expulsion and other idiosyncrasies . . .

There is yet another Internet questionnaire floating around . . . this time a survey about high school. The question that stopped me in my tracks . . . "Were you ever expelled?" So long ago I should not remember but I do . . . and the answer is yes, indeed I was.

Because my mother died when I was 14, it was decided that boarding school would be the most viable option. I started in the fall of 1963. When you are young and the rules and restrictions are crushing, well, from the beginning it was difficult to tow the line. I was used to running free . . . . being shut in a dorm was a difficult adjustment . . . I was not alone, several of us longed to explore off campus. But the first two years we behaved ourselves rather than have our beloved headmistress think less of us. Returning to school the beginning of our junior year, we were devastated to learn that Miss Wolf and Miss Wilcox, the rudders of the school had retired. In their stead, a new regime was at the helm . . . a headmaster and his protegee. While he occupied himself with the machinations of the school and took seemly little interest in the small enclave of boarding students, she on the other hand decided to make us her priority. She and I . . . well, our relationship was doomed from the beginning. There was bound to be seepage.

Now lest you think we were never allowed out, let me back up a tad. On Saturday mornings, we were allowed to hop the bus to the Short Hills mall . . . accompanied by an upper class man . . . and had to be back in the dorm by 4:00 to get ready for vespers and dinner. By the time we were juniors, we were on our own. We were also allowed downtown to the laundromat located just this side of the train station, if needed. Once our animosity for our assistant head mistress grew in direct proportion to our fading memories of our beloved leaders, we no longer felt the compunction to follow the rules. We often signed out of the dorm . . . carted our laundry bags to the laundromat and sidestepping to the train station, rode our way into NYC. The freedom to wander the city was heady and always started with a jaw defying hamburger at The Dugout down in the village. We were careful to be back in time, clean laundry in hand.

The first real rift between us came senior year while I was dating, such as it were, the brother of one of the day students. Dick had called one Sunday afternoon to say he was coming for a visit and bringing Phoebe along. "Phoebe who?", I asked as my hackles raised those jealous hairs on the back of my neck. Dick, looking furtively around - he not being allowed on campus - pulled off to the side of the dorm entrance and began to unload Phoebe from the back of the family station wagon. Phoebe was a goat. No wonder I adored this boy. While we chatted about all things important to 17 year old's back in the mid 60's, we forgot to keep on eye on Phoebe nor did we notice the imminent approach of "she who must be obeyed". It was the strangled scream escaping her throat that brought us back to this world. Phoebe, it seems, was happily munching on her prize roses. I was never sure if she was more perturbed about my illegal visitor or her roses, but things were never the same.

Then came the issue of church. Sunday morning attendance was mandatory. There being no Dutch Reformed churches in the area, I tried attending Temple with my roommate. After being told that was no longer an option for a Christian - I liked Temple . . . they fed us well - I went to whatever church tweaked my fancy. I wasn't keen on the Methodist church up on the corner, it being chosen by its close proximity, after the minister likened God's reliability to that of a TV set. Nixed the Episcopalian church after Pammy fainted from the many ups and downs, sending her kneeling bench skittering up three rows. And so it went until I arrived at the Catholic church. I loved the rhythm of the Latin words, the response from the congregation. What I didn't count on was that SHE was a parishioner and was incensed that I was an interloper. I was invited to never return. And so with my options dwindling and my friends as up for a change as I, we took to signing out for church, dodging down side streets, crossing the railroad tracks and sneaking into the town's greasy spoon: The Greek Diner. How we loved it there. We dawdled our allotted time swilling richly brewed coffee, smoking Parliament cigarettes and learning Greek phrases from the proprietor. That is until one Sunday when one of the under class girls, thinking to join the fun, walked right down the main street of town with a teacher on her tail. We were busted. You could almost hear HER chortle with glee as she pronounced our fate that fall afternoon. Phone calls were made, discussions with parent had . . . and in the end, there were too many of us and the charges deemed too frivolous by those who paid the bills. We were, much to her great frustration, reinstated. War, of course, had been declared and continued through graduation day. And when we packed up our trunks that very last sad spring day, the boarding department was closed forever. We were the last of the last.