It Was Green - A Tale From 1966

It was green. The convent in which Sister Brigid Marie resided was a dark green, austere place with polished hardwood floors on the inside, and it had many mysterious, esoteric rooms with doors shut tight. I figured they were rooms of torture; rooms where “sinful” lazy students like myself were eventually taken by the nuns and, God only knows what happened on the inside. And it seemed there were bloody crucifixes on every wall, and that unnerved me. The convent smelled of talcum powder mixed with frankincense, and I recall feeling extremely nauseous while inside that “holy house” back in January of 1966, and I came very close to barfing my lunch out. As it turned out, my mother was so upset with my eight F’s that she got on the phone the very next morning and called the convent to make an appointment with Sister Brigid Marie to discuss the situation.

On the following Monday after school had been dismissed, I found my mother waiting for me in the hallway of the school building, and with no words being said, she escorted me to that green, two-story house, where no males lived. After ringing the doorbell to the side entrance two times, we were finally let in by a small old lady who I figured was the maid, and after telling her that we had an appointment with Sister Brigid Marie, she wordlessly led us down a dark hallway, past all those scary closed-up rooms and all those crimson crucifixes, to a small reception room across the hall from the chapel. Inside this dimly lit room was a small table with a lamp, four modestly upholstered chairs, and right by the door was a good-sized crucifix of Jesus Christ hanging dead.

As we waited impatiently in that dark cold morgue of a room, I remember my very livid but strangely taciturn mother was tapping the side table with her long red fingernails, one at a time in rapid succession, over and over again, sounding like a fast horse galloping to war. Then she stopped when she heard the approaching footsteps of Sister Brigid Marie pounding the hardwood floor of the convent hallway with those big black nun shoes. Seconds later, the blue-eyed, talcum-smelling nun entered with her countless rosary beads clicking and clinking together, reminding me of some restless ghost, lurking about in the shadows. "Well Mister Hunter,” Sister began, standing directly in front of me. “Seems to me we have a serious problem.” “Yes sister.” Then with one hand on her right hip, she thrust her long index finger an inch from my terrified face, and rendered a verbal scolding that is still reverberating inside the distant corridors of my mind. “You Mister Hunter are lazy! . . . lazy with a capital L! It is a sin . . . a sin . . . to be as lazy as you, Mister Hunter! Even the dead at Mt. Olive Cemetery are more ambitious than you. At least they are actively decomposing, Sir! And I think it is safe to say that there are rocks in our Lady’s garden . . . out by the flagpole . . . that do more in a minute than what I’ve seen you do in four months! Now look at me Mister Hunter Look at me! You will now start to do your work. . . . All of it! You will now start to buckle down and study . . . study . . . study for every single test I give you! Look at me Mister Hunter! Don’t you turn your eyes away! You will bring those grades up immediately or you will not graduate in June. Do you understand me sir? Look at me sir! No more laziness . . . no more missed assignments . . . no more F’s on tests. You will work diligently . . . diligently . . . diligently . . . or else!” Silence . . . “Or else what Mister Hunter?” “Ah . . . ah . . . I will not graduate?” “That is correct Mister Hunter . . . You will not graduate with your class in June. Clear?” “Yes Sister.” “Now the first thing you are going to do is research the country of Vietnam, write a full page on it and deliver the information in a speech before the entire Civics Club next week. Is that clear Mister Hunter? “Ah . . . a speech in front of the Civics Club?” “That is correct, Mister Hunter. And if you don’t, sir, we’ll see you here at St. Mary’s next year repeating the 8th grade. Am I making myself clear?” “Ah . . . Yes sister. . . . But . . .” “No buts, Mister Hunter. You will . . . You will change!” “Yes sister.”

Finally it was over . . . one of the worst moments of my life. There was no doubt in my mind that Sister Brigid Marie meant it when she said I would not graduate unless I started working . . . and worst of all, I had to get up on that Smith Hall stage before all ninety members of the Civics Club and make a speech. Now this was something that scared the hell out of me. But I had to do it. “Thank you sister,” my mother said, as we got up to leave. At the time, I didn’t understand the significance of the sly little wink Sister Brigid Marie gave my mother as we rose from those modestly upholstered chairs.

On the following day during silent reading time, I thought long and hard about Sister’s scary words, and I admit they changed my attitude toward school. Afterall, I wanted to graduate in June like everyone else. But what stuck out in my mind the most was her reference to the dead at Mt. Olive Cemetery. “Gosh, she knows about my graveyard,” I remember thinking, and that greatly impressed me. And so, like the Phoenix rising from the ashes, I decided to get my academic act together. “Wow, she actually knows about Mt. Olive Cemetery. I think I like her now.” Those were my thoughts as I sat there in Room 15 that day. Then miraculously, I decided to actually get to work. I recall whispering loudly across the aisle to Row 3. “Hey Randy, can I borrow your almanac?” “Oh, I suppose so,” Randy Cheap whispered back, sounding mildly annoyed. “But I want it back before lunch. Here.” After handing it over to me, I whispered “Thanks” and then, I paused for a few seconds, for I felt strongly compelled to gaze at her . . . Karen Falletta, reading some book with a green cover. “My God,” I remember thinking, “She is such a foxy babe. I love her. I want her.” And I stared for a few seconds hoping she would look up from her book and notice me. And as if she could read my mind, she did indeed look up, and our eyes met in a silent, almost magnetic embrace. It was as if our corneas were glued together, and, like two doves in a small lofty nest, our spirits intermingled. For a solid glorious minute we stared at each other, and in my mind, I can still see her arresting, thin-lipped smile, and the blinking of her brown eyes. And even though there was a deathly silence in Room 15 that day, I swear I could hear Sonny singing to Cher “I Got You Babe.”

