange and white sweater and it was very pretty, but I didn’t care about this knitting anymore, or anything else that reminded me about Maryville.  I felt sorry for Virginia; she was unpopular and I could see her pain in knowing that I was leaving and she was not.  I showed her how far I was along with my sweater and asked her if she wanted it to finish; she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said yes.  Giving that sweater to her was the least I could do to help her at that moment, and it felt good to do. I finished cleaning out my locker and ran back downstairs to my baseball game.  When I arrived all the girls wanted to know what Sister Madelyn wanted with me as her calling me up was an unusual occurrence.   I looked at all of them for a minute and then said I am going home for good.  They asked when and I said tonight.  We all just looked at each other not knowing what more to say.  I had lived with these girls for five years and there were just no words to describe the feelings at that moment, we just stood there.  I went back to 1^st base but if Mary Jean had run home it didn’t really bother me anymore; nothing mattered; I was going home.

The rest of the day was a blur; it was a Friday and I remember my Mother arriving to pick Suzanne and me up.  I don’t even remember saying good-by to my sister Kathleen (she decided to stay at Maryville to finish high school, Pat and Sharon had graduated from high school and were living at home) or the rest of the girls in my hall or Sister Madelyn.   I felt a little like a prisoner escaping from prison not caring who was being left behind and certainly not feeling a need to say good-by.  Suzanne and I got in the cab and left Maryville for the last time. Mother asked if we had dinner yet and we said no.  That night she took us to an Italian restaurant and I remember eating spaghetti with meatballs.  It tasted great.  I had forgotten it was Friday and as a Catholic, there was no meat on Friday, but I couldn’t have cared less about my oversight, I just enjoyed my meatballs.  Maybe God would forgive me for that indiscretion, but honestly I didn’t care.

When I arrived home that evening I learned that my older sisters Pat and Sharon were away for the weekend so Suzanne and I had the whole TV to ourselves.  We watched TV all night until it went off the air.  At that point being home didn’t feel a lot different than the many weekends I had been home previously.  But when Sunday night came and I didn’t have to go back to Maryville and …that felt very different.    When Pat and Sharon arrived home on Sunday my Mother told Suzanne and I to hide in the bedroom and we would surprise them.  When they walked in the door I heard my Mother say I have a surprise for you and I heard my sister Pat say, “It better not be the girls…”  With that I just sank down; I was so deflated.  I realized for the first time Pat did not want us home; I didn’t know why but I didn’t really care. Pat and Sharon walked into the bedroom and said hello. Pat apologized for her insensitive remark, but the damage was done. It was not a good way to start my time at home.  That was not the first or last time I would have to deal with my sisters’ insensitive behavior.  People don’t change.  I may have gotten out of Maryville, but I still felt unloved, unwanted, and on the outside of life. Some things are hard to change.

Epilogue

Years later I still continued to find much hardship, but I also found a life filled with happiness.   I lived with my abusive husband for 30 years, which came to an abrupt end with a bag packed and a note on the door.  My sisters decided to maintain a relationship with my ex-husband after the divorce, which was devastating to my children and me.  Throughout all of this came a clear perspective of my life.  A few years back I read an article about a woman who was dealing with the same situation I had endured with my husband and sisters.  The article was so similar; in fact, my friends thought I had submitted the story.  Out of this article I realized that I was not alone, and my feelings were not out of place. Life will always pose challenges and it just depends on how I meet these challenges.  I have two wonderful sons who are doing very well.  I have earned an MBA and maintain a great job with people I care deeply about.  I even play competitive tennis once a week, and sometimes a little ping pong as well… even though my sons beat me sometimes now.  When someone asks me if I am happy…  I can finally look at them, and with a resounding tone and state, YES!

Back to Reality

Camp was the essence of much of what I craved as a little girl. Still, it was really nothing more than an island; a short window during the summer in what was otherwise frighteningly turbulent years. My Mother made a choice to make me and my sisters orphans.  The long bumpy ride back to Maryville from Camp St. George was filled with feelings of anxiety and loss, I was about to be returned to reality, where fun and security were nowhere to be found. This is not to say that every moment of my life was without happiness; it was just that those moments that did hurt, did so in such a grand and crushing manner that they have shaped elements of the person I am today.

The first Christmas, after my Father died, was an unusual time for many reasons. The greatest was that my sisters and I would never again have a defender or advocate against our cruel and thoughtless Mother. My Father represented the only barrier of reason to the ludicrous and narcissistic whims of my Mother.  She was never a woman to be burdened by responsibility or obligation.  Often, in direct contrast to my Mother’s ill wishes, my Father held our fragile family together. With his passing, she became free to exact her selfish whims against her young children. There was no stopping her. With his death, our life was to change forever.  Under the veil of my recently deceased Father, the realization there was no Santa, was a sad and dramatic shock. It was that year my Mother bought me a dark red three wheel bicycle.  I was not aware of it at the time, but the money for the bicycle came from the significant windfall after my Father’s death.  Those who had been close to him, both personally and on the police force, had given our family a significant amount of money, likely enough to buy a small house.  Whatever were the misguided motivations of my Mother, there never was a house, but she did live large without us, and on that first Christmas, I received my bike.

It was a beautiful bicycle. It really didn't matter that I could already ride the tall two wheel bike that belonged to my older sisters; the pride was that something was actually mine.  My older sisters taught me to ride their bike a few months earlier, but being five or six, I had to stand up in order to reach the pedals. My early coordination (I first stood up at nine weeks) instilled a particular affection for my bike, as it was something that I felt I had total control of. But, the feeling was not to last.

