Wow, Richard, that’s quite a parody! Do you know a Maine academic, Erica Rand, has written a whole book about that purple prose of The Godfather in that particular chapter?
I didn’t have time to say in my story, that in Edmonton with its extreme weather, every classroom had a HUGE cloakroom, the almost as big as the classroom itself, where we tucked all our jackets and boots and gear. For some reason, NO TEACHER ever walked in, and it was a free zone of student buzz and plotting. All the best contraband was traded!
I spent my puberty in a cloistered convent in Sonora, Mexico.
We lived on Montebello, CA. Mom caught me on the other side of the tracks, riding my bike along with a gaggle of other pubescent girls in East Los Angeles: “I’ll be damned if I’m going to have a daughter pregnant at thirteen!”
Holy moley. I know parents who still threaten to do the same thing, it’s like a popular threat:” I am sending you to a Mexican convent!’ But it really happened???? So tell me some tidbits
Sixteen girls, two dorms, always chaperoned and NEVER allowed to talk with boys. We walked two by two, arm in arm. Nun ahead of the group and a nun or novice/chaperone at the rear.
There were rumors about a couple of the girls who would sneak into each other’s beds, but I never saw it. Our beds were lined up with only a small nightstand between us. But god, we were yearning. Hormone city. 16 juicy, bouncy teenage girls just itching for contact.
My best friend, Lolita (I swear, that was her name) was the sister of one of the nuns and we managed to find a way out of the convent a couple of times. Went for a ride with a couple of boys we knew. We were found out when, upon our return, as we were sneaking back in, one of the external gas lines busted under our weight. We had to tell the nuns. We didn’t want to blow up the convent after all.
Another time, I had gotten into an argument with one of the nuns. She slapped me so I pushed her away. It was at that point I received a call notifying me of my grandfather’s demise. Mother Superior said, “Ya vez qué castigos manda Diós?” (Loosely, “Do you see what punishment God imposes?”) My mother was furious so she hauled me outta there and sent me to another convent of the same order further down in Sonora. I think I lasted about 9 months there then got kicked out for wearing a halter under a denim jacket. Too risqué. I mouthed off something like, “God doesn’t care what I wear. I could pray naked if I want to”.
It wasn’t all bad, though. Their education system was about two years ahead of ours here in the States. It was also well rounded. They prepared us for college, and we studied the sciences, art, dance, unvarnished Mexican history (grisly). We kept our spaces very tidy, also hand-washed our own laundry and went to mass every day but Saturday. It sounds awful but the discipline required to succeed in that environment was strangely empowering.
I was sent home to finish off high school at Sacred Heart of Mary, a girl’s Catholic high school in ‘76. By the time I got back to Cali, I already had all my credits except American history, and civics. Oh, and then there were the born-again years! I was so repressed, though that I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 20, and didn’t experience my first orgasm until I was about 22. By then it was 1980, and, well, you know. We used to call it “sport fucking”. Some of my Christian friends chastised me for having sex outside of marriage and for smoking weed but I didn’t care. I left most of them behind, as well. Jeezus, I’m glad those days are over!Gack. I left organized religion in my late 20s after a pastor’s umpteenth rant that “homosexuals are going to hell”. I left in the middle of the service and never looked back.
Beca, what a story! I hung on your every word. That moment when the Mother Superior told you you essentially caused your grandmother’s death. AY YI YI. I’m surprised your mom didn’t rush down and slap her!
This takes me back to moving to Middletown, Ohio (in the middle between Dayton and Cincinnati) from suburban Atlanta my senior year of high school. I never did adjust--the first day of school, students were organizing euchre tournaments (a word I'd never heard before!). I realized later that, in a place with rough winters, indoor pastimes like playing cards and bowling were something everyone did--not just what I thought of then as "really old people."
I stayed charmed by snow and winter for a couple of years in Ohio--I am glad that I could wear tights and jeans. However, cold is just not really in my genetic makeup--one trip from Cincinnati to New Orleans in February, when Ohio was still gray and Louisiana was green and in bloom clinched my decision to move back south, once I was on my own.
That's a good story. I wonder if you would like Bill McKibben's recent book _The Flag, The Cross, and the Station Wagon_ (he's a similar age and also spent a couple of years in Canada growing up, and his version describes his more conventional impulses).
But it also reminded me, I recently was able to find an album by a canadian folksinger that I'd been trying to find for ages on this website, and I share because you might find something you remember as well): https://citizenfreak.com/
"Explore the premier Canadian music streaming platform and Music Museum – your gateway to a vast collection of vintage Canuck vinyl and digitized music. ... Engage in this unparalleled celebration of the diverse tapestry of Canadian musical legacy through our meticulously curated collection, which encompasses every Canadian cult classic."
