ARTICLE INDEX

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“And you may ask yourself, ‘Well, how did I get here?’” —the Talking Heads, Once in a Lifetime

I was born on September 28th, 1951, the first born into a family that would eventually total five children. My father was raised in an Italian immigrant family where in many respects the Catholic Church formed the beginning and end of their horizons. In between birth and death the Church structured their lives. Shortly after I was born I was Baptized and through no choice or fault of my own I became one of God’s chosen.

My mother grew up in southern Ohio in a small town called Logan. She was orphaned at an early age. Her father died from sepsis in a time before antibiotics. Her mother died in an automobile accident in a time before seatbelts. Her life after these tragedies was, in a way, Dickensian. She was passed around between relatives. For a period, she lived with a strict Methodist minister and his wife. Her younger sister was adopted by one of the richest families in Logan. Her brothers and sister lived far away and we seldom saw them.

As a result it was my father’s family that shaped my social life which was one part Italian dinner celebrations, one part dysfunctional feuds and one part Catholic Church. My dad’s father, I learned, was quite a character. Rocco Lopez served in the Italian Army with the Lancers Regiment from 1898 until 1901. Sometime after that he left for America. He was apparently sponsored  by a “padrone” or one of his father’s brothers who had emigrated earlier.  He began his American journey working for a railroad out of Elkhart, Indiana. Six years later in 1907 he returned to Italy to get married.

He married my grandmother, Vincenza Coscarelli that year. Almost immediately after the marriage on September 9, 1907 he left a pregnant Vincenza with his mother and returned to America by way of New York City. He worked as a New York Central Railroad brakeman to earn money to send for his wife.

In 1908 Vincenza gave birth to their first child, Gigi. Vincenza was not happy living with her mother-in-law and hoped to move to America as soon as possible. When Rocco, didn’t send for her she decided to come anyway. Her first attempt failed when Gigi came down with hepatitis. She finally sailed to America in 1911 in the company of her brother-in-law, Nicholas, and his young bride. Vincenza and Rocco had three more children Eugene in 1912, Helen in 1913 and my father William in 1915.

The father I knew was a product of his Italian heritage, Catholicism, the small town of Coldwater, Michigan and his service with the Army Air Force during WW2 which included time in the Aleutian Islands. The resulting mixture would shape much of my relationship with my father and my early life for better or worse. Like most people I have few memories dating back before I started kindergarten. The majority of those early memories involve a trip to New York City. We traveled by Greyhound bus the entire distance. In my mind’s eye there is a kaleidoscope of memories. I can still remember hours on the bus staring out the window at the sights, the Radio City Rockettes, the Statue of Liberty and black and white images of 1950s New York City. I suspect my love of travel was ingrained into my psyche during that trip. I diverge. This is a story purportedly about my catholic school education or more precisely my lack of education and my interplay with a slightly broader world.

The Preface

The Saint Charles Catholic School did not offer kindergarten. Three weeks before my 5th birthday I started kindergarten at Edison Elementary School. Edison Elementary was only a long block from my house. I was enrolled in the afternoon Kindergarten class taught by Leila Iford. My classmates came from a diverse group of family backgrounds. As I recall we were a happy group of children with a kind and caring teacher to introduce us to the world of education. Looking at the class photo I spot several kids who even though they were pagans would remain my friends until I departed Coldwater 15 years later.

Kindergarten was an enjoyable excursion into new worlds of singing, playing and learning about books, rudimentary math and the alphabet. On my birthday my parents brought Harry’s Velvet Ice Cream cups and cake for the entire class. I was instantly the most popular kid in the class for the day. I was embarrassed or shy or something and hid under a table while the class sang happy birthday.

Because Kindergarten gave me access to a more cosmopolitan group of acquaintances few of whom were catholic I had a broader view of my small town world than the Catholic Church provided. This perspective would be invaluable in ways I couldn’t comprehend at the time.

Saint Charles

St. Charles Borromeo Parish and School are named in honor of a saint, Charles Borromeo. The school opened in 1911 and graduated its first class in 1915 the year my father was born. Management and instruction was by the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary Order of Monroe, Michigan.

Interestingly in the nine years I attended the school I was never taught a thing about Saint Charles Borromeo. I later learned he was born in 1538 and died in 1584 during his brief life he served as the Archbishop of Milan and was promoted to cardinal at some point. He was evidently a counter revolutionary leading the Counter-Reformation along with Ignatius of Loyola and Philip Neri.