When we were all shipped off to Maryville, the bike was sent along with my other few possessions.  For whatever reason Maryville conceived, I was not allowed to ride my bike.  Being in such shock upon my arrival, I never really argued against the rules. I mostly just tried to avoid being beaten by the nuns.  Even through all the fear and sadness, I still had my bike.  The nuns had parked my bicycle under the landing of the side set of stairs.  As I was often up and down those stairs, I would regularly look at the bike as I passed.  The bike warmed my heart as it was a symbol of a life on the outside.  It gave me hope and the feeling that going home was never too far away.  The bike sat under the landing for three months, and then, one day, it was gone.  I never knew what happened to the bike, and being a confused and scared seven year old, I never asked.  Although I never asked about the bike, I had a fact confirmed to me that day; no one was going to take care of me.

Regardless, life moved on.

With all five of us at Maryville there was always some event like a graduation, a confirmation or a first communion going on and because of those events, parents were allowed to visit and celebrate with their children. Most of those occurred on Sunday and so we were allowed to leave Maryville for a couple of hours, drive into town with our parents, and had to return by four or five that evening.  My Mother would often arrive at Maryville, when she actually did show up, with a new boyfriend in tow.  Those boyfriends were strange men to me and their presence robbed any feeling of personal mother-daughter time that I might have been able to otherwise squeeze from my Mother. I was extremely unsure of myself and resentful of the situation that these men created.  I was always excited to leave Maryville if even for a couple of hours.  But often the boyfriends told my Mother that they did not want to take all five us into town for the day; they would only take one or two of us with them. They wished to limit their inconvenience.  I never once heard my Mother protest. She just told us that her boyfriend did not want to take all of us, so she decided which two to take and the rest of us were just forgotten and left behind.  Somewhere between the fact that my Mother had more interest in her boyfriends and her dog…yes she kept her dog…than her children, I developed resentment for her and the whole situation at Maryville which has taken many years for me to fully grasp and deal with.

 Many years later after leaving Maryville, my son Nate became an Eagle Scout in the Boy Scouts of America. I was very proud of my Nate because he had attained the Eagle ranking when he was only fourteen years old. Every year, all of the new Eagle Scouts were invited to an awards dinner. I so looked forward to this event, all the food, fun, and a well-known speaker would be brought in to give the new Eagles a motivational… pep talk.  That year the speaker was Father John Smith, who was the executive director of Maryville Academy. He was better known as a basketball player from Notre Dame University.  He began his speech by comparing the parents of the Eagle Scouts and the parents of kids at Maryville.  He said Maryville kids had parents who did not care about them; they didn't believe in giving their kids any attention and that’s why it was so hard for Maryville kids to succeed. He went on to say that the reason our kids made Eagle was because they had parents, who cared about them and took the time to encourage their children and helped them succeed.  Well… as he went on I started to cry; I was having a hard time controlling my emotions. He finally finished and as he started to leave the room, I decided to go up to him and introduce myself.  He was suggesting that kids like me didn't succeed but I felt I had succeeded.  I had a college degree, the first in my family to do so.  I was happily married and had two wonderful children, one of whom was one of the honorees for this evening’s event.  I approached Father Smith and introduced myself and told him I had been at Maryville.  He looked at me and just kept walking. I felt like he had just told a disaster story where everyone in the room thought there were no survivors, but I was a survivor and I thought he would be happy to meet me but he wasn't   Later Father Smith was dethroned when it was learned that Maryville kids were being abused under his watch; I understood better why he didn't engage me.  He was not a sincere man just a person full of show, always looking for the spotlight.    

Life at Maryville was filled with the outcomes of shortsighted, cruel and selfish people. Our parents’ choices to give us up, the utterly uncaring and cruel tendencies of the nuns and the vacant and careless management of the Catholic clergy caused irreparable damage.  The stresses were such that many children never really recovered. They just became hollow emotionless shells. But largely that was the exception and not the rule.  For many of us, Maryville became something for us to survive.  Experiences to endure, but not one that we would let define us for the rest of our lives.  My life since has been filled with triumphs and hardships, as any normal life has.  After Maryville, the relationship with my Mother was never the same, how could it be?  I still play ping pong regularly, now often with my sons. Maryville took everything it could from me, but somehow through it all, I thrived.

CAMP: Part 2

Camp gave me the chance to feel normal and to actually be a kid, even if for a week at a time.  I loved waking up, going to bed and everything that came in between.  Sometimes the weather was sunny and warm, but even an occasional cold and rainy day could not dampen my spirits. There is a warm wonderful feeling that goes along with being a kid during the summertime.  For the children of Maryville, camp represented the closest most of us ever got to living like normal kids. Life at Maryville was typically so laden with fear sadness, and boredom, that the experience at camp represented an even clearer exciting contrast to our normal lives. One of the utter highlights of camp was the competitions. While at camp, there were several competition events, in which all the girls were allowed to participate.  One was the sandcastle building challenge.  There was also the frog race (a camp favorite) and then… there was ping pong. After ping pong, nothing much else mattered.