Nick, I am so excited by your suggestions. I’ve ordered “The Flag…” from my library. I’ll spend a good hour or two perusing the music site. Which musician were you looking for?
I am hearing from so many friends, here and on FB, who are Canadian and have backgrounds in the prairie and oil fields and long lonely roads! My adult life in BC and Québec and Toronto is a whole ‘nother story and now you have me stoked to delve in!
I argued for Audible to open up a Canadian store for a long time. My bosses would say, “Sure, it’s big, but there’s hardly any people there.” And I would argue, “But they are ten times as literate as Americans! Books are still a “thing” in Canada!” Which I still stand by. And as you audio lovers know, I did open the Canadian Audible store, finally, a few years ago. What a wild tale THAT is. More soon . . .
wow! i was just on phone today with an elder relative i’ve never met who’s in Calgary … some kin are bailing on dreams of a family get-together up there … should i go anyway? Never been near there .. Bamff? Then Eston, to see where dad was born?
We’re not far apart in age, you and i, seems, but i grew up in v diff circumstances on the east coast .. and had that ProcolH record! was that from the concert you attended? small freekin world sometimes, despite the miles and miles of prairie!
Banff and Lake Louise are everything you ever imagined— one of the wonders of the world. And yes, Edmonton is the gateway. Calgary is more “Hollywood,” more music, and of course, more cowboy. It is so different from Eastern Canada you can hardly believe you’re in the same place.
Your story unearths a Canadian experience during 1971-79 in Toronto I had in the Arts scenes of contemporary music, York university performing arts, dance, art, Inuit art, Marshall mcCluhan concepts, nationalism, survivalist, and brush it under the rug politics from your pubescent perspectives.
Jon says the same thing! Just a freaking wipeout. Diabetes, cancer, drugs/alcohol, suicide— I’d say those or the main things.
Wow, Richard, that’s quite a parody! Do you know a Maine academic, Erica Rand, has written a whole book about that purple prose of The Godfather in that particular chapter?
I didn’t have time to say in my story, that in Edmonton with its extreme weather, every classroom had a HUGE cloakroom, the almost as big as the classroom itself, where we tucked all our jackets and boots and gear. For some reason, NO TEACHER ever walked in, and it was a free zone of student buzz and plotting. All the best contraband was traded!
Damnit, it was ‘a turgid pole of muscle’ how could I forget?
No! I didn’t! You can imagine how wide my virgin eyes were when I first read that page. Loved reading your story.
I spent my puberty in a cloistered convent in Sonora, Mexico.
We lived on Montebello, CA. Mom caught me on the other side of the tracks, riding my bike along with a gaggle of other pubescent girls in East Los Angeles: “I’ll be damned if I’m going to have a daughter pregnant at thirteen!”
Holy moley. I know parents who still threaten to do the same thing, it’s like a popular threat:” I am sending you to a Mexican convent!’ But it really happened???? So tell me some tidbits
Sixteen girls, two dorms, always chaperoned and NEVER allowed to talk with boys. We walked two by two, arm in arm. Nun ahead of the group and a nun or novice/chaperone at the rear.
There were rumors about a couple of the girls who would sneak into each other’s beds, but I never saw it. Our beds were lined up with only a small nightstand between us. But god, we were yearning. Hormone city. 16 juicy, bouncy teenage girls just itching for contact.
My best friend, Lolita (I swear, that was her name) was the sister of one of the nuns and we managed to find a way out of the convent a couple of times. Went for a ride with a couple of boys we knew. We were found out when, upon our return, as we were sneaking back in, one of the external gas lines busted under our weight. We had to tell the nuns. We didn’t want to blow up the convent after all.
Another time, I had gotten into an argument with one of the nuns. She slapped me so I pushed her away. It was at that point I received a call notifying me of my grandfather’s demise. Mother Superior said, “Ya vez qué castigos manda Diós?” (Loosely, “Do you see what punishment God imposes?”) My mother was furious so she hauled me outta there and sent me to another convent of the same order further down in Sonora. I think I lasted about 9 months there then got kicked out for wearing a halter under a denim jacket. Too risqué. I mouthed off something like, “God doesn’t care what I wear. I could pray naked if I want to”.
It wasn’t all bad, though. Their education system was about two years ahead of ours here in the States. It was also well rounded. They prepared us for college, and we studied the sciences, art, dance, unvarnished Mexican history (grisly). We kept our spaces very tidy, also hand-washed our own laundry and went to mass every day but Saturday. It sounds awful but the discipline required to succeed in that environment was strangely empowering.