That is not to say we did not get religion instruction. The school year encompassed 180 days. So after 9 years that is roughly 1,620 hours of religion class. The day also started with morning Mass which encompassed another 1,620 hours of religious indoctrination as well as Mass every Sunday and on many holy days. Those hours did not have anything to do with learning in the educational sense of reading, writing and mathematics not to mention english composition or history or art or physical education. In the end I was neither brainwashed or educated.

As I noted above the Sisters who ran the school were members of the Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. This religious order was founded by Father Louis Florent Gillet and Mother Theresa Maxix Duchemin in 1845. Mother Duchemin, was a Black Catholic. The ethnicity of Mother Duchemin was a fact hidden by the order for 160 years.

1st Grade

After my exceptional kindergarten experience my six year old childlike mind believed school was just about the best thing that I could experienced. It did take me long to find out that my first impression was a serious miscalculation. Saint Charles was located in the middle of Taylor Street. The school was composed of two buildings. The original two story building with an addition tacked on to the back and the newer building which contained four classrooms and the gymnasium.

Physical education was not part of the curriculum even though a gymnasium was added to the school in 1948. Like today, sports was probably the most important consideration for the school’s alumni. Surprisingly, despite the lack of physical education classes the school still mustered men’s football, basketball and baseball teams. The basketball team actually managed to get to the State Class D semifinals one year.

Opposite the school buildings the church, the rectory and the convent took up much of the facing block. There was no school yard. At lunch time both ends of Taylor street were closed with barricades. The students took over the street after gulping down their lunches in the basement cafeteria which was run by my aunt Gigi. I was dazed the first time I followed my classmates out of the cafeteria. The street resembles a beehive. Kids everywhere playing tag, hopscotch and kickball often with no recognition of the boundaries separating the different activities. There was a cacophony of kids voices, laughing, talking and screaming. It was like kindergarten on steroids.

While I didn’t know how to play kickball I did know all about baseball thanks to my father’s preoccupation with the Detroit Tigers. I quickly and enthusiastically inserted myself into the game underway in front of the convent. By the time it was my turn to kick the ball I had mastered the rules. I kicked the ball and ran to first base. Rounding the base I fell down and scraped my hands. I stood up and returned to the first base. The school bell rang and the mass of kids swarmed back to class.

I returned to my seat in the back row. It was one of those hot, humid Michigan early fall days that make it impossible to be comfortable. My scraped hands were beginning to burn. What happened next has been etched in my memory ever since. One moment I was sweating in my seat consumed with my scraped hands, the next I was on the floor with my head ringing. A figure dressed in black walking away from me shouted “when I call your name, you stand up.” The nun made it clear at my expense that we were no longer in kindergarten. I probably learned something in 1st Grade but clearly what I remember most about that year was to not piss off the nun. In fairness to the nun she had over 40 six year olds to teach all by herself. It wasn’t a good situation for her or the kids.

2nd Grade

First Communion is an important tradition for Catholics. It one of the seven sacraments (Baptism, Confirmation, Communion, Confession, Last Rights, Marriage and Holy Orders). We learned we couldn’t take Communion without first confessing our sins. Second grade was geared toward preparing us for undertaking these two sacraments. Learning english, reading and mathematics were at best just something that got in the way of our religious studies. If my mother had not taught me to read and write before I was enrolled at Saint Charles I would have been completely lost academically. After our first confession, confession would be a biweekly ordeal during the school year.

We were taught that we were sinners but since God loved us he would under certain circumstances let us off the hook. We either followed the procedures or the odds were we would end up in hell where we would burn for eternity. Now, I had no idea how long eternity was but if it was longer than the school year it was too long for me. In preparation for our first confession we were taught the necessary passwords required for staying out of hell. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been [time period] since my last confession.” We then were required to set out both our venial sins and, God forbid, our mortal sins. How many second graders in the mid-50s had committed mortal sins you might ask? More than you would think was the answer that was drilled in to us. Abortion, divorce, blasphemy, use of contraception, envy, lying, masturbation were just a few of the mortal sins that didn’t apply to second graders. The nuns always stressed skipping church on Sundays and holy days were mortal sins. At least skipping Sunday mass was a mortal sin we could aspire to commit

Since we had not committed any mortal sins we had to come up with something because what priest would believe we were sin free. “I took the lords name in vain” or “l talked in church” were usually safe admissions. After acknowledging our sins to the priest, the priest will say the magic words of absolution and give us our sentence, I mean our penance. Slam bam, thank you Jesus I’m on my way to heaven, at least until next week.