I was at Maryville for five years but I don’t remember competing in the ping pong contest the first year. I spent most of my first year trying to survive the institution that was Maryville.  When I was in pure survival mode, I had little time or interest in learning a new sport, or much anything else. That being said, in my second year, my trip to camp piqued my interest in ping pong. That year I overheard some girls talking about the contest and they mentioned Pat Slattery had won the ping pong contest … my older sister had won a camp wide competition. Upon hearing that, I made my way to the ping pong table and began to learn to play.  I felt an immediate sense of connection and confidence with the game. I had found my sport and I was quickly playing and beating nearly anyone who challenged me.

There were droves of girls at camp with me.  It quickly seemed that each one of them had their sights set to challenge me. With the volume of girls who wanted to compete, the competition went on for hours every day. The tournament at camp was run with a simple format.  If you won you kept playing; if you lost you were out.  As time pushed on each day, I found I was playing for longer and longer and not being eliminated.  It was thrilling to realize I was getting good at ping pong.  I loved playing and competing. Winning helped raise my self esteem and more importantly, winning was just plain fun.  The first year I competed I did well, even though I did not win, but the second year I won and became camp champion.  I ended up being camp champion every year for the remainder of my time at Maryville. I was considered the best player at camp. It was an incredible feeling. I remember one year being down at the lake and walking along the long pier.  Two girls were walking behind me and one of the girls asked the other, “Who won the ping pong contest this year?”  The other girl responded, “Oh Slattery did again.”  I never turned around to see who they were, but just kept walking along the pier and feeling extremely satisfied and proud; they never knew they were talking about me and I was walking right in front of them. Even though Ping pong consumed me at camp; there were always other activities to pursue and competitions in which to take part.  Despite my personal preference for ping pong, I would be remiss without mentioning Isabella Hall and our extreme prowess in sandcastle building.

The sandcastle competition was conducted the last day we were at camp. Isabelle Hall was one of many halls in the all camp competition. We worked as a hall, not individually.  This benefitted us greatly as some of the older girls were extremely creative and industries while the younger girls were good at running with their buckets to the water. Being part of the younger group, I aided my team by ferrying water throughout the competition; we filled and brought the buckets of water back so our sandcastles would not dry out.  All week we would plan what we were going to create and how and who was going to do what.  It was called mass production; Henry Ford had nothing on us!  We worked at it for hours; the designs tested the limits of children’s imaginations, which often seemed endless. We would run down and look at the other halls’ creations to get a sense of where we stood as the competition developed; it was fierce.  The contest was judged by the nuns; never had there been a less graceful or strangely amusing sight, than a nun, in full habit, attempting to peruse the beach, to inspect sandcastles. The regular rise and fall of the sand caused their habits to become trapped beneath their feet giving them the gate of a penguin lacking coordination.  The nuns would plod back and forth with significant effort looking at all the sandcastles. Finally, after a seemingly excessive amount of deliberation, the winner would be announced.  Although we did not always win, Isabella Hall was a team to be reckoned with; we made some darn good sandcastles.

Whether I was swimming in the lake and dancing around the crabs that populated the bottom, participating in the ping pong competition, racing frogs, or watching movies when it rained, camp was wonderful. Even Mass on Sunday took on a warm and fun feel at camp. The cedar beams and the colorful stained glass served to reinforce my feelings of warmth and happiness.  I will cherish my memories of camp and what that place meant to me for the rest of my life.

 

       

CAMP: Part 1

Arriving at camp was always a moment absolutely filled with excitement, hope, and happiness. The long bus ride to Camp St. George in Eagle River, Wisconsin, was truly thrilling and energized me to a point that I thought about it every waking moment until it finally arrived.  We would arrive at the camp, after an eight hour drive around dinner time.  Upon our arrival we would grab our belongings and jump off the bus.  If it was sunny out that was great, but if it was raining that was fine, as nothing was going dampen or interfere with my feelings of inner peace and happiness. My life at that time was so constantly laden with fear sadness and desperation, that the excited, carefree feeling that washed over me upon arrival affected me all that much more.  It was wonderful to feel happy, content and just plain normal. 

Before going to dinner, all of us from Isabelle Hall would be assigned a cabin.  The cabin was long and narrow.  There were windows on both sides and there were wooden floors which creaked every time we took a step. Along this narrow corridor were eighteen bunk beds and very little walking room between them.  There was also a small walled area where a high school girl would stay and, in theory, supervise us.  There was also one small bathroom with a sink and a toilet, no shower or tub. All of us would run into the cabin and pick a bed, the older kids got what they wanted, the top bunks and the little kids were stuck with the bottom bunks. We would deposit our belongings at the bottom of our beds and head out for dinner. 

All meals were served in a large hall close to our cabin. The food hall had very large windows which allowed the sun to shine in.  There were long wooden tables and chairs and the hall just looked and smelled fabulous. The food was cooked by a German woman who was blessed with real culinary talent.  She was assisted by high school girls but the food creations were hers and every meal was tasty and satisfying.  As an added bonus to the situation, we didn’t even have to do the dishes.  Those were done by the high school girls; it was simply wonderful.

After dinner I would begin to, once again, familiarize myself with the camp.  I walked down by the lake, strolled along the long pier and got to know my surroundings.  The lake was always so peaceful and inviting.  I’d listen to the birds and watch the fish jump and I would tip my foot in the water to gauge the temperature. I would then kick my feet in the sand and wonder what sand castles we were going to build.   After visiting the lake I would walk up the hill and see the screened-in cabin.  I would peak in and see the ping pong table and think about the ping pong contest that was to be held during my week at camp. I so looked forward to playing ping pong.

