.” I whispered at Sister Mary William, who was in hog heaven cheering up the old ladies.
“Hush now, the gravy is not gray.”
One old lady concurred, and toothlessly screamed out, “The gravy is gray, the gravy is gray.”
“Now see what you’ve done, you’ve started something,” Sister Mary William scolded me. “Go and get the bananas we brought them.”
There was a terrible fight over the bananas and even Sister Mary William began to wish she hadn’t brought us. The old ladies grabbed at them and at Florence and Lillian, who were distributing them. Within seconds they had every banana hidden on their person or in drawers.
Each of them had a special place to sit at the long refectory tables. The tables were of that peculiar orange-y burled wood, and under each place setting there was a drawer in which they could stash away anything they didn’t want to eat. Several of the old ladies had to be reprimanded for putting the lumpy mashed potatoes in there.
By the time we were to sing our songs, none of us could keep from crying. And even though Sister Mary William swung to and fro trying to lead us, it was a pitiful chirping of our usually raucous rendition of St. Marks’ old Alma Mater.
Bowed, but not bloody, the Social Action Committee then performed at the County Jail. This meeting wasn’t quite as exciting as the old people’s, since we didn’t get to serve the food. All I can say is that the number of bad dreams and nightmares that followed the jail expedition canceled that permanently from the tour.
Sister Mary William really rehearsed us for our next appearance—at the Arlington Park Cemetery for the Memorial Day services. We recited “In Flanders fields the poppies blow, between the crosses row on row.” This new method of group vocal was one of Mary William’s inspirations, and it preceded by many years the much-touted Menotti.
One thing could always be said for Sister Mary William—we were on time. In fact, when we arrived, not a soul except the cemetery watchman was there. It had rained the night before Memorial Day, and by the time we had weaved our way in and out of the tombstones, the hems of our white Sunday uniforms were dripping wet and our white shoes squeaking. The chairs were too wet to sit on, and only a sparse crowd of die-hards had arrived at the cemetery by the time we were seated and waiting. Of course, we were forbidden to move and if you didn’t toe the mark, you knew you would miss out on the next exciting side trip into Limbo.
We watched them hang the flag over the speaker’s platform and soon a few marines arrived with bugles. One of them winked at Ramona and Sister Mary William came flying down on him like an irate bald eagle.
There was an interminably long speech on courage and bloody death to give us our freedom, which was delivered in somewhat of a Baptist minister’s mood by the head of the American Legion. Then, Florence read “Battlefield” after which we recited “In Flanders Fields,” and then taps were played. Sister Mary Wil liam cried, and so did the American Legion man. We weaved in and out of the tombstones looking at names and dates, and realizing that people (or past people) were lying under there.
But the trip of the year was the trip to the World’s Fair before it opened. This meant we would go all the way into Chicago and to the lake front. Sister Mary William, with her usual original touch, had arranged for us to go through it all by ourselves—and in January.
Her first step was to charter a bus. Since she didn’t have enough money, we got a bus that had no working heaters. Of course, we were by this time fairly con ditioned to no heat as we had none in the dormitories at night, and most of the nuns kept the windows open during classes. I often used to wonder why. Now I know: we smelled. With twenty or thirty little girls all wearing the same uniforms day in and day out, we must have been a mighty advertisement for the use of a
“Hush now, the gravy is not gray.”
One old lady concurred, and toothlessly screamed out, “The gravy is gray, the gravy is gray.”
“Now see what you’ve done, you’ve started something,” Sister Mary William scolded me. “Go and get the bananas we brought them.”
There was a terrible fight over the bananas and even Sister Mary William began to wish she hadn’t brought us. The old ladies grabbed at them and at Florence and Lillian, who were distributing them. Within seconds they had every banana hidden on their person or in drawers.
Each of them had a special place to sit at the long refectory tables. The tables were of that peculiar orange-y burled wood, and under each place setting there was a drawer in which they could stash away anything they didn’t want to eat. Several of the old ladies had to be reprimanded for putting the lumpy mashed potatoes in there.
By the time we were to sing our songs, none of us could keep from crying. And even though Sister Mary William swung to and fro trying to lead us, it was a pitiful chirping of our usually raucous rendition of St. Marks’ old Alma Mater.
Bowed, but not bloody, the Social Action Committee then performed at the County Jail. This meeting wasn’t quite as exciting as the old people’s, since we didn’t get to serve the food. All I can say is that the number of bad dreams and nightmares that followed the jail expedition canceled that permanently from the tour.
Sister Mary William really rehearsed us for our next appearance—at the Arlington Park Cemetery for the Memorial Day services. We recited “In Flanders fields the poppies blow, between the crosses row on row.” This new method of group vocal was one of Mary William’s inspirations, and it preceded by many years the much-touted Menotti.
One thing could always be said for Sister Mary William—we were on time. In fact, when we arrived, not a soul except the cemetery watchman was there. It had rained the night before Memorial Day, and by the time we had weaved our way in and out of the tombstones, the hems of our white Sunday uniforms were dripping wet and our white shoes squeaking. The chairs were too wet to sit on, and only a sparse crowd of die-hards had arrived at the cemetery by the time we were seated and waiting. Of course, we were forbidden to move and if you didn’t toe the mark, you knew you would miss out on the next exciting side trip into Limbo.
We watched them hang the flag over the speaker’s platform and soon a few marines arrived with bugles. One of them winked at Ramona and Sister Mary William came flying down on him like an irate bald eagle.
There was an interminably long speech on courage and bloody death to give us our freedom, which was delivered in somewhat of a Baptist minister’s mood by the head of the American Legion. Then, Florence read “Battlefield” after which we recited “In Flanders Fields,” and then taps were played. Sister Mary Wil liam cried, and so did the American Legion man. We weaved in and out of the tombstones looking at names and dates, and realizing that people (or past people) were lying under there.
But the trip of the year was the trip to the World’s Fair before it opened. This meant we would go all the way into Chicago and to the lake front. Sister Mary William, with her usual original touch, had arranged for us to go through it all by ourselves—and in January.
Her first step was to charter a bus. Since she didn’t have enough money, we got a bus that had no working heaters. Of course, we were by this time fairly con ditioned to no heat as we had none in the dormitories at night, and most of the nuns kept the windows open during classes. I often used to wonder why. Now I know: we smelled. With twenty or thirty little girls all wearing the same uniforms day in and day out, we must have been a mighty advertisement for the use of a
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