There were two priest assigned to the Parish, Father Gruss was by far the older of the two. He was in charge of the parish. Father Spillane was much younger and way more enthusiastic and often cheerfully engaged with kids he encountered on the playground. Father Gruss seemed tired and could often be observed smoking on the rectory porch. Spillane, on the other hand, despite, his cheerful disposition still had the religious fire in his belly. On confession days we soon learned it was best to wait your turn on the right hand side of the Church and confess to Father Gruss. He was by far the most lenient when it came to assigning penance. He often assigned me the task of saying three Hail Mary’s, the Act of Contrition and an Our Fathers to fully exculpate myself for my made up sins.

Furthermore, while Father Gruss never asked questions Father Spillane was always up for an invasive interrogation For example “Why did you take the name of the Lord in vain?” Well, I could not tell him I was lying and actually admit to another sin right there in the confessional. Further, I thought he would never believe me if I was honest and said, “I haven’t sinned.” After he was done with his interrogation he would assign a penance which would include saying three time consuming full rosaries.

If it wasn’t for the nuns directing traffic the entire class would have waited on the right side of the church. The nuns knew this probably as a result of their confessional experiences with the two priest. As a result, the presiding nun would direct students to Father Spillane’s side of the church. Nine times out of ten that is where I was sent.

Harry’s, the Center of the Universe

My Grandmother had a dowry when she married. Rocco and Vincenza used this money to eventually move to Coldwater, Michigan. At first they opened a fruit and confectionary store in the lobby of a hotel. Vincenza operated the store and Rocco would travel to Elkhart, Indiana by a horse and buggy to buy supplies.

Although, he was known as Rocco as late as 1918, by 1929, he was going by the name Harry. Grandma told me that one of his friends said that since he was now American, he should have an American name and dubbed him “Harry”.

In March 1917 Rocco signed a 10-year lease for the building at 14 W. Chicago Street. The first floor was used as shop where they sold fruit, ice cream and confections. The family lived on the second floor. In January 1918, they purchased equipment for making ice cream and opened an ice cream factory in a building behind the shop. The new ice cream was known as “Harry’s Velvet Ice Cream.”

I never met my grandfather. He died in 1942 after suffering a stroke. Although my dad never talked about it with me I was told the stroke occurred just after he had argued with his father. My mother said my dad never got over the guilt that he felt about the incident. This might partially explain why my dad seldom talked about his early family life. Of course, that might also be because his father was a tyrant.

Here are a couple of stories that were passed on. One Thanksgiving, Harry closed the store early so the family could celebrate an American style Thanksgiving dinner. On his way home my uncle Gene stopped by a car dealership to see the new Buicks. This side trip made him late for dinner and Harry was so furious he broke a dining room chair over Gene’s back. Perhaps more egregious, Harry forced his daughter Gigi, to marry an Italian family’s son from nearby Hillsdale. As the story goes the groom went out with this girlfriend on his wedding night. Gigi, being an Italian woman was incensed and returned home. Harry upped the ante and dragged her down the stairs by her hair just in case she was at fault. Fortunately for Gigi the marriage was annulled soon thereafter. Unlike their father, Gene and Gigi despite the fatherly abuse were two of the nicest and most generous people I have ever know.

Harry’s flourished and the ice cream they manufactured in the plant across the alley was sold to small restaurants and grocery stores not only in Branch County, but in surrounding counties as well. In the mid-50s when I first became aware of my surroundings my uncle Gene was in charge of Harry’s. My father and my uncle Tony, Gigi’s husband, worked at the store. No one lived on the second floor as my grandmother had moved out long ago. We never called it Harry’s. To us, it was always “the store.”

I spent more time at “the store” than I can, at this point in my life, imagine. Even after my dad left the business I could go there and have a coke or hot fudge sundae at no cost. I spent hours on the second floor exploring the relics stored there or sitting in my uncle’s office listening to his stereo play Caruso. The shop behind ‘the store” was even more interesting with its walk-in freezers full of ice cream, and massive ice cream making machines. During the summer I would often show up on Wednesdays, the day they made ice cream, and pretend to help in order to gorge myself on the freshly made ice cream. Even more interesting was Gene’s workshop in the back which contained a printing press which was used to print the ice cream cartons as well as all of Gene’s shop machines and tools.