I would then venture further up the hill and walk down by the outhouses, checking to see if anything had changed.  The outhouses were nestled in the woods and were filled with flies and smells.  During the day we were not allowed to use the bathroom in our cabin, we had to use the outhouses and so it was important I checked these out.  I am sorry to say they never changed; they were always the same… terrible.

After I finished familiarizing myself with the important camp sites, I noticed it was getting dark, the sun had gone down and it was probably time to go back to my cabin get ready for bed and see the end of my first day at camp. As I was falling to sleep that first night, I thought about my day’s adventures and I could not think how it could have been any more special and pleasurable.  This was just my first day and there was so much more to come.

   

A Root Beer for the Road

There is something about camp that just seems to carry a magical presence to it. It is this experience which so many people remember with such fondness to make it a standout event in their childhood.  For almost everyone who is fortunate enough to experience a stay at camp, be it through the YMCA, the Boy or Girl Scouts, or through a church group,  it represents a combination of fun, excitement, adventure, and frankly that slender line of maturity that helps you grow up as you come to learn more about who you really are.

It can easily be said that most kids look forward to going to summer camp, but in the summers of 1953 to 1957, I doubt none more than me.  Every summer while at Maryville all of us kids attended a summer camp in Eagle River, Wisconsin; I think the camp was donated to Catholic Charities by some good soul. The camp was nestled in Northern Wisconsin and had all the charm and magic you could possibly hope a camp would have. 

Life at Maryville was nothing, if it wasn’t slow, monotonous, and methodical.  There were stretches of time that if it had not been for the occasional visitations by my mother, individual days would have been impossible to pick apart. With a life so steeped in regimentation and boredom, the prospect of anything, much less a week at camp, was enough to consume my thoughts entirely.

Sometime prior to summer we learned which week our hall (Isabelle Hall) would be attending camp and the excitement would begin.  When we finally learned when we would be heading up to Wisconsin, I am pretty sure that a comet could have struck Maryville and I probably wouldn’t have noticed.  From that moment, every free minute of my life would be consumed with planning, contemplating, and counting down the days until we left. I couldn’t wait till that week came.  It’s funny thinking back on it now, we only stayed at camp for one week but it felt like a month of endless fun. 

The night before we were scheduled to leave, there was pure excitement among all of us. We went to bed early that night due to our early departure the following morning, but I could have cared less, going to bed brought me that much closer to heading to camp.  The night passed quickly, and with our wake up call, I readied myself rapidly.  Some of the kids were tired and groggy but not me, I was ready and rearing to go.

We made our way downstairs to find the exceptionally large motor coach waiting for us.  We all piled on, I don’t remember even saying hi to the bus driver, I had waited for this moment for so long that it all became a blur in my excitement.  We took our seats; we were each given a bag with our breakfast in it.  Sister Madelyn gave us final instructions and a dose of her charm with a few threats about what was going to happen to kids who did not behave themselves.  With that I heard the engine start and I knew we were leaving for camp. 

The ride was exceptionally long; it took eight hours to drive from Maryville to Camp St. George in Eagle River, Wisconsin.  Many of the kids slept for the whole ride but not me, I was too excited.  Four hours into our ride, the bus stopped at some sleepy town in Wisconsin.  We all piled out in front of the A&W Root Beer stand. As we departed the bus, each child was handed a nickel and told we could buy a frosty mug of A&W root beer. For a group of institutionalized, deprived, and generally forlorn kids, this represented one of the best simple pleasures of our young lives. I can only imagine the look on the A&W employees’ faces as our bus pulled up packed with thirsty little kids soon to be armed with nickels. It was fabulous; I hold the memory of that root beer fondly with me to this day.

After our great A&W adventure, we piled back on the bus for the final leg of our great journey; excitement built with every passing mile. I remember as we were getting close I recognized many of the familiar landmarks; I could feel my excitement building.  It took another four hours of driving, and we arrived, as we always did, just before dinner time.  As the bus driver took that final right turn and I could see the dust picking up and Camp St. George in front of me - I knew we had arrived and I was going to have a week of pure fun and magic.  

Is Grass Always Greener On The Other Side?

Life at Maryville was often boring, monotonous and lonely.  With no power to change this or any other aspect of my life, I acquiesced and accepted it. With the slow and tepid flow of time at Maryville, any change to the routine was something to take notice of. Anything out of the norm stuck out to me, but most of these happenings passed just as quietly as they had come.  There were, however, moments both grand and tragic that became so engrained in my memory that to think of them to this day is to relive them. I excelled at sports from a very young age. Sports allowed me an outlet for my energy and a chance to feel good about myself, which being an orphan by the choice of my Mother was a sensation always in short supply. I was captain of my volley ball team and the ping pong champion of all Maryville (I play to this day).  While I relished the positive events of my life, I lamented the mountain of events filled with betrayal, sadness, and fear. At Maryville, my problems often began, or finished, with the nuns.  Once, I was in trouble with Sister Madelyn for a reason I honestly can’t remember.  She accused me of doing something and I told her I had not, to which she exclaimed, “I don’t believe you.”  Finding strength well beyond my age, I put my hands on my hips and stated that I didn’t care if she didn’t believe me because, “God believes me.”  This woman who had been so consumed with bitter riotousness just the moment before could suddenly utter nothing more than “Mon Dieu”. While memories from sports, or my run-ins with the nuns have surly stuck with me, two events at Maryville which occurred roughly at the same time had a profound effect on me.  A group of joy riding Maryville high school students, and independently, my sister Pat coming so close to death that truly no one believed she would make it, intersected in a way no one could have ever seen coming.