Then it was abruptly over. For the booming voice of Sister Brigid Marie ended my spiritual rendezvous with Karen Falletta with those same nagging words I had heard over and over again that year, but now, I actually liked them: “Turn around Mister Hunter. Work diligently!” “Yes Sister.” And immediately I opened Randy Cheap’s 1966 Information Please Almanac and copied down, word for word, the short boring article on Vietnam.

It was shortly after my fourteenth birthday that I began hearing voices inside my brain, and it was all because of that speech I was forced to make in front of the St. Mary’s Civics Club. “They’re all going to laugh at me. I can’t do this . . . I can’t.” “You have to . . . you have to . . . you stupid coward” Over and over again these same, two-way thoughts satiated my terror-stricken mind as the days grew closer and closer to the first Civics Club meeting of the Spring term. It was to take place on a Thursday at 2 o’clock. As with every meeting, Civics Club president Patrick McPartland, the best athlete at St. Mary’s that year, would begin the proceedings by leading the ninety members of the 8th grade in the Pledge of Allegiance. When this ceremony was completed, McPartland would then welcome everyone and read aloud the day’s agenda. Meanwhile, vice president Chrissy Long, secretary Lucy LaRusso and treasurer Patrice Koda, sitting at a front table with hands folded, would dutifully come up on stage when it was their turn to report to the club the minutes of the last meeting, the amount of money currently in the club coffers, and upcoming activities for the club to consider and vote on.

After all this business was taken care of, the “speeches” would commence; painfully boring speeches on painfully boring topics delivered by the worst students of the 8th grade class. At some meetings it seemed there was an endless parade of Sister’s latest “victims;” lazy failing students like me in need of a good scare, reluctantly trudging up on stage, and with voices barely audible and cracking, the 8th grade Civics Club would have to sit and endure two minute renderings on a host of stupifyingly uninteresting subjects, like the annual rainfall statistics of Formosa, the gross national product of Bolivia and the unemployment rate of Tanzania. It was so stultifying sometimes that even Sister Brigid Marie herself would yawn hopelessly in the back of Smith Hall. Once in a while Sister would benevolently allow the Tom Barnese Band to perform the only song they knew how to play—” Gloria,” and of course the girls would all scream, and we guys, well, we silently “dug” the music. Then there were a couple of times when a famous speaker would come to St. Mary’s and answer a plethora of questions from the club members; questions that I personally thought were simplistic and prosaic. Of course back then I had no idea what those two words meant.

In the winter of 1966 I was absolutely ecstatic when Dodger relief pitcher, Ron Perranoski, showed up wearing a suit with a tie, and a blue Dodger cap on his head. I remember feeling embarrassed by all the retarded questions he had to answer-like “what’s your favorite color,” and “Do you like dogs?” and “Are you Catholic?” And I can recall quite vividly a question Beverly Cotman, a mere girl, asked him that day; a good question I never expected to hear coming from the mouth and mind of the tallest girl in the class: “When did the Dodgers start hating the Giants? And what do you think of the Giants?” I think it surprised him to hear such an interesting, informed question, and I recall he laughed a little and reeled off a two minute answer that left me spellbound. At that moment I became a big Ron Perranoski fan and remained one until 1967 when the Dodgers traded him to the Twins.

When finally the hour of 3 o’clock arrived, President McPartland would return to the elevated stage and would then ask us to stand for a closing prayer—The Apostle’s Creed, and then, the meeting of the St. Mary’s Civics Club was over, wonderfully and mercifully over, and we’d all go home. Actually I kind’ve liked the weekly meetings, for it meant I could sit and not work. And when all those boring speeches were going on, I’d daydream about being with Karen Falletta in a tree . . . kissing and holding hands.

But as the first meeting in February that year loomed, when it became my turn to take the long walk up those steep stairs to the lectern, I found myself hating the Civics Club with an unbounded passion. “I hate them . . . I hate them . . . I hate them all . . . They are going to laugh at me when I’m up there . . . Who cares about Vietnam? What a stupid country to report on . . . They’ll be so bord. . . . I can’t do this . . . I won’t do it . . . I won’t. Baba . . . Baba . . . can you help me? Baba . . .” Three days before my speech I remember spending close to an hour sitting alone in Baba’s stuffy water closet, talking to myself about the speech. And it was at that time I started to hear voices inside my brain; voices I imagined to be my dead grandmother and Miss Annie Simpson Scott, who were, in reality, both resting in their graves. I admit it was a bit spooky and not normal, and if my mother only knew, she would’ve cried her eyes out, screaming: “My son’s not crazy! My son’s not crazy! He does not need a psychiatrist! Lord almighty!”

