Maryhurst Prep 01 and 02

Maryhurst Prep 01

Of course I got into a lot of trouble during the next three years at Maryhurst. I might have been attending a prep school for Marianist Postulants but that didn’t mean I wasn’t full of piss and vinegar (which is how Grandmother Cundiff described me) and as wild as I thought I could get away with. My first exposure to Bro. Xav’s stern gaze came only a few months after I arrived. One of our teachers was an elderly priest who had retired from a university professorship in France. Fr. Carl Dreisoerner, as I believe his name was spelled. He was in his early seventies, a tall, very slender even sepulchral man who in mid-Autumn took to wearing unusual hats, including berets, and a long black cape, much in the old European fashion. At night he would pace along the sidewalk in the front of the building, saying his Holy Office until the light failed.

One particularly nippy evening in late October I observed him strolling along, a French beret perched jauntily on his head and a long, black woolen cloak swirling in the wind behind him. To that impressionable teenager he looked precisely like the movie version of Count Dracula. Naturally, I ran inside the Recreation Room and called to several of my cohorts to come see something that was totally weird. We ran outside nosily and I pointed to the good priest and made my comparison.

While everyone was laughing and hooting at Fr. Dreisoerner’s expense along came Bro. Xav, who evidently had heard everything. He confronted us and demanded to know what was so funny. Naturally, we all fell silent. After an uncomfortable moment or two I ‘fessed up. He took me inside to his office, closed the door, and gave me a lecture on Christian courtesy. That wasn’t so bad but he made me tell Fr. Dreisoerner what I had done and apologize for my lack of consideration. The old priest took it quite well, actually, and even asked me to say a prayer or two for him if I had the chance.

Bro. Xav wasn’t nearly so forgiving. He made me go to Chapel every night for a week while everyone else had evening recreation and pray for wisdom and maturity. The punishment was singularly unsuccessful in that it didn’t achieve the desired result. But I never made that particular mistake again. An unruly handful, yes. Stupid, no.

Maryhurst Prep 02

In my junior year I managed to get involved in a much more serious problem that threatened to have me thrown out of Maryhurst on my ear. And of all things it was over cigarettes. Which was really stupid because, as an asthmatic, I was a non-smoker and even hated the smell of smoke. But I was anxious to do a favor for a couple friends and that’s how it got started. Because I wanted them to think highly of me. Peer pressure. Yeah.

Either Larry W. or Chuck S., or both, found out that I was going to the Fiftieth Jubilee of the ordination of Monsignor White, the pastor at St. Paul the Apostle Church, which was my home parish. Naturally, as a Postulant I was invited, as were all the other parishioners studying in seminaries or religious orders. I would have plenty of opportunity to buy cigarettes for my buddies. Cigarettes, of course, were on Maryhurst’s extensive list of forbidden pleasures. Sure, I said, without a single hesitation. So anxious was I to please. Both Larry and Chuck were excellent athletes whose respect I valued. And Chuck was also a very bright guy I liked. Therefore I couldn’t see any valid reason not to oblige them. After all, rules were meant to be broken. Any way, who would know? Right.

After attending the Jubilee, which turned out to be an extraordinarily boring event, I returned to Maryhurst, cigarettes in hand. Immediately after dinner about five or six of us retired to the privacy of the apple orchard to smoke the forbidden fruit, as it were. And how they enjoyed them. It was almost comical to watch those young teenagers acting like such jaded adults, pulling with determined nonchalance on their cancer sticks, trying so hard not to cough from the unaccustomed heat.

The shit hit the fan after Evening Recreation was over and we were back in Study Hall. Joel C., one of the smokers, came hustling over to my desk with a look of imminent death on his face. Out of the corner of his mouth came the words I never wanted to hear, “It’s our asses. Bro. Xav knows everything. We’re all in deep shit.”

My stomach rolled over several times before taking a dive for my toes. At that instant none other than Bro. Xav appeared at the Study Hall doorway and, with a frown as dark as a thundercloud, beckoned me to his office. By that time everyone in the Study Hall knew something big was up. A longer walk I have never taken in my life.

Once in his office he sternly asked me when was the last time I had a cigarette. I answered honestly, in a voice that trembled, that I never smoked one in my life. Naturally he didn’t believe me until I told him that I was asthmatic and couldn’t smoke. It didn’t take too long for the sordid truth to come out. That when asked I had agreed to buy the contraband and smuggle it into Maryhurst. Wow, was he angry. He gave me a long lecture about betraying his trust, making me feel like an absolute shit. Then he nailed the others, even though I had refused to identify them. We never found out for sure who blew the whistle. Certainly one of our fellow Postulants had seen us engaged in suspicious activities (my guess was one particular “old” boy who was a goodie-two shoes as some Postulants would have said ever so politely, or a true brown-noser and ass-kisser as I put it) and had reported us to the authorities. An informer, as my Irish Grandmother Cundiff would have put it, her lip curling in a contemptuous sneer.

I don’t remember the punishment we got but it had to have been major. Bro Xav called my parents with the bad news and they chewed me out big-time. I was miserable for a week or so. Then, like the kid I was, I forgot it until it was time for Report Cards, which to my horror were read out loud in front of the entire student population. I received two unsatisfactory conduct marks. Three “Unsatisfactory” marks on one Report Card meant that you were expelled forthwith. I had dodged the bullet by the smallest of margins and tip-toed around on my best behavior until after the next Report Card. Soon after that incident, when several Brothers from McBride visited Maryhurst, they chided me about letting the school down. They were sort of kidding but I got the message. Shape up, shithead, or you’re history.