Free Life With Mother Superior by Jane Trahey Page A

like the Band Concert, Graduation, Foundation Day. Holidays in the convent are vastly different than in the outside world—for instance, Columbus Day and the founding of America did not merit a holiday, but Foundation Day and the founding of the Order of our Sisters did merit a holiday. Memorial Day, no; Ascension Thursday, yes. Armistice Day, no; All Saints, yes.
    Actually, there was no reason for praying for sunshine; Roughhouse lit candles, demanded it and got it. The Living Rosary day dawned beautifully. The sky was cloudless—a deep blue. And when I say dawned, I mean dawned, because that’s when we got up. Despite the knowledge that the Living Rosary would be formed at 3 p.m. we were ready to board the bus by 9 a.m. Mother Superior insisted that we not put our uniforms on that early and stay in our cotton play dresses as long as we could since the weather had changed abruptly and the thermometer was hovering around 90 at that very moment.
    Roughhouse, a complete wreck by now, acquiesced to Mother Superior’s firm command, but she had no faith in it. She was sure we’d be late and the bus would break down.
    “Now, now, Sister,” Mother Superior cooed, “the bus isn’t going to break down.”
    She acted as though the Lord Himself was going to pilot us into the city instead of shuffly Roger, the janitor.
    At last, Mother Superior said it was time to dress. This necessitated almost an hour of buttoning and clasping and hook-and-eying, as our uniforms were anything but easy to get into.
    First of all we put on a starched white waist that had sleeves in it. Since it was summer we had cotton sleeves—but the main part of our habit was a twelve-pound pleated jumper of white flannel which one put on and snapped at the right shoulder. The garment was equipped with thirteen snaps at the neckline to which we attached the equivalent of an old-time man’s starched collar, except it was shaped to look like two white pearl shells in front and, under the collar, when you finally got it to stay down, went the red altar-boy bow. The collars were the real problem. They were so starched that they were inclined to snap up, hitting you on the chin at the least provocation. Roughhouse did not want any snapping collars at her spectacle. Finally after a complete inspection and several trips for handkerchiefs we boarded the bus. We were not only exhausted mentally, but the heat was doing its own job. Mother Superior made us all take salt tablets to prevent fainting, and Roughhouse would have put a lettuce leaf under our veils if she thought the effect would have been artistic.
    By the time we arrived and lined up, most of the parents were lolling around the golf course. I didn’t see either of mine. They were always late, due to my father’s unerring sense of wrong directions and the fact that he would only drive on the shady side of the road.
    The boys’ band from St. Giles arrived and lined up. They were at least in white ducks and white shirts; we were literally steaming by now. The nuns, however, encased in more than we wore, seemed peaceful and cool, except for Roughhouse, who mopped her upper lip with a crumpled linen handkerchief and by this time could hardly speak at all. The band began with the St. Giles song, which was composed by a mathematics professor, and then they launched into an old favorite, “’Tis the month of our Mo-oth-er, blessed and beautiful days.” We were brought to attention and Roughhouse cued us into our marching position-General Patton could have used her. Even Mary and I paid attention to her: “Now . . . now . . . Lillian . . . begin . . . beeeeeeeeeegin. . . .” The top students included two from other classes that I didn’t know, but just their being there gave me a rundown on their way of life.
    They walked out single file onto the green to form the cross and the first six beads of the Rosary. The idea was to form the same shape a Rosary would form if you laid it out flat on a table. We had