When Gene was a baby the wind blew through a window, pushing a curtain into a candle. The curtain ignited and started the crib burning. My grandmother rescue Gene but not before his right hand was severely burned. He lost three fingers and the other two digits faired only slightly better. Despite this disaster he grew up and became a master of all trades. He could build electronics, maybe his favorite activity, fix anything and grew the business into a regionally know ice cream destination and manufacture.

The summer break between 2nd and 3rd grade was the first time I remember trying to take control of my young life. One of my public school acquaintances was Danny Hazlet. Danny lived with his mother and grandmother. As far as I knew he had no father. I wondered why but I couldn’t get an answer. As it was the mid-1950s I am not surprised that a single mother was shunned. Anyway, my mother didn’t prohibit me from hanging around with Danny but she did try to discourage it.

One day Danny said we should go to Waterworks Park which was on the opposite side of town and several miles from my house. Being the dutiful son I asked my mom if I could go and as a dutiful mother she said “Absolutely not!” She explained it was too far and too dangerous. Danny, being Danny, kept trying to get me to accompany him on the trek. In retrospect Danny was kind of an Eddie Haskell type character. He had little supervision and never seemed to get in trouble. When I was a kid in Coldwater parental supervision was by today’s standards somewhat lax when it came to a kid’s ability to run free around the neighborhood. We seldom had to do anything other than show up on time for meals. Still there were limits, we had to tell a parent where we were going and with whom we were going. I think my request to go to Waterworks Park may have been the first time I was told “No!”

Danny kept pestering me to go. He had a million reasons but the one that finally convinced me was “your mom will never know.” The next day I told my mom I was going to Danny’s. We first had to cross Division Street which was US-27 a main north south highway. It was another thing I was forbidden to do. Next up was the need to cross Chicago Street which was US-12 and at the time the main road between Detroit and Chicago. As we walked along Chicago Street we met an old guy working in his yard. “Where are you boys heading,” he asked.

“Waterworks Park,” I proudly answered.

“Do your parents know where you are?”

Danny responded, “Yes.” I said nothing. The old guy then helped us safely cross Chicago Street and we continued on to the park where we enjoyed all its wonders like the tepid Saulk River, the swings and running around the bases on the softball field. Finally, realizing we needed to get home we left and walked home. As I approached my house my mom was in the front yard mowing.

“Where were you,” she asked.

“Danny’s,” I responded as I had stopped at his house for a glass of water before coming home I thought I was telling a more than a sufficient half truth.

“Don’t you lie to me,” was her response. “You went to Waterworks Park.”

I digested this response in my seven year old mind. How could she know I asked myself? Although I had asked her half a dozen times if I could go to Waterworks Park with Danny, although I told her I was going to Danny’s that morning, although I had been gone for hours and was standing in front of her badly sunburned all I could think of was that the old man who had helped us cross Chicago Street had told her. I blurted out “That old guy told you?” So much for my denial. My confession was complete. The last week before school started and I was once again in the grips of the nuns I was grounded. This is how I learned about false prophets, not from religious classes but from listening to Danny’s assurances that we would not get caught.

3rd Grade

Mathematics has dogged me my entire life. In the third grade what was referred to as the “New Math” arrived at Saint Charles in the form of brand new textbooks. New Math wasn’t really new math, it was just a new way of teaching math in American grade schools. While at the time I didn’t have a clue as to why this occurred I later learned that it was a response to the Soviet Union launching the Sputnik satellite which sent the USA into a crisis mode. It was thought that the new teaching method would jumpstart American students’ scientific and mathematical skills and allow the USA to compete with Soviet mathematicians and engineers. At Saint Charles it had the opposite effect.

It soon became clear to us kids that our teacher didn’t understand the new teaching directions in the book. Before long, the new textbooks were replaced by the old textbooks and things returned to a pre-Sputnik normal. This was all well and good until we moved on to the 4th Grade where the nun understood the new math and my class was a year behind. I still remember late nights getting math tutoring from my mother as I struggled to catch up.