The joy ride the high school students took was only dramatic because it had tragic consequences.  I don’t remember all the details but a group of upper class high school students got in a car and decided to go for a ride.  In and of its self it doesn’t sound so bad however; on that ride they were involved in a horrendous car accident.  One of the students was killed and another was paralyzed and became wheelchair bound.  The others who were more fortunate were also injured, but eventually recovered.

The boy who had died in the car accident was waked at Maryville. Before this, I don’t remember there ever being a wake at Maryville.  I don’t even remember kids getting very sick or dying.  There were approximately 800 kids at Maryville and we were all allowed to attend the wake.  My feelings were so mixed.  On one level, I was extremely curious about the wake, but I also felt very frightened.  My Father had died a few years earlier and, as a result, death was very frightening to me; it robbed me of people I loved.   I attended the wake, but it turned out not to be nearly as scary or traumatic as when I saw my Father that way.

 Around that same time, my sister Pat fell very ill. A lack of adult supervision, and the limited healthcare available to us, meant that illnesses, although rare, could easily be ignored for far longer than they should have been, greatly exacerbating the severity of afflictions. What started as a stomach ache was allowed to develop into a full-fledged appendicitis.  By the time the decision was made to take her to the hospital, her appendix burst. To this day, a burst appendix is a grave situation, but in the 1950’s, it was for all intents and purposes, a death sentence.  She was given the last rights of the Catholic Church, which were administered only when it was firmly believed that death was imminent.   With the last rights read, and being such a sad and dramatic event, the nuns allowed me and my sisters to leave Maryville.  We were driven to the hospital and taken into my sister’s room. I was brought from Maryville to say goodbye to her.

 As miraculous events go, one happened that day. In a desperate attempt to save my sister’s life, they pumped a deluge of antibiotics into her.  In the short window of life that they had left, the antibiotics began to take hold. Slowly but surely, we began to realize that my sister Pat just might make it. As time passed, Pat continued to recover.  She soon left the hospital and returned to Maryville. In the chaos of everything that had happened, I really had not paid a dramatic amount of attention to the students in the car accident. One day, shortly after she came back, I saw her in the yard and I asked her about the accident. With a profound look on her face, she began to lay out that since some of the students in the accident were her friends, she likely would have been in the car with them. It surprised me when she said if she had not been in the hospital, she likely would have gone with them in the car.  I just looked at her in disbelief and felt relieved and perplexed; the appendicitis that nearly killed her likely saved her life.  For one of the first times I could remember, I was anxious to get back to my boring, monotonous and lonely life.   

Pillow War

Sundays at Maryville had its own cadence. Parents could visit every other Sunday, but on the alternate Sundays, when there was no visitation, it was usually slow and boring. Girls who had brothers could visit on that Sunday but since I only had sisters those Sundays were pretty uneventful for me.  Those days would always start the same, with all of the children both big and small filing in for Sunday Mass…and then…there wasn’t much else to do but kill time for the rest of the day.  We were not allowed to work at our jobs because they thought it was sinful to work on the Sabbath.  We were not allowed to play any organized sports; so basically we just hung out and waited our Sundays out.  There was one Sunday, however, I was sick and my day turned out to be not so devoid of activity.

I don’t remember kids being sick very often at Maryville.  First of all we all had to be inoculated.  Second, we were isolated.  This prevented us from getting many of the illnesses children usually get.  I do remember a little boy died at Maryville. When I asked what happened to him, I was told he had a high fever which killed him. For years after that whenever someone had a fever, I thought quite fearfully, that they were going to die.  One Sunday, after Mass, I came back to Isabelle Hall to change my clothes.  I had been feeling ill, but as I began to change, I found myself so sick, I could hardly stand up.  I was having a hard time unbuttoning my dress so Sister Madelyn came over and helped me; I felt an unusual kindness from her at that moment.   She felt my head and said “You better go the infirmary.”

I walked to the infirmary and was greeted by a nun.  I do not remember her name.  I think she was a nurse.  Her habit was all white like nurses as opposed to black and white, which all the other nuns wore.  She put me to bed in the infirmary and told me she would keep an eye on me.  I slept the entire day and when I awoke it was dark out and my fever had broken.  I told the nun I was feeling fine and so she sent me back to my hall. 

When I got back to the hall, I felt well rested and full of energy; I needed some release.   It was Sunday night and most of the girls were watching television but I craved something else.  I walked into the bedroom area, where there were 36 beds and 36 lockers, as well as Sister Madelyn’s cell.  When I went in there I noticed a girl at her locker.  I asked her if she wanted to have a pillow fight and she said, “Yeah!”  So we picked up two pillows and started our fight.  We had tons of fun and it was taking care of my excess energy.  We were hitting each other, laughing, screaming having such a good time when an older girl walked in and saw what we were doing.  When Sister Madelyn came back into the hall that night the older girl snitched on us.  Sister Madelyn asked to see me; she told me she was very upset with me and she followed with, “To think I felt sorry for you this morning.”  I looked at her and told her I didn’t care what she thought of me because, “My mother is going to take me out of here.”  With that, she said, “Mon Dieu!”  On one level, I was just relieved that another crisis with sister Madelyn had been avoided, but in another way, it felt strangely good to be able to use the power that I would not be under her control forever to my advantage. I was able to get away with being a kid.  