I was sent home to finish off high school at Sacred Heart of Mary, a girl’s Catholic high school in ‘76. By the time I got back to Cali, I already had all my credits except American history, and civics. Oh, and then there were the born-again years! I was so repressed, though that I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 20, and didn’t experience my first orgasm until I was about 22. By then it was 1980, and, well, you know. We used to call it “sport fucking”. Some of my Christian friends chastised me for having sex outside of marriage and for smoking weed but I didn’t care. I left most of them behind, as well. Jeezus, I’m glad those days are over!Gack. I left organized religion in my late 20s after a pastor’s umpteenth rant that “homosexuals are going to hell”. I left in the middle of the service and never looked back.
Beca, what a story! I hung on your every word. That moment when the Mother Superior told you you essentially caused your grandmother’s death. AY YI YI. I’m surprised your mom didn’t rush down and slap her!
This takes me back to moving to Middletown, Ohio (in the middle between Dayton and Cincinnati) from suburban Atlanta my senior year of high school. I never did adjust--the first day of school, students were organizing euchre tournaments (a word I'd never heard before!). I realized later that, in a place with rough winters, indoor pastimes like playing cards and bowling were something everyone did--not just what I thought of then as "really old people."
I stayed charmed by snow and winter for a couple of years in Ohio--I am glad that I could wear tights and jeans. However, cold is just not really in my genetic makeup--one trip from Cincinnati to New Orleans in February, when Ohio was still gray and Louisiana was green and in bloom clinched my decision to move back south, once I was on my own.
Oh my god, I didn’t even do a section on “curling”! Not to mention euchre! I love hearing about your brush with Yankee living. . .
That's a good story. I wonder if you would like Bill McKibben's recent book _The Flag, The Cross, and the Station Wagon_ (he's a similar age and also spent a couple of years in Canada growing up, and his version describes his more conventional impulses).
But it also reminded me, I recently was able to find an album by a canadian folksinger that I'd been trying to find for ages on this website, and I share because you might find something you remember as well): https://citizenfreak.com/
"Explore the premier Canadian music streaming platform and Music Museum – your gateway to a vast collection of vintage Canuck vinyl and digitized music. ... Engage in this unparalleled celebration of the diverse tapestry of Canadian musical legacy through our meticulously curated collection, which encompasses every Canadian cult classic."
Nick, I am so excited by your suggestions. I’ve ordered “The Flag…” from my library. I’ll spend a good hour or two perusing the music site. Which musician were you looking for?
Here's the story: https://earnestnessisunderrated.substack.com/p/canadians-cry-easy
I should add, thought "The Flag..." was really good, and an interesting wrestling with his (and your) generation's spot in history.
You are a treasure!
I'm framing that.
I am hearing from so many friends, here and on FB, who are Canadian and have backgrounds in the prairie and oil fields and long lonely roads! My adult life in BC and Québec and Toronto is a whole ‘nother story and now you have me stoked to delve in!
I argued for Audible to open up a Canadian store for a long time. My bosses would say, “Sure, it’s big, but there’s hardly any people there.” And I would argue, “But they are ten times as literate as Americans! Books are still a “thing” in Canada!” Which I still stand by. And as you audio lovers know, I did open the Canadian Audible store, finally, a few years ago. What a wild tale THAT is. More soon . . .
“Books are still a ‘thing’ in Canada!”
I’m so lucky I live in Bisbee. We are a town that reads! Our library is nationally recognized and we’ve had many writers call this tiny town home.
…and artists, musicians, dancers, actors, comedians. We’re all mad as hatters.
This is great! Love the old school pix.
Michael, those photos just crack me up now! They caused us such agony when they were taken. I think I burned all mine!
You're inspiring me to pull out my old class photos and gin up a newsletter about them! Buh you beat me to it.
More funny coincidences: My first ever rock concert was Procol Harum warming up for Yes, probably 1975 or 76.
wow! i was just on phone today with an elder relative i’ve never met who’s in Calgary … some kin are bailing on dreams of a family get-together up there … should i go anyway? Never been near there .. Bamff? Then Eston, to see where dad was born?
We’re not far apart in age, you and i, seems, but i grew up in v diff circumstances on the east coast .. and had that ProcolH record! was that from the concert you attended? small freekin world sometimes, despite the miles and miles of prairie!
Banff and Lake Louise are everything you ever imagined— one of the wonders of the world. And yes, Edmonton is the gateway. Calgary is more “Hollywood,” more music, and of course, more cowboy. It is so different from Eastern Canada you can hardly believe you’re in the same place.
Your story unearths a Canadian experience during 1971-79 in Toronto I had in the Arts scenes of contemporary music, York university performing arts, dance, art, Inuit art, Marshall mcCluhan concepts, nationalism, survivalist, and brush it under the rug politics from your pubescent perspectives.
Marti! That sounds pretty fun. I remember when Marshall was the most famous Canadian alive!
Yes the large picture you reflect. I wondered, contemplated, “the medium is the message?” As Marshall went in and out of the mental hospital.
This is fantastic. I can feel it.