Confirmation was the next sacrament up. Another religious ritual that took precedence over secular education. The sacrament of Catholic Confirmation allegedly would unite me with the Holy Spirit. After receiving Confirmation the Holy Spirit would be there to help us practice our religion. I always thought the Holy Spirit got the short end of the deal playing second fiddle to God the Father and Jesus. I mean who ever prays to the Holy Spirit when you can go right to the top. Nevertheless, this was the Holy Spirit’s one chance to shine and give us wisdom, understanding, and knowledge. I don’t remember much of the rigamarole that we were forced to endure to make us suitable candidates to get blessed by the Holy Spirit but I do remember I had to learn the Act of Contrition by heart. The prayer has morphed over time but went something like the following.

“O My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen”

It wasn’t very long but memorizing anything like that was about the last thing I was interested in doing. While my public school friends were memorizing Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address which would have been at a minimum interesting I was struggling to memorize a plea to an imaginary entity in the sky to forgive me for something I didn’t do. As I recall I didn’t master the brief prayer until the last minute.

The entire process was a big deal with the bishop arriving in town to anoint us with oil of Chrism while making the sign of the cross on our foreheads. Then the  bishop gave a homily after which we renewed our baptismal promises and our sponsor laying a hand on our shoulder and spoke our confirmation name. I think my confirmation name was John. I have no recollection of who my sponsor was. I wondered through the ceremony how I could have made baptismal promises when I was baptized before I could speak. So, that was third grade, a year that was short on learning the three “Rs” but long on hocuspocus.

Fortunately, summer break came every year and I was now old enough to play organized baseball. Midget league baseball was for 8 and 9 year olds and completely secular in nature. In fact I cannot remember any one from my Saint Charles classmates playing in the league that first year. Baseball became the focus of my life until I discovered the mountains. The ball fields were situated right behind Edison Elementary and many of my former Kindergarten classmates were playing in the league. League play began soon after classes ended and lasted until the end of July. We had a coach, we had practices and we played (I think) 12 games. We did not have a lot of parents hanging around berating the coach or the umpires. It was a kids world where those who wanted to learn the sport learned something from the coaches but even more from each other.

When the official season ended the most motivated of us could often be found at the Edison fields playing pickup games. Unlike the regulated official games these games had no age limits. I would often be playing with kids who were 2,  3 and 4 years older than me. If we couldn’t get enough players for two full teams we would improvise by playing without a catcher or designating hits to right field as automatic outs. We played for the sake of the game and the hopes of eventually making it to the major leagues. Everyone had their favorite player and mine was Al Kaline, the Detroit Tiger’s perennial star who made it the big leagues at the age of 19. Dreams can be the best motivation for kids.

4th Grade

Like the sun rising in the morning summer breaks always ended and school started. Beyond the usual morning masses and confessional traumas this years is somewhat of a blur in my memory. If it wasn’t for the infamous “nose picking” lecture I might have completely forgotten this year. One afternoon two of the nuns told the class a horrific story about a family who lived in Detroit. This family’s members constantly picked their noses. This story dragged on and on. No matter who told them to stop the practice the family just could not stop picking their noses. All 40 of us on the edge of our seats. What kid hadn’t picked their nose? Back then there wasn’t Kleenex and handkerchiefs were only for special dress up occasions. Anyway, the result of all the families nose picking was that one night while they were sleeping their eyes fell into their skulls because the nose picking has caused infections that rotted out their brains. This was perhaps the lowlight of my Catholic scientific education.

5th Grade

Fifth grade was the first time since Kindergarten that we had a teacher that was a layperson. I cannot remember the woman’s name but I do credit her for instilling in me my love of history. It was the first and only time at Saint Charles that I was taught a subject by a teacher who was both knowledgeable and enthusiastic about a subject. As 5th graders we were allowed for the first time to use the school’s library. The library actually had a wide selection of literature. Although when I tried to check out Tolstoy’s War and Peace I was told to wait until I was in 9th grade. Religion still took center stage in the curriculum. Father Spillane taught us our daily religion class and all other classes were secondary to religious calendar events.

My mother was my shield protecting me from the excesses of the nuns. She graduated from the Grant School of nursing in 1946 and eventually ended up taking a position at the Branch County Community Hospital in Coldwater. She met, started dating and then become engaged to my father soon after arriving in Coldwater. In order to marry she had to convert to Catholicism. Having heard her stories about her time with the Methodist minister I imagine she found Catholicism wasn’t nearly as restrictive. While she accompanied us to church every Sunday and on religious holidays she did it for my father and not as a result that she found Catholic religious beliefs convincing. Unlike my father I have no recollection of her going to confession or partaking in communion.