“Now Mickey Mouse,” I heard Baba say to me inside the still darkness of that claustrophobic, one-toilet room. “Where be me beans? Can’t cook ‘em ‘till thar be me beans . . .” “Ah . . . Baba . . . I’m scared. Please come back. I need you Baba. What shall I do?” “Oh me Mickey Mouse . . . Me littl’ Mickey Mouse . . . life is good, Mickey . . . life is good, indeed . . . ‘tis too short to be a’feared . . . now where be me beans? Can’t cook ‘em ‘till thar be me beans.” “Maybe they’re in the basement, Baba. All kinds of canned beans are down there . . . your canned beans . . . remember?” “Tis so . . . life is good, indeed. Where be me beans? . . . in the darkness . . . down thar . . . turn on the light Mickey Mouse b’fore ya go down thar . . . and get me a can . . . ‘jus’ turn on the light . . . thar on the wall . . . you’ll be fine . . . jus’ turn on the light . . . life is good, indeed. Now . . . where be me beans?”

And as I pulled more hairs out of my head and ravenously ate the black wet roots, I thought again about wanting to die and I wished I could somehow trade places with Miss Annie over in the condemned graveyard behind the Risky House, buried securely under the wildly growing weeds and the hard brown dirt. “Miss Annie. . . .” I thought, as I sweated in the darkness. “You’re so lucky. I hate living. I hate life. It’s so hard. I hate school and I hate that damn Civics Club! Help me! Please!” After this strange invocation, as I lifted my eyes up into the high ceiling vent above me, the one that was now covered up by the ever-gathering scarlet blooms of the bougainvillea, I swear I could hear her voice in clarion tones . . . the sweet shadowy voice of the woman carried to her grave by my grandfather back in 1932; a woman I had never met and will never meet. Inside my brain I could hear her say: “Only you can unlock the rusty gate . . . only you Stark Hunter . . . only you.” “But where’s the key? Where’s the key?” I thought, as I nervously ate the skin of one of my fingers. “Only you can unlock the rusty gate . . . only you.” “What gate?” I remember asking the phantom voice inside my brain. “Only you,” it said again. “Only you . . .” And then I understood what this dead woman was trying to say to me.

Finally the dreaded day arrived, and as I rode to school that morning in the repaired beige Impala, I recall visualizing inside my nerve-racked mind how it was all going to happen; my careful ascension up those steep steps to the elevated stage; the stares I would receive after arriving at the dais; the intermittent laughter I would hear as I fumbled through my boring speech on Vietnam, and then, the best part, my safe but hurried return to my creaky folding chair out on the floor in front of the stage. All that day as I sat in Room 15, I could think of nothing else, and when silent reading time arrived after lunch recess, it happened again. Karen Falletta and I had yet another intense staring session that lasted at least two minutes, and that is when I heard yet another voice inside my brain; it was her voice, Karen’s voice; a voice that sounded like Cher’s sultry, crooning voice, or at least I imagined it to be Cher’s voice, and as we probed each other deeply with eyes that did not blink, I had a telepathic conversation with my 8 th grade “crush.” “Hi Karen,” I thought. “It’s me . . . Stark Hunter . . .” “Hi Stark,” I heard Karen say inside my brain. “Whatcha doing?” “Oh . . . jus’ sitting here . . . staring at you.” “Yeah . . . you do that a lot . . . so, why do you?” “B’cause . . . I like to . . . you’re real pretty . . . you remind me of Cher.” “Yeah, right . . . me? Cher? I never heard that b’fore . . . So . . . whatcha reading?” “Uhh . . . my speech on Vietnam . . .” “So, you have to do a speech today? . . . good luck.” “Thanks . . .” “So . . . are you scared . . . I would be . . .” “Naw . . . not me . . . I’m not scared at all . . .” “Really? Geeze I’d be. . . . I hate to do that kind’ve stuff.” “Naw . . . I’m not scared at all . . . it’s no big thing . . . it’s jus’ a speech . . .” “Gosh Stark . . . no way I could do that . . . I admire you. . . . and I think you’re cute” “Really? . . . Me?” “Yeah . . . ah . . . can I ask you a question, Stark? “Question? . . . Sure, ask me anything.” “Would you like to kiss me after school?” Then the thunderous voice of Sister Brigid Marie rudely interrupted our trance-like stares. “Mister Hunter . . . turn around, sir and get on task! Read! Read! Read! “Yes Sister,” I said.

"Vietnam has a tropical monsoon climate with high humidity and rainfall . . .” And then I had to say it; words that were not written on my single sheet of notebook paper: “I think . . . I think, uh . . . I think Vietnam is a boring country, and I don’t know why our country . . . the United States of America, is fighting over there. Thank you.” As I walked back to my folding chair amidst the scattered applause of my 8th grade classmates, I remember searching for Sister Brigid Marie to see her reaction, and for the first time that year, there was a smile of approval on her face. From that point on through the rest of the school year, I was inspired, and my grades went from straight F’s to straight C’s. But it wasn’t easy. I worked diligently for those C’s.

Comments