“When circumstances in your life lead you into a garbage can, it doesn’t mean you are trash. ”

It is said of some people, people who are wild and unrestrained and run free in the world, that they were raised by wolves. I, on the other hand, was raised in large measure by nuns; some of whom were undoubtedly wolves in habits. They were fierce and independent and kind and crazy and loving and, I now know, deeply human.

I have many nun stories which I intend to write; but, one that delighted my children, and now captivates my grandchildren, is the story of me, a nun and a garbage can.

I was 11 in 6th grade and had by then been in the company of nuns for many years. My aunt was a nun, and every single teacher of mine had been a nun. These nuns wore coifs and wimples and veils and long tunics leaving only their faces and hands to convey the woman beneath it all. They had giant rosaries around their waists, which they prayed almost continuously.

My sixth-grade teacher was Sister Grace De Paul, a nod I am guessing to St Vincent De Paul, canonized in 1737, and known for his compassion, humility and generosity, which begs the question of when a nun receives her new name, is it a recognition of her best qualities or aspirational in nature, but you be the judge. Sr Grace was about 4’5” tall, tiny, and 100 years old; that’s what we 6th graders surmised. She had beady eyes and failing eyesight, but was still a force to be reckoned with.

My grade school, Immaculate Conception, was a square, 4 story red brick building, located in one corner of a parking lot, our playground. It was not a beautiful historic building, although it had stood the test of time. It was imposing. Big metal doors led inside, held by sturdy and surly eighth grade boys. We entered two by two, boys in one line, girls the other, all of us in uniform.

Each classroom was identical: square, with a huge chalkboard up front, many religious statues keeping an eye on all the proceedings, wooden desks with chairs attached and hinged tops, and inkwells (yes, really, inkwells), and a wall of windows on one side. That’s it. There was also a coat closet, a long, narrow, dark space where our coats and lunch boxes lived, and perhaps other things as well.

We sat in alphabetical order, girls first then the boys. My last name was Payne and I was the last girl, behind me sat a boy, Stephen. The same Stephen who one day urged me to sway, ever so subtly when called upon to read during Geography. This would, he insisted, make Sr Grace think that her eyesight was failing even more precipitously, and, he assured me, would be funny. I said yes. He was cute.

And so, I read. And I swayed. And I looked up. And Sr Grace indeed was adjusting her wire frames and rubbing her eyes. And then, well then, I got interested in what I was reading and didn’t look up, but, fatally, didn’t stop swaying either. In fact as the information got more compelling, I apparently increased the velocity of my swaying. A quick sharp cough from behind brought me back from the Mojave Desert and into the classroom where Sr Grace was no longer sitting, but was advancing on me in a most sinister fashion, robes swaying, beads flying.

She and I were nose to nose, literally, because I wasn’t much taller that 4’5” myself. She was silent, staring into my eyes, which I found just a little terrifying. Then she pointed at me, opened her mouth and said, “You. Into the garbage can!” I’d I like to say that I was outraged (like my children and grandchildren) and embarrassed and contrite, but I was simply incredulous. I looked around to see the faces of my classmates regarding me with a mix of horror and, to be truthful, humor. You have got to be kidding me, I thought.

I walked to her desk, beside which sat a very large, metal wastebasket. Now, as I said, I was very small, and when I attempted to sit in it, I promptly fell into it, arms and feet akimbo, my butt in the can, everything else folded up around me. The Geography lesson continued. My only thought, how on earth am I going to get out of here.

Luckily for me, Geography was followed by lunch and Sr Grace, passing by me as if I didn’t exist, led the class to the lunchroom. Stephen, however, risking the kind of severe punishment reserved for boys, hung back, dumping the can over as he passed, so I could wiggle out. Now, I loved him.

After lunch, on the playground, I was a bit of a hero, I had stared her down, ended up in the trash, no tears. And, as the story is told, I managed a daring roll of my eyes in her direction right before the can enveloped me. It was a bold move.

After lunch, lessons resumed, with Sr Grace at the helm. There was no changing classrooms and teachers at Immaculate Conception. One class, one teacher, all subjects. I took my seat and Mathematics commenced.

I still love Geography, Stephen not so much. I learned an important lesson that day from Sr Grace. When circumstances in your life lead you into a garbage can, it doesn’t mean you are trash. As long as you can make your way out, chances are you’ll be fine. You might even be a little bit famous.