A Woman’s Best Friend

Put simply, I hated my Mom’s dog.  Around the time my sisters and I were sent to Maryville, my Mother got a dog, a purebred collie with papers…the dog had papers. We had papers too, we were a ward of the Catholic Church, but that dog was apparently canine royalty or something, which made my sisters and me the peasants. We were given away and she kept the dog.  I guess the ironic part is that dogs often play a big part in a child’s life; they are a friend, a companion, a confidant, and a protector. In my world, however, our dog was none of those things, he was my competitor.  At Maryville we could go home every other month, except in the summer, for a weekend… we could leave on Friday and had to return Sunday.  On Friday after school we would pack a bag for the weekend and anxiously wait to be picked up. Often my Mother did not show up to pick us up till very late on Friday clipping our already short time at home. I always yearned to go home, but I never seemed to find what I was looking for once I was there.

One weekend we came home only to learn my Mother had bought the dog, I guess she was lonely and the dog provided her with warmth and companionship…I felt the irony of her being lonely at that moment, but it would be years until I could come to grips with just how infuriating and truly insane the whole situation was. It amused her that the dog was jealous of us kids….he was used to getting all the attention, and he was not happy to share her with us. When I wanted to get close to my Mom the dog would growl and the growling made my Mom laugh, she thought it was all so cute, it still makes me sick to my stomach when I think about it.  After a while, I came to understand that in life, if I wanted love and affection from my Mother, I would have to get in line behind her boyfriends and now her dog.

I never fully accepted, until I was much older, the idea that my Mother wanted little or nothing to do with me and my sisters. She had married young and always felt marriage and children had cheated her of her youth. She was born beautiful and charming and rather than appreciating those assets, they were a curse to her… they deformed her. 

Weekends at home were often boring and non-eventful …I did like watching TV all night and getting to eat whenever and whatever I wanted, but little else was satisfying.  As you may guess, I did not play with the dog.  Most parents feel bad when their children are sad and in pain but my Mother did not let such feelings burden her.  Often on Sundays when my sisters and I were returning to Maryville, I would sit in the car and silently cry; tears would stream down my face but my Mother never acknowledged the pain and sadness I felt, but when the dog whimpered, she comforted him.   

  

Sister Elenita

There is a feeling of sheer terror, without virtue or reason, which comes over when you believe you are in danger of being mauled by a weasel.  I can still remember days when I was the first to arrive at the lab, cracking the large wooden door open just enough to peer in and gauge my chances of survival. 

I was about 10 and a half when I landed my job in the high school biology laboratory. I remember there were lots of large, almost floor to ceiling windows in the room so every day seemed bright and sunny; but in addition, the job was fun.  I learned a lot about animals, fossils, plants and just about everything that had to do with biology.  What I think really made this job nice, was how I felt so welcomed every day by Sister Elenita, the high school biology teacher. Without a doubt she was the nicest nun I had ever met.  She exuded warmth, kindness, and acceptance like I had never seen or experienced before.

Sister Elenita kept a weasel in a cage in the lab… not a bunny, not a hamster, not a guinea pig, a large weasel.  It terrified me.  I once saw it eat a mouse… an image that stuck in my head. So in my 10 year old mind, it was not a giant leap for me to think that it could somehow get out of it cage at night and be waiting for what unfortunate soul came sauntering into the classroom first in the morning.  I’ll be honest; I did not want to go out that way. So before I entered the room I would always check to see if the weasel was in its cage. I would slowly crack open the door and look and always felt relieved it was still caged in.  Only then would life go on as normal.

Life at Maryville had a strange flow to it.  Mundane boredom, hardship, and loneliness were sporadically interrupted by church and school run events. Every year there was an indoor fair at Maryville.  On display were crafts and other creations done by the high school students.  As a result, the higher ups at Maryville decided only high school students would attend the fair. It would have been educational and a lot of fun for the younger children, but that never seemed to be of paramount importance at Maryville.  One day while working in the biology lab, Sister Elenita approached me and said she understood two of my older sisters were going to put on a big display at the fair and she asked if I would like to attend and see my sisters’ event.  I told her I would love to.  She said she would check and try and get permission for me to attend the fair.  I was ecstatic.

She received permission for me to attend. That night I left Isabelle Hall and walked over to the gym where the fair was being held.  I walked in, I felt so grown up and very special.  But as usual this happiness was not to last.  Within seconds of my arrival, Sister Madelyn, my home room nun, came up to me and asked, “What are you doing here?”  I told her I had received permission to attend so that I could see my sisters’ event. Looking disgustedly at me, she told me to leave immediately and go back to my hall.  I was crushed; Sister Madelyn had a talent for that.

The next morning, feeling absolutely robbed, I went back to work at the biology lab and saw Sister Elenita sitting behind her desk.  She said “Come here Genevieve... I heard what happened last night and I am very sorry.”  She followed with “I have a surprise for you.”  With that she pulled out a foot long pencil (yes an exceptionally oversized righting utensil) and handed it to me. She said, “I hope this makes you feel better.”  There are certain moments in your life when you just absolutely need someone to tell you that things will be ok.  Sister Elenita was there for me when I needed her.  In the end, it had nothing to do with the gigantic pencil or the fact that I knew the weasel was firmly secured (which was still a relief). What really made me feel better was her sensitivity and kindness.  I think of her often.  