When it came down to the nuns versus me I could always count on her to take my side. One example took place during a hot muggy Michigan spring. Every spring Saint Charles had a Saturday celebration relating to some long deceased Saint. For an entire week preceding the padgent the entire student body was sent to the church to practice our entrance, singing the hymns and then marching out of the Church.

During the last practice on a suffocating afternoon several of us fifth graders were quietly yucking it up while one of the nuns was lecturing us on some vague point of etiquette. As we marched out Mother Superior yanked me and two of my classmates out of the prosession as we reached the church steps. To say she was hot under her habit would be an understatement. Among the stream of invective religious verbal abuse she rained down on us she said “I don’t want to see you here tomorrow.” Well, no sweeter words had I heard come from her mouth.

I told my mother when I got home that I was banned from the Saturday procession. She didn’t ask me why, she simply said “okay.” The next day I played baseball with my friends and had a great time. Of course, on Monday I learned that my two classmates had attended the procession despite what Mother Superior had said.

I was sent to Mother Superior’s office first thing Monday. She handed me an envelope addressed to my parents. I gave it my mother upon arriving at home. The letter demanded that both my parents and I report to her office no later than Tuesday afternoon or I would be suspended. As an aside I should point out that I learned to swear from listening to my mother. She quietly whispered a few of her favorite cuss words and then asked me “she told you not to come, right?” I answered in the affirmative. She cautioned me “Don’t mention this to your dad.”

The next day she arrived at the school where I was patiently waiting. We were granted entrance Mother Superior’s office. Mother Superior’s opening salvo was “Is your husband coming?”

“He working,” was my mother’s counter.

Mother Superior came back with “Attendance at the procession is always mandatory.”

My mother played her trump card “then you shouldn’t have told him not to come when you were yelling at him. He just followed your instructions.” Game, set, match. Mother Superior despite her faults was honest. All she could do was mumble that I should behave better in church. My mother wasn’t through as we walked out of the office she said over her shoulder “I don’t think you are teaching him anything and I’ll teach him how to behave.” Of course, there would be consequences derived from this episode. In Mother Superior’s mind I graduated from simply an irritant to a trouble maker. I had to keep my head down whenever she was around. Still, there were times when I failed, like the time I drew a Maltese Cross on the mandatory book cover on my history book. She didn’t like that. In response, she told me “Mister Lopez I would like to leave the imprint of my hand on your face.”

My mother and a friend organized a Cub Scout troop which I was an enthusiastic member for two years. As I turned 10 in 1961 I was eligible to join the Boy Scouts which unlike Cub Scouts was a male dominated organization. So my mother’s involvement in my scouting career ended and I needed to move on. Saint Charles did not have a scout troop even though all Coldwater troops were associated with churches.

My friend and neighbor since Kindergarten, Bill Bobier, invited me to join Troop 60 which was sponsored by the Presbyterian Church and lead by Scout Master Mr Anderson. In some ways this was even a better secular experience than Little League because Scouting was a year round activity. More importantly, it involved camping.

I was a faithful member of the Boy Scouts from ages 10-15. I never quite figured out the marching part of Scouting but the camping component was what it was all about for me. Mr. Anderson was totally into camping. The troop had a kitchen and equipment trailer that served as the center of our camps.  The Troop participated in every Regional Camporee and often had camping weekends just for the Troop. Additionally, we spent one week every summer at Camp Ben Johnson which, in the early 1960s, was a young boy’s fantasy camp. In addition to learning to shoot rifles and bow and arrows, we had an entire week away from our parents and siblings.

Of course, camping in Michigan is nothing like camping in the West. Camporees usually were situated in a farmer’s field. Nevertheless, we learned the skills needed to camp in more remote territories. Troop 60 was broken into groups called Patrols. As new members Bill Bobier and I formed the “No Name Patrol” with a number other new scouts. After baseball season ended our patrol often used our scouting skills to camp at our favorite haunt, a place we called Lost Paradise. There is very little public land in southern Michigan. Lost Paradise was a 50-acre hilly woodlot surrounded by cornfields. We spent many Summer days and nights trespassing and hanging out at our secret camp where we built a deluxe lean-to.

6th Grade

As we entered 6th grade our class was moved up to a second floor classroom and Sister Lucentia, a new and much younger nun, became our primary teacher. The move to the second floor made us feel we were growing up but also subjected us to even more stifling heat in the fall and the spring when afternoons in a building without air conditioning tended to cause everyone a heat induced drowsiness.

