In Transit four

                                         
                                          
 While in high school the notion of being a priest
obsessed me, leading me to the Jesuits.  When they
answered my query, they said that since I had not   
been in a Jesuit high school/ I should first attend
Marquette University for one year.  I knew I might
be totally wrong, but I also knew I had to explore
my desire; and so--with help from an aunt--I went
to Marquette.                                    
                                                    
My year there did not dissuade me, but it should   
have.  The inner me was like two persons at odds 
with each other, a condition that was already at  
least seven years old.  Had someone been able to    
follow me, that someone would have noted how the  
outer me mirrored the inner me.  Two events that
I want to relate would clearly show the split in
me, but I am going to reveal something other.  I
was informed by another student in the dorm wing
about a personality test of some kind.  Some had
taken it and, while that wasn't a sufficient prod
for me to take it, I did.  Actually, although at
the time I didn't consider that possibility, the
whole thing could well have been a ruse.  I know
opinions are formed about me, opinions I'm never
made aware of.  Anyway, the test said/ I lacked  
integrity.  I dissed that result, but was unable
to stop pondering it.  I simply was not ready to
face the truth.                                
                                                
In that dorm wing that 1959/1960 year each room
had two beds and two residents.  Schroeder Hall
was a huge dorm.  In a room near the south end
were two dark-skinned--Negroes was probably the
term used then--residents.  The one from Chicago
was small like me.  The one from Rochester, NY,
was of medium build but over six feet tall.  He
and I got into evening bowling together at the
university's lanes.  He had a cooler character,
and often tried to cool the temperature of mine.
Usually--maybe always--on our return, we stopped
at the White Tower restaurant for a quick snack
such as a buttered bun.  That was the extent of
our relationship.  I haven't forgotten his name.
                                               
When the day came to head up to Minnesota north
of St. Paul, a passenger with me (a high school
classmate who had an older brother who was a   
Jesuit) on the back seat/ was a welcome surprise,
not that he and I were friends or ever would be,
but it was good to have someone to converse with.
I had an uncle who for a while operated what was
then popular and was called a teen bar.  I told
this passenger I had never been to a teen bar.
He told me I hadn't missed anything.  Of course,
I didn't need to go out to a bar.  There was a
bar in our basement.  Even with that, I wasn't
a drinker those days.  What I do remember were
the parties my parents had and the frosted bar
glasses, each of which had a clear keyhole and
through each keyhole one could see a sexy lady
painted inside.  I also remember the cases of
Kingsbury beer.  Still, even though I ate lunch
with three other guys during high school, and  
even though there was a large neighborhood of
kids around us and I did get somewhat close to
a few of them, I remained essentially distant.   
                                                
So we arrive at this grand property outside of
St. Bonifacius, MN, where a structure shaped   
like a cross loomed.  Priests and brothers and
four years of seminarians were housed there.
Each seminarian had his own room, and each 
was provided with a traditional Jesuit garb.  For
me it was perfect at the beginning.  Somehow,
while I was there, I and one who became and 
yet is a Jesuit, entered into a friendship of a
kind.  Memories from those Novitiate days are   
numerous.  I did learn from that experience,
but in the end I was not fit.  So it was that on 
Pentecost Sunday in 1962, after having come
within moments of dying from complications due
to a ruptured appendix, I--after being blessed
by one of the priests in a cloister walk while
Mass was being celebrated within--exited.             
                                                
I did write poems while I was there.  The most
important of them are online over at Sprintedon
Hollow (Salchert's Hermitage / Salchert's Hole).
Further proof of part of what was wrong with me.
Perhaps still is.                              
                                                 
One constant in my life is my push to learn.  I
am always on a learning curve.  Problem is that
by the time I have learned something/ much of 
its value has long passed.  Lime vodka sweet.
Guinness stout.  Michelob dark.                    
                                                     
I was a mystic.  Rather, I was a Miss Tick, and
no Tock.                                      
                                              
                                                
                                                
                                               
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Rho00120                                 
                                                           
                                                   
Gustav Holst  The Planets  Op.32                 
Neptune