 

   

     

Goodbye To Tonsils

I don’t remember being sick very often in the five years I was at Maryville.  It was likely because we were so isolated and not exposed to everything like kids in the city. In addition to the isolation, all the children had to be inoculated against a bevy of childhood diseases and illnesses, further lowering our chances of getting sick. When I arrived at Maryville the one ailment I did often have was a sore throat. Today when kids have sore throats, they are given antibiotics but, when I was a kid, it was customary to have your tonsils removed.  So because of my sore throats, it was decided I would have my tonsils taken out.

One day I was put in a van along with another little boy and we were driven to St Francis Hospital in Evanston to have our tonsils removed.  After arriving at the hospital I was put in a room, given a gown and told to undress and to put the gown on.  I looked at the gown and didn’t see any bottom, just a top – so I stood there until the nurse came back.  I looked at her and said “I usually put my bottoms on first;” she snickered and said “Oh honey there is no bottom.”  With that she put her hands on the bottom of my dress and lifted my dress and undershirt off of me and I was standing there nude in front of a total stranger and I felt completely humiliated.  I was extremely angry she had done that without any warning or without my consent.  Shortly after that the nurse returned and told me the little boy who had arrived with me was being sent back to Maryville because he had developed a fever – I prayed that I too would develop a fever, but no such luck.

Soon a gurney arrived and I was transferred on to it.  I was taken down a long corridor to the operating room. While being pushed down the hall I asked “Is my Mother here?”  The nurse replied, “No, she is not here.” With that I was pushed into the operating room and standing there were many strangers and I was very frightened.  A Doctor approached me and told me I was going to be put to sleep.  With that a glove of some type was put over my nose and mouth and I panicked.  I tried to get the glove off my face, I was frantic, and I didn’t know what was happening.  A number of people came over tried to restrain me and as I was being held down I could hear the ether coming into my nose and mouth.  I don’t remember anything else. 

When I woke up I was back in my hospital room, my throat was very sore and my Mother was standing next to me. I looked at her, I was happy to see her, but I felt she was just a little late. I needed her earlier; she could have helped me undress and maybe reassured me that everything was going to be all right but she was not there when I needed her…sort of how things always went with her. 

Waiting…

In some…well most aspects, Maryville had more in common with a state prison than a boarding school.  All mail going out or coming in was read and censored before being mailed or received.  Parental visits were only allowed every other Sunday between 12:00 to 4:00 or 1:00 to 4:00… I don’t exactly remember which time slot it was.  If parents came out on a different Sunday from the one which they had been allotted, the children were not allowed to see their parents.  Maryville could get away with this because most of us were wards of the Catholic Church; our parental rights had been surrendered. I remember the Sunday I learned I was no longer under my Mother’s responsibility, but a ward of the Catholic Church...  My Mother was visiting and she was complaining about Maryville and I said to her “why don’t you take us out of here”, and she said “I can’t” and I said “why can’t you … you are my Mother” and she said “I have surrendered my rights to you” and I said “you are no longer my Mother, why did you do that”?! And she said “yes I am still your Mother but I cannot take you out of Maryville without their permission”.  I asked her again “why did you do that?” and she said “because I can no longer afford to pay to keep you at Maryville, it is too expensive”. I just looked at her - I was so angry and devastated and also very frightened. My status in this world had been decided by a billing matter.

So, every other Sunday parents were allowed to visit.  It’s not that they did, they were allowed to.  Who was going to show up on any particular Sunday was anyone’s guess.  The kids were informed their parents had arrived through a public address system which was piped into every hall room.  Every other Sunday two girls would volunteer to sit near the PA system and listen for the announcement of whose parents had arrived – one would listen for the names and the other was the runner.  I always volunteered to be one of the two. In some ways it was boring and monotonous to sit there for hours listening, hoping and praying I would hear my Mother had arrived.  Being close to that speaker and being the first to hear anything gave me a sense of control that I so badly craved.  Sometimes she visited, but often, she didn’t.  Sometimes, she would arrive so late we could only visit for a few minutes. The nuns lived their life by a schedule, and they were not about to make an exception for anyone in the outside world.  If you had 3 minutes left in your visitation window, you received 3 minutes… that was it.   This whole process was torture – needing and loving someone so much as I did my Mother and yet having no control to get or give the love I needed and deserved…and in my 5 years at Maryville I ended up enduring this Sunday ritual roughly 162 times.

Religion

As Maryville was a Catholic facility, religion played a very important role in our lives.  We were young, vulnerable and did exactly what the nuns wanted.  If you did not go along with whatever they preached, you paid a terrible price.  Power and fear are deeply motivational tools when you want children, or anyone for that matter, to obey; just look at any dictatorship. 

Most mornings Sister Madelyn would flip on the overhead dorm lights and start yelling “let us praise the lord, let us praise the lord”. Now, although it was her request for us to praise the lord before thinking of anything else, praising the lord was rarely the first thought in my mind.  The idea of going back to sleep usually won.  We were expected to fall out of bed, fall on our knees and pray.  The prayer we were demanded to recite went like this: Jesus hanging on the cross, tell me what did I, did I make the tears drop dear lord, did I make you cry, I’m a naughty child, as naughtiest as can be…….. It wasn’t bad enough that we felt destroyed because our parents didn’t want us, but we had an additional burden that we were the children who made Jesus cry, because were so bad - it is truly remarkable that any of us survived.

