| Copyright © 2010 |
Quiet Mountain Essays
| Contributor's Notes... |
My grandmother entertained us with stories about Villa Maria Academy in Frontenac, Minnesota.
The historic boarding school was founded in the late 1800s on Lake Pepin. One of its hallmarks was a
large stone tower. Shades of Jane Eyre…
Children were only allowed to see their parents on holidays. Beds were lined up in long rows. Meals
were served at exactly the same time each day. Woe to the child who didn’t fit the disciplinary mold.
Like my grandmother.
“We were told that we must wear underpants in the bath, because God could see us at all times and
we must be modest,” my grandmother told my sister and me.
“How did you get clean?” we asked, giggling. “That’s silly!”
“Of course it was,” she agreed. “How were you supposed to get clean? No one else could see you.
There were no windows. Just big, cold tile walls and a big tub. So one day, when I was around nine
or 10 years old, the nun who was watching over me left me alone in the bathroom. I took off my
panties and bathed myself au naturèl.”
“Uh-oh,” we whispered, attention rapt. “Did you get caught?”
“Yes. The nun came in, caught me, yanked me out of the tub by one arm, and swatted my bare
behind so hard that it echoed against the walls. It was such a loud smack! And my bottom was so
red!”
“Did you cry?”
“No,” my grandmother shook her head. “I was mad.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, first I had to put on my panties and finish my bath, the way I was supposed to. Then I came
up with a plan.”
“Tell us!”
“First thing in the morning we all attended mass, as usual. All the children lined up in silence and
walked down the aisle, and we seated ourselves in rows.”
“I know, I know,” we urged, breathlessly, “that’s the same thing we do. Then what happened?”
“I knew that nun would be coming down the center aisle in a procession along with all the other nuns,
holding prayer books, rosaries, or candles. I knew exactly where she’d be and how long it would take
her to get to my row. So I positioned myself on the very outside of that row … and just as she walked
by, I stuck out my leg and tripped her.”
We gasped. “Did she fall?”
“Oh, yes, she went flying up in the air and onto her bottom!” She burst out laughing as though
reliving the scene all over again. “I wanted her bottom to hurt as much as mine did.”
“Did you get into trouble?”
“Yes. I was sent to The Tower.”
“The Tower?”
“Yes, The Tower had a lot of steps, no electricity, no toilet, and no meals. I had to spend the entire day
sitting on those cold, hard, stone steps, all by myself.”
“What if you’d gotten sick and died? What if they’d forgotten about you? What if you had to go to
the bathroom?” And then, the most important question a little girl asks: “Did you cry?”
“No,” Grammy smiled, “I was supposed to sit there all day and think about what I’d done. And I
did.” She burst out laughing. “And it was all worth it.”
Now, years later, seized by the urge to find out if the Villa Maria still exists, I ‘Google’ it and spot the
key word, “Frontenac.” Villa Maria is still standing and used for retreats, far from the bustle of
downtown Minneapolis. Part of the building is set in heavy stone with symmetrical turrets, narrow
windows, red tiled roof, and a pale caryatid high above in an alcove, but much of it was updated in
the ‘60s and ‘70s.
The tower - that fabled tower - in an accident of nature befitting a Victorian novel, was hit by
lightning one March morning in 1969. It burned to the ground.
The historic boarding school was founded in the late 1800s on Lake Pepin. One of its hallmarks was a
large stone tower. Shades of Jane Eyre…
Children were only allowed to see their parents on holidays. Beds were lined up in long rows. Meals
were served at exactly the same time each day. Woe to the child who didn’t fit the disciplinary mold.
Like my grandmother.
“We were told that we must wear underpants in the bath, because God could see us at all times and
we must be modest,” my grandmother told my sister and me.
“How did you get clean?” we asked, giggling. “That’s silly!”
“Of course it was,” she agreed. “How were you supposed to get clean? No one else could see you.
There were no windows. Just big, cold tile walls and a big tub. So one day, when I was around nine
or 10 years old, the nun who was watching over me left me alone in the bathroom. I took off my
panties and bathed myself au naturèl.”
“Uh-oh,” we whispered, attention rapt. “Did you get caught?”
“Yes. The nun came in, caught me, yanked me out of the tub by one arm, and swatted my bare
behind so hard that it echoed against the walls. It was such a loud smack! And my bottom was so
red!”
“Did you cry?”
“No,” my grandmother shook her head. “I was mad.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, first I had to put on my panties and finish my bath, the way I was supposed to. Then I came
up with a plan.”
“Tell us!”
“First thing in the morning we all attended mass, as usual. All the children lined up in silence and
walked down the aisle, and we seated ourselves in rows.”
“I know, I know,” we urged, breathlessly, “that’s the same thing we do. Then what happened?”
“I knew that nun would be coming down the center aisle in a procession along with all the other nuns,
holding prayer books, rosaries, or candles. I knew exactly where she’d be and how long it would take
her to get to my row. So I positioned myself on the very outside of that row … and just as she walked
by, I stuck out my leg and tripped her.”
We gasped. “Did she fall?”
“Oh, yes, she went flying up in the air and onto her bottom!” She burst out laughing as though
reliving the scene all over again. “I wanted her bottom to hurt as much as mine did.”
“Did you get into trouble?”
“Yes. I was sent to The Tower.”
“The Tower?”
“Yes, The Tower had a lot of steps, no electricity, no toilet, and no meals. I had to spend the entire day
sitting on those cold, hard, stone steps, all by myself.”
“What if you’d gotten sick and died? What if they’d forgotten about you? What if you had to go to
the bathroom?” And then, the most important question a little girl asks: “Did you cry?”
“No,” Grammy smiled, “I was supposed to sit there all day and think about what I’d done. And I
did.” She burst out laughing. “And it was all worth it.”
Now, years later, seized by the urge to find out if the Villa Maria still exists, I ‘Google’ it and spot the
key word, “Frontenac.” Villa Maria is still standing and used for retreats, far from the bustle of
downtown Minneapolis. Part of the building is set in heavy stone with symmetrical turrets, narrow
windows, red tiled roof, and a pale caryatid high above in an alcove, but much of it was updated in
the ‘60s and ‘70s.
The tower - that fabled tower - in an accident of nature befitting a Victorian novel, was hit by
lightning one March morning in 1969. It burned to the ground.
| Passion for Purity by Terry Cox-Joseph |
Terry Cox-Joseph is an artist, former newspaper reporter and editor, and the author of Adjustments (1993). She
served as the coordinator for the Christopher Newport University Writers’ Conference and Contest from 1994-
2004. Cox-Joseph has two children, two dogs, two cats, and one husband. She works late into the night with only
chocolate to sustain her.
served as the coordinator for the Christopher Newport University Writers’ Conference and Contest from 1994-
2004. Cox-Joseph has two children, two dogs, two cats, and one husband. She works late into the night with only
chocolate to sustain her.