In their days, nuns really ruled

I knew there was a reason I liked John Grogan.

It's not that we were both journalists. It's not that we both owned yellow labs for 13 years that we watched grow up right along with our kids. It's not even that I loved the movie based on his book "Marley and Me."

No, what I like about John Grogan, what really makes me chuckle when I think about this best-selling author, is one more thing we have in common: Being raised Catholic.

In Grogan's new book, "The Longest Trip Home," he outlines his upbringing in an Irish-Catholic family. I can't claim to be Irish, but I do understand the growing up Catholic part.

It was at St. John's church in Seattle where I learned about God, about Jesus, about confession, about the Stations of the Cross and about being an altar boy. I learned about kneeling, sitting, standing, singing and making the sign of the cross at the appropriate time. In the hallowed sanctuary with light streaming in through majestic stained glass windows, I recall quiet, security and kindly priests.

Not so at the large, red, brick building just a short walk away.

St. John's Catholic School was ruled not by priests, but by nuns. These were no sweet, serene Sisters clasping their hands together in peace and prayer.

For much of my education from grades K-8, I lived in fear of these women in black and white habits. Pretty much, they did what they wanted when it came to discipline. They pulled hair, rapped knuckles with rulers and literally kicked some serious butt, and it was in first grade when I got my first lesson of their absolute power.

Our class was in a circle, taking turns reading, when I realized the girl next to me was no longer reading and it was my turn. Only, I had no idea where we were at and with a red face, admitted so. The nun, a short, squat woman with a reassuring smile, slowly walked up and without any warning, clocked me over the head with a book.

For years, my good friend Tim Sherman, who witnessed this holy act, would joke about it.

"What, you lost your place? Here, let me help you," he would say, while whacking me on the head.

My next encounter came in about third grade with the principal of the school, a stocky woman named Sister Sheila with Popeye arms and narrow, piercing eyes. One day, my friends and I were messing around after school, and the tradition was to kick the swinging door open as you left the restroom. I trailed a minute behind the others as I charged out and gave that wooden door a good kick. Standing there, waiting, was Sister Sheila. My eyes flew open, my heart stopped and I screeched to a stop. In one, swift move she grabbed me by the neck, slammed me against the wall, applied some type of sacred choke hold before saying something about "smart aleck Buley" as she tossed me down the hallway.

Sister Sheila was not done with me.

A few years later, maybe fifth grade by now, we were outside one morning before school celebrating the miracle of snow in Seattle. There were a handful of us who broke the rules and threw some snowballs. As we filed into school later, I was told to report to the principal's office. I did so, where Sister told me to go outside and bring back a handful of snow. A curious request, I thought, and wondered what she planned to do with some snow, one of God's most beautiful gifts of nature.

I found out.

As I handed it over, she quickly took it and smashed it back into my face. "Don't ever let me see you throwing a snowball on school grounds again," she growled.

As I turned to go, snow still on my face, my best friend's little brother, Bill Murray, was standing outside the office, snow in hand, waiting his turn. Poor guy, I thought.

I managed to avoid future throttlings at Sister's hands. As the years passed, the nuns left the school and more traditional, non-violent teachers came in. I survived until eighth grade, and graduated, moving on to Blanchet High School for four more years of memorable Catholic education.

Today, St. John's Catholic School still stands. Not much has changed. Oh, the playground is filled with portables. The convent where nuns lived has been converted to other uses. But that old, red brick building on 79th Street remains solid.

I must admit, when I go for runs in Seattle and pass by the school, I can't help but reflect back on those years and what went on. There is no anger. No resentment. Really, it's kind of funny, and I just have to shake my head, smile and laugh when I think of the Sisters of St. John's. I wasn't the best of students and in the end, I'm sure they had my best interests at heart.

Anyway, I'm sure that good, old-fashioned divine discipline likely made me what I am today.

Don't say it.

Bill Buley is the city editor of the Coeur d'Alene Press. He can be reached at 664-8176, ext. 2016, or bbuley@cdapress.com.