Every Sunday and on other religious holidays we attended Mass. We were expected to kneel through most of the Mass which was hard and challenging for small children.  There were five priests assigned to Maryville and we never knew which priest was going to say Mass.  This was important because of our desire for breakfast.  At Maryville, our meals fit in around Mass.  We would eat dinner at five every day, so by eight the next morning we were famished, the only obstacle between us and breakfast, was the speed with which the priest could orate the Mass. Some priests said Mass with a rapidity that kept the service moving and breakfast closer, while others languished on their words in a way that made you wonder if it would ever end.  As the priest entered the church, there would be either a collective sigh of relief or a very unhappy quiet groan; all of us knew who said Mass quickly and who drug it out endlessly. 

Despite my general desire not to be there, there were certain good moments that came during the services. In the 50s, the Mass was given in Latin and there was a lot of singing of the hymns – I liked the singing particularly during the Christmas season.  During Christmas we would sing the Gregorian chants as well as other well known Christmas songs – it was fun, it made me feel like a kid. It was nice to get those windows of happiness no matter how small. I still miss that part.  

Émilie Dionne

The nuns of Maryville were all French Canadian.  Being from Montréal, French was their first and preferred language, but they all could speak English as well.  They never taught us French, I don’t think they thought we were good enough to deserve being taught.  I never asked to learn it because, well, the vast majority of interactions with the nuns were unpleasant to say the least, and I did not want to have to beg them for something they dangled above us.  When speaking with each other, the nuns always spoke French.  My name being French in origin, Geneviève, I always new when they were talking about me (some of the girls’ names did not translate so literally).  I did pick up on some of the words and phrases simply because they were said so often.  I still remember when Sister Madelyn was frustrated she would always say Mon Dieu! (My God!).

A very small number of nuns were kind and displayed a soft heart.  Most were mean and vindictive and many displayed no emotion what so ever.  I have always been struck by an individual choosing a life dedicated to charity and love, when their own hearts were so devoid of those exact feelings. My hall room nun, Sister Madelyn was one that showed no emotion, I always felt she just didn’t like us, a curiously poor way to begin every day. 

As if hall room was not enough, Sister Madelyn had a way of showing up in far too many other episodes of my life at Maryville. One summer day, I was walking into the cafeteria for either lunch or dinner, I don’t remember which, and Sister Madelyn was standing there as if she were a greeter at Wal-Mart. Normally I would say nothing to her unless I was spoken to first, but as I approached her I saw she was crying.  I had never seen her cry before, this was very strange; I don’t remember seeing her laugh before either, most of the time I felt she showed us a total indifference and an unchanging cold demeanor.  Exactly why I engaged her I do not know, but maybe it was because it was so frankly shocking to see her cry...  I stopped and said “why are you crying”?  She said “Émilie Dionne has died” I just looked at her for a minute, thinking who is Émilie Dionne?  “Is she a relative of yours” I inquired, trying to make sense out of this encounter. “No!” she snapped “she is one of the Dionne quintuplets”…I had no idea who the Dionne family was (they were a French Canadian family that had quintuplets naturally in the 30’s and became something of a phenomenon for that fact). I also had no idea what a quintuplet was, so essentially, I understood none of the words that came out of her mouth at that moment. I looked at her for a second and just walked into the cafeteria and started to eat, never knowing why Sister Madelyn was crying. Had I known who she was talking about, I would have been struck by the irony of the situation; that she felt so emotionally struck by the death of a 20 year old Canadian girl, whom she had never met, while she was so thoroughly cold, uncaring, and removed from the hundreds of children, orphans, right before her, who were all facing crises of their own.       

Jimmy Dorsey

There were many do’s and don’ts at Maryville.  We were not allowed to read comic books; we had to eat every bit of the food they served, even though much of it was uneatable (the putrid and at times rancid food had such an effect on me that to this day I cannot eat bread pudding or Spanish rice). We could not say shut up to anybody, so we learned to say “up shut the other way” with as much vehemence and ire as one would use to say Shut …Up (or anything else).  Parents could come and visit every other Sunday but if they came out on the wrong Sunday, we were not allowed to see them. .  We could go home every other month for a week end except in the summer. During June, July, and August, we were not allowed to go home as it was thought that polio was contracted during the summer months, and that our isolation might spare us from that illness. In addition to a large and formidable list of other restrictions and rules, it was known that we were not allowed to order anything and get it delivered to Maryville, and while I may have abided by most rules, this was one I decided to break.

One day, during one of my visits home, I went to a candy store and bought a Nestle crunch bar.  Upon opening the wrapper the wrapper contained an offer.  It said, with two Nestle Crunch wrappers and 15 cents I could get a Jimmy Dorsey record.  I had no idea who Jimmy Dorsey was, but I assumed he had something to do with music because why else would he make a record?  It did not matter that I had no idea who this person was; I was thrilled with the idea of getting a record (or just anything) that I could call mine.  I would get 15 cents from somewhere, buy another candy bar and send it in and wait for my record.

A few weeks passed, and Sister Madelyn came over to me one day, and she had in her hand my Jimmy Dorsey record.  She said “you know you were not supposed to do this”, I didn’t respond.  An 8 year old is really not prepared to make rational arguments, so I stood there, silently, it was all I could do - she handed the record to me and said with a stern tone of institutional distance and indifference, “don’t do this again.  I put the record in my locker and just smiled. I felt like I had won – it was a wonderful feeling. I couldn’t really explain my excitement over the record, I had no way of playing it, no record player, no turn table, but I didn’t care, my desire wasn’t about playing anything, it was about having something.   It is now 58 years later and I still have my Jimmy Dorsey 45 and I have never really cared about the way it sounds.