THE GOOD OLD DAYS, IN TEARS THEN, LAUGHTER NOW

You know what this face represents?  This is your blogger's attitude on September 9, 1942.  The first day I reported to the Immaculate Conception School in Holyoke, Massachusetts.  It was the Wednesday after Labor Day, the traditional first day of school back then.  I was not a happy camper.  I was torn apart, as a matter of fact.  We lived on the outskirts of a college town [South Hadley] and I was to go to the parochial school on the northern edge of the Capital of the Paper making world, Holyoke.  Since I was going to travel from edge to edge, one edge touching the other, the distance was perhaps 1.2 miles from point to point.  I was just about 5.5 years old, but I had many things going on inside me and I didn't like the feeling.   One. I disliked Holyoke with an intensity that my mother could never fathom.  She LOVED Holyoke.  When she moved from Holyoke to South Hadley because she and my father had bought a house there [1 whole mile away from where they were paying rent] she cried every day for weeks because she wasn't "home" any more.  I was glad to be where there was green grass, live trees, fireflies, birds and a cellar where I could hide.  Two. I knew that I was going to have to take the bus from South Hadley to Holyoke.  My Lord!  what an ordeal that was going to be.  It had been a month now that my mother, MJT Dion, had been introducing me to the mystery of that adventure.  The bus stop where I was to board was directly across the street from our home.  No problem.  She taught me where to cross the street, how to look both ways and how to know that the bus that stopped was indeed the one that I had to get into.  She even took me through the exact routine twice before D-day.  We went to the school, visited the Sister Superior's office, left there and practiced walking to my grandmother's house where I would go for dinner [midday meal.  Lunch, for you Californians].  Then we walked back to the school and continued to the bus stop, a mere 45 yards or so away from the school.  Three.  I was frightened to death that I would not be able to read well enough.  I could read little simple stuff in French and English, but I still couldn't really READ.  Four.  I was still plenty doubtful about being able to stay away from home and then get back.  I knew the baby sitter girls who would come every Saturday night, but I wondered if I would ever get to know the nuns in the school.  Frankly, I never even gave a thought to getting to know the other children of my age who would be there like I would be.
Anyway how...Comes September 9 and I am little Lord Fauntleroy, dressed up in clothes  that I despise.  Corduroy Knickerbocker pants, suspenders, knee socks and a nice little white shirt.  Oil and water!  These days I assure you, I would have whipped out my cell phone and called the cops.  Mom and I go out to catch the bus and everything goes just as planned.  We get to the school and Grandfather is there waiting for us.  We, all three, go to the classroom and meet the sister who teaches the kindergarten children.   All goes well until I am alone with 25 children and one woman all dressed in black with no legs, only hands and a face.  A smiling face, but that was it.  She was nice, but she was busy taking care of one inconsolable little girl. D.B. by name.  Yep, I still remember.  I remember keeping my cool for the entire morning but making up my mind that I would never come back here.  EVER.  Time for midday break.  My grandfather meets me at the classroom door and we walk to his house so that we can eat.  I am so happy to see my grandmother and to sit at the table alone with the two of them.  It was like heaven.  My relationship with my grandfather grew a lot that day.  But that's a story for another day.  Comes time to return to hell.  I start down the stairs with grandfather, kicking and crying and refusing to go anywhere.  He, the big tough guy whose very own children feared, couldn't get me farther down the street than about 100 yards.  He turns around, takes me back to their place and says to grandmother, "He doesn't want to go."  She, the sweet, placid, never-gets-flustered old lady says to him, "You stay here."  She says to me, no smile, fire in her eyes and silk on her tongue, with ice in her heart, "Give me your hand."  I gave her my hand, we walked back to school in sullen silence, she let me into the classroom, no hug, no kiss, just "goodbye."

YOUR BLOGGER AT 2 YRS.

In the back of the room, D.B. was still crying [she cried for about a month], Sister Yvonne Marie took care of D.B. and all the rest of us bewildered children under 6 years old.  Me?  I wasn't bewildered any more.  I now knew who was the boss of me.  I have never, ever since experienced a personal victory so devastatingly swift and completely overwhelming as I did that day.   By the following Monday I was on my own and on my way to manhood.  Thanks to my sweet, holy Grandmother.  This happened nearly 70 years ago.  I remember it like it was this morning.  One of the things I want to ask my Grandfather on the other side is, "What did you and Mémère talk about when she got back home?"