Turn of Events

Part 1

Decisions, Decisions

The setting for this story takes place during the school year of 1958-59, my senior year of high school, but its roots go back to when I was beginning my sophomore year.

During my teenage years Catholic schools were heavily attended. My class alone consisted of over 500 girls.

Due to the great number of students, we were permitted to choose only one extracurricular activity, hopefully giving everyone an opportunity to participate. I had already decided on mine.

My dream was to be a reporter for the school newspaper. I was already a secret writer of poetry, and now I would get my chance to write stories that would actually be published.

Of course, I’d have to be accepted as a staff member, but I thought my chances were good as my marks in English class were excellent.

My confidence increased when I was invited to attend an introductory staff meeting where, in a straightforward, no-nonsense tone, the nun moderator explained that being a writer for the paper was not a task to be taken lightly, and she outlined the duties required. Listening to her, I came to the realization that being on the paper would certainly be hard work taking more than just after-school hours, yet my enthusiasm was not diminished.

As I left the news staff room that afternoon, little did I know that waiting ahead was a crossroads that would take me to the biggest test in decision making I’d ever had in my young life.

Student elections were coming up and my class had nominated me for Student Council!

I doubted that just running for Council interfered with the one activity rule, but I wasn’t sure. Of course, I could decline the nomination; choosing not to run would be an immediate solution to my dilemma with the newspaper.

I have to admit that I was quite flattered to be one of the chosen, and with that, curiosity took hold.

What if I actually won?

The first meeting of the recently accepted news staff would be gathering to start work in two days.

I had an idea, one that made me feel somewhat uncomfortable, but I selfishly wanted a chance to at least enjoy playing around with thoughts of actually serving on Council. It was a calculated risk that I was willing to take.

I went to the nun moderator and proposed my thoughts to her, asking if I could still be on the news staff while also being a candidate for student council.

There it was. I had laid my cards on the table.

Without even time to blink my eye, she came back with an emphatic and stern, NO! I either withdraw my name from nominations or quit the paper. I could give her my decision after school the following afternoon.

I didn’t sleep well that night nor did I seek advice from my parents or any of my friends. I was in this alone. If I made the wrong choice, it would be solely on me.

For the entire next day at school classmates and even some of the nuns enthusiastically wished me well in the future election. “Good luck!” “You’ll be great!” “I’m voting for you!” By the end of the day, I was feeling extra special and pleased with myself. I liked the feeling as I headed to the newspaper staff office. I had made my decision.

There have been a few times through the years when thinking about my high school days that I shake my head at the wisdom and motivation of my 16-year-old self. We live and learn.

Had my decision gone the other way, would I perhaps have pursued a career in journalism? I doubt it.

Would I have written a book…well, that’s still a possibility.

Part 2

The Little Wrens Birdhouse

A few weeks after the election results were announced, my nonexistent newspaper days behind me, I marched in procession up the center aisle of our school’s large auditorium, the student body, my parents, and younger sister in attendance.

I listened with my fellow council members as Reverend Father, teachers and friends took their turns at the microphone before the moment came to have the coveted brown and gold ribbon ceremoniously draped across my right shoulder by a graduating senior counselor and fastened to my uniform with a gold-plated Lamp of Knowledge decorative pin.

Upon the conclusion of the Installation Ceremony, I remember glancing up into the balcony where my parents were seated and noting the look of pride in my dad’s eyes as I marched with the other newly installed councilors back down the aisle in cadence to the school band playing the River Kwai March.

During the remainder of the school years that followed, I found it odd that I wasn’t required to attend a single Student Council meeting or ever vote on a policy that had an effect on school life.

It turned out that my duties as a member of student government would require me to report to an assigned post where between classes, I would stand with other student councilors, arms outstretched, forming a human divider down the center of the long corridor, directing student traffic.

I was also selected to be the councilor who would give up 25 minutes of her 45-minute lunch period to stand behind the cafeteria microphone saying Grace before and after meals. Between the prayers I’d be making the daily announcements and calling table numbers to the lunch counter and the lavatory.

Each month when it came time for the school newspaper to be distributed in homeroom, I would daydream about how exciting it must have been for the writers to prepare the stories to be read and discussed by the entire student body.

As I became acclimated to the hustle and bustle of my duties in the hallway, I began to like my job. The students were pleasant, and I became friendly with many of them.

I enjoyed exchanging greetings and smiles as the girls passed by walking in double lines, carrying books, purses and gym bags to their classes.

I began to notice one girl, an under classman, who was short for her age. She always walked alone, her head down and her eyes fixated on the armload of books she carried as though she expected them to leap away from her and run away. Her shoulder length brown hair was straight and stringy, held to one side of her forehead with a bobby pin. She wore light blue framed eyeglasses. In my mind she reminded me of a tiny wren and that is the imaginary name I gave her.

One day, I decided to stop her as she passed me and asked her name. “Dolores,” she said. I introduced myself to her. She was shy and responded to my questions of, “so what class are you headed towards?” and “who is your homeroom nun?” with one-word answers, so I thought it best to let her go with a “have a nice day, Dolores.”

I made it a point to look for her in the days that followed and acknowledge Dolores. She responded and began to look up and smile as we exchanged “hi’s” and “how are you doing’s.” She even started to call me by my name.

As June rolled around, St. Hubert’s class of 1959 was preparing for graduation. I was chosen to carry the large white and gold Papal flag down the center aisle of Philadelphia’s Convention Hall. Another proud moment for my parents, I’m sure.

The Year Books were the highlight of the school year causing a flurry of activity in the halls between classes as girls scurried to have friends sign the pages. Seniors’ year books were leather covered and there was a special section of the graduates’ pictures, their names and addresses beneath their likeness.

I felt honored when Dolores asked me to sign her yearbook.

The Saturday before graduation, I was upstairs cleaning my bedroom in preparation for my party the following weekend when my mother called upstairs to say that I had visitors.

Visitors? Why didn’t she just say, “Catherine Barrett” or “Janey Driscoll” are here? No, seems I had visitors. I was curious.

I came downstairs and there in the middle of our living room stood little, shy Dolores with her dad who seemed equally shy.

He held a brown paper bag in his hand and in a soft-spoken voice said, “This is a gift that I made for you.

I want you to know how much we appreciate how nice you’ve been to Dolores. Dolores smiled, adding that she requested her dad make the wooden bird house that I was now removing from the bag.

I was so touched that they had come to my house to give me this special graduation gift and I suppose that is the reason why I remember this story 64 years later; however, there is another reason that I remember Dolores.

Fast forward to 1969. I was sitting with former classmates celebrating our 10th at an all-class reunion held at the Four Chefs Restaurant in Philadelphia. Glancing across the room I saw a young, attractive woman, beautifully dressed and wearing a mink stole. She was surrounded by other women and engaged in animated conversation. Immediately, I knew it was Dolores.

She had changed, but I knew it was her.

I had to say hello. I got up and walked over to where she was standing and waited for a lull in her conversation to say, “Dolores, I’m so happy to see you!” She looked at me as though I were asking for a kidney donation and said, “who are you?” Now, I know it was 10 years since I saw her, but everyone else that evening knew immediately who I was. “I’m Joanne, Dolores.” I was tempted to add, you know… the bird house girl. But, no, Dolores didn’t remember me.

I walked back to my table not quite knowing how to feel. Then I began to laugh, a big, happy laugh. I was happy for Dolores. She was no longer a scared little wren; she was a full-fledged swan and I suspected she might even have a slight touch of that bird’s attitude.

Well, I could say I knew her when...and I had the bird house to prove it.