Up until this point the nuns had seemed cold, remote and difficult taskmasters. I really didn’t feel any warmth from them. They were the polar opposite of TV’s Leave it Beaver’s Miss Landers and were more likely to hit you with a ruler than understand you were just a young child. Of course, to be fair we were not really in a position to understand what nuns lives were really like living under the guidance on Mother Superior.

Sister Lucentia was different. She actually treated us like she liked us. She also made our secular education a priority and she was a good teacher. I think we all actually learned something from her. Of course, this made her an outlier from the other nuns and especially from the forbidding Mother Superior who ran the school with an eye towards discipline and stressing religion over reading, writing and mathematics. Even at the young age I could feel her disdain for me and many of my classmates. The weight that Mother Superior must have placed on the shoulders of Sister Lucentia became apparent one hot, muggy afternoon on the second floor of Saint Charles.

It was an unbearable muggy afternoon. The entire class was having trouble concentrating due to the heat. Sister Lucentia instructed us to quietly read from a book. Most of us were nearly asleep. Suddenly, Sister Lucentia who had a habit of leaning back in her chair fell over backwards. The wooden chair slamming into the oak floor brought us all to our feet.

Marlene, the wannabe teachers pet, immediately jumped up and yelled “I’ll  get Mother Superior.” What happened next was perhaps the only thing I have ever experienced that I would consider to possibly be a supernatural occurrence. At a minimum it was superhuman. Sister Lucentia who we all thought had been knocked unconscious flew off the floor and screamed “NO!” I knew then that I wasn’t the only one scared of Mother Superior.

Although I did not believe I was learning anything useful from the nuns I did have interest which excited me. If something caught my fancy I would head to the Branch County Public Library and research the issue. In 5th Grade when the history bug bit me I constructed a large model of the Parthenon. In 6th Grade with the space race in full swing I built a rather unsophisticated model of the solar system complete with rotating planets and won first prize in the school’s science fair. I think this was the first time Mother Superior told my parents I wasn’t college material. Nobody could beat that women for raining on someone’s parade.

7th, 8th and 9th Grade

These years are all jumbled together in my memory. I was preoccupied trying to figure out a way to transfer to public school over my father’s objections. I think his objections were based on not wanting to explain to his Catholic peers why I left the school. Mother Superior early on had told my parents I was not college material and they should get use to that fact. Every time this subject came up my mother would tell me to ignore the “old witch.” On the basis of my report cards Mother Supeior had a factual basis for her assertion. I, on the other hand, had no doubt I was going to college. This dichotomy of views lead me to stiffen my resistance to the school and my desire to head to public school.

My class 7th Grade was now located across the alley in the newer building and our secular education was entrusted to male teachers who happened to also be the schools basketball, football and baseball coaches. The nuns handled our religious studies and Father Gruss and Mother Superior were often lurking around the building to insure that the coaches were not straying from the approved curriculum.

Father Gruss was also in the habit of showing up at the cafeteria at lunch time where he stationed himself at the cash register to either punch our lunch tickets or collect our quarters. This was the era of the Beatles. The Catholic world of Father Gruss must have feared the influence the Beatles were having on youths. The first lunch period in 8th grade when I handed him my quarter he said “you are not a Beatle. You need a haircut. Don’t come back to the cafeteria until you get it cut.”

Even by mid-60s standards my hair was not long. I never returned to the cafeteria. That night I called my grandmother who lived two blocks from the school and asked if I could eat lunches with her. I had always been close to my grandmother but our daily lunch date for the next two school years took the relationship to a new high and gave me a chance to learn more about her backstory.

When Vincenza followed her husband to America with her first daughter Gigi she didn’t speak a word of English and really had received only minimal formal education in Italy. Although Italian emigrants were historically treated roughly in those years when Vincenza and Rocco arrived in Coldwater they were well received. This may have been because my grandmother was considered an outstanding beauty in her younger days. She often remarked that people always treated her kindly. In turn she loved serving the public. In fact until suffering her stroke she often spent hours at “the store” interacting with the public.

In many ways, my grandmother never lost her “old country ways”. She was very superstitious and kept a tight rein on my father until her passing. My mother related one example that said it all. My parents had planned a driving trip to southern Ohio to visit my mother’s siblings. During a visit with my grandmother she told my father she was “scared for dead” that something would happen if we drove ourselves. As a result we made the arduous journey in Greyhound buses. It eventually became clear to me that no family decision was ever made without her input and agreement. Hardly a day would go by without my father visiting her. I often went with him when I was younger to enjoy her hospitality. The minute I walked into the house she wanted to feed me. She also had a “candy” drawer in the kitchen that was a kid’s treasure chest.

It just wasn’t the candy that drew me to my grandmother. She was an exceptional cook. She never mastered reading English and couldn’t read a recipe but she could cook. Twice a year she made a trip to an Italian grocery store in Lansing to stock up on olive oil, vermicelli, acini pepe, parmesan cheese, provolone, olives and anything and everything Italian. In the fall she made the annual trip to a local U-pick tomato farm to hand pick bushels and bushels of tomatoes. After I received my drivers license I was enlisted to drive her and my aunt Helen to the farm. We took my aunt’s 1956 Buick sedan and by the time we returned the car was so filled with tomatoes that Helen and my grandmother could barely squeeze in. When the tomatoes arrived at her house it was time to make her yearly supply of tomato paste.

Another memorable or for my part infamous 7th grade event occurred during the weekly music class taught by Sister Florence. She was the oldest nun and teaching music was all she was allowed to do. One day Sister Florence was leading the class in singing Row Row your boat. How she was allowed to teach a secular song is a mystery. The entire class sang the song once. She then divided the class into three groups. I was in the middle group. We were all feeling good about this unusual non religious foray into folk music. Group one started out. Then on cue my group started. Then group three chimed in.

Suddenly she yelled “stop! Someone is not singing in the proper key.” We all looked around. Who could that be I wondered. Since kindergarten I loved music and singing. She told my group to sing. As we sang she walked up the aisle. When she got to me once again said “stop.”

“Mr. Lopez sing from the beginning.” Nervously and self consciously I tried to sing.

“ Row row your boat gently . . .”

“Stop. It’s you. Just sit there and don’t sing,” she commanded. The music class continued without me. I don’t think I sang again for 30 years.

My literary career began in my 8th grade English class. We we given the assignment of writing a poem. Uncharacteristically I took the assignment seriously. That night I started and discarded several poems before a light went off in my head. With a fresh piece of paper I quickly wrote my poetic masterpiece entitled ‘The Rat Who Ate A Cat.’ Unfortunately, it is one of my early writings that in the archeological sense are no longer extant. The next day we read our poems in class. I modestly report that my poem was a hit with the class and the laughter it caused was the brightest moment in my time at Saint Charles. Maybe I should be a comedian, I thought. The nun was not impressed. She dressed me down for not taking the assignment seriously and gave me a C-.

By the time 9th grade rolled around I knew if I stayed at Saint Charles I would never get accepted to a college. I knew that would be a huge disappointment to both my mother and myself. I put my mind to work to develop an escape plan. Finally, rather than asking my mother I asked my father if I could go to public school. “No,” was all he said.

The Escape

Saint Charles was located one mile from my house. Once I was in 3rd grade I walked to and from school most days. Before that my mother drove me to school. I was never a morning person. Getting me out of bed was an ordeal. One morning when I was in 2nd grade I was particularly dilatory. It was clear I was going to be late. My mother stopped in front of the church. There was no one on the street as I climbed up the steps to the church’s front door. As I reached the top step the doors flew open. Church was over. The students were pouring out. I panicked. My mother’s car was turning the corner half a block away. My genetic flight programming took over. I ran after her hopelessly trying to catch her. I ran all the way home.

In July, after nine years before the Cross I was through asking if I could go to public school. Once again my genetic flight programming took over. I took matters into my own hands. I walked over to Coldwater High School. I told the woman behind the counter I wanted to enroll. “Did you just move to Coldwater?”

“No, I was going to Saint Charles,” I said.

“What do your parents say? Do they know you are here?” She asked.

“No, we’ll sort of,” I responded. “I told my Mom.”

“Well, you come back with one of them,” she countered.

“No,” I nearly shouted.

“Well okay. Sit down there,” she said. “Wait here.”

A few minutes later I was ushered into the principals office. He was more sympathetic and after a short interview he told the woman to enroll me in the 10th grade class. I was free.

In September of 1966, the year I started public school, a fire erupted in the attic of Saint Charles’ original building. The resulting damaged was extensive and the school moved classes to temporary accommodations.  Although classes continued at various locations in town a decision was made to downsized the school to nine grades. The next year my former classmates enrolled at Coldwater High School.

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Montana 1971

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