See the Man with No Legs Dance

By Kit Cawley

Growing up in the U.S. Virgin Islands in the sixties, a young boy learns the customs and traditions of the Virgin Islanders on St. Croix. It is here he learned to be an artist, creating colorful artwork which he sold throughout the island and later in New Orleans, LA and Savannah, GA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Sep 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781489708809

Kit Cawley

Christian Scott (Kit) Cawley was born in Branford, Connecticut on September 12, 1952. He moved with his family to St. Croix, in the U.S. Virgin Islands in 1960. During his formative years, Kit attended Silvermine college of Art in New Canaan, Connecticut, and the New School for Social Research in new York City. On the island of St. Croix, he created highly detailed acrylic paintings reflecting a Caribbean fantasy inspired by Haitian art. After Hurricane Hugo devastated the island of St. Croix, Kit moved to New Orleans in 1989, where he lived for 15 years until Hurricane Katrina blew ashore, forcing him to re-locate to Savannah, Georgia. Kit passed away at Memorial Health University Medical Center in Savannah, Georgia, after a heart attack on September 3, 2007 at the age of 54.

Book preview

Salt in the Pepper Shaker

It was a lazy Caribbean morning as a soft tropical breeze carried a scent of Frangipani blossoms through the courtyard of St. Patrick’s church in Frederiksted, St. Croix. Destiny promised another magnificent day in paradise. Descending the churches steps that day, I noticed a bright blue poster tacked to a bulletin board beneath the flowering tree. "See the man with no legs dance," it read, "Saturday, April eighteenth in St. Gerard’s Hall. Admission one dollar, students fifty cents. Come one come all, see the man with no legs dance."

This struck me as particularly strange because never in my wildest dreams could I possibly imagine a man with no legs dancing. Being eight years old at the time, I knew I wasn’t the smartest person in the world, but a man with no legs doing a waltz stretched logic beyond my comprehension. I decided then and there to ask the smartest person around, so that night after dinner I asked, Pop, is it possible for a man with no legs to dance?

My father fell silent for a moment, scratched his head in wonder then burst into laughter saying, I don’t know, Son, is it?

We had recently moved to the American Virgin islands and our new home held many surprises for us. We were constantly amazed by strange new experiences unique in every sense of the word. Dad was a building contractor and Mom, a dedicated housewife and mother who uprooted our family of Connecticut Yankees transplanting us to the sunny Caribbean where we’d be raised in paradise’s warm embrace. A bit kooky, we were a tight close knit family as many families are, fun loving and somewhat adventurous. Sister Penny was twenty years old, brother Butchie, ten, I was eight, and Mac, the baby of our family was four. Our journey proved a fabulous adventure. When we left our home state there was no jet service at that time, so we flew the entire sixteen hundred mile trip by plane. That overnight nine-hour flight was quite a thrill as none of us had ever flown before. Every time the plane passed through an air pocket, I remember the passengers hollering a shout in fright. Early the next morning we arrived safely on the island.

St. Croix was a magical paradise with emerald green rolling hills, heavenly turquoise waters, soft coral sand beaches and a primitive rain forest towering into rainbow hued sunsets. The tiny town, seven blocks long by seven blocks wide, Frederiksted was a fairytale village, comprised of stately plantation greathouses hopscotched among gingerbread laced cottages that could have been Hansel and Gretel’s dream. Dotted with mango, lime and tamarind trees, the best words to describe the town would be peaceful, charming, harmonic.

There were no supermarkets or T.V. then, few automobiles around. The islanders, called Crucians, gimbaled around on donkey carts, ate something called foongie and Kallaloo and possessed an impeccable sense of manners. They were a friendly philosophical tribe of God loving souls whose warm accepting nature decreed us welcome from the first day forward. During our first week in this wonderland, generous folks arrived at our door bearing genuine smiles and welcoming gifts: a stalk of bananas, a ginger cake, and one sweet-faced woman who greeted us with oven warm packets of peanuts she had roasted herself. Her son brought us a puppy.

One of the few white families around, we stood in contrast to our neighbors whose skins ranged in hue from charcoal black through coffee brown to the color of golden spun honey. Not surprisingly, we seemed more aware of our whiteness than anyone else. The Crucians warm accepting nature of us newcomers encouraged our journey of assimilation into the heartbeat of West Indian culture. St. Croix was a deeply cultural environment with music food and customs closely linked to the life force of Africa infused with Caribbean spice.

The weather included three hundred and sixty five days of that rare day in June perfection as the temperature never fell below seventy degrees. Air conditioners were unheard of as the balmy trade winds kept everyone cool and content. It didn’t take long to fall in love with our new home. It came easy. That September, my brother and I became the first white Continental children to ever attend the Claude O. Markoe public grade school. We really stood out. Luckily, young Virgin Islanders were genuinely eager to have new friends so numerous children stepped forward extending the warm hand of friendship. The fact that all my new friends were black was a situation uniquely different yet the advantage of youth afforded me the ability to fit easily into my group without being the least bit hesitant or afraid. There were games in the yard I had never played, songs I had never heard and customs I had yet to learn. These differences in culture extended far beyond the schoolyard gates, into the community, the inner lives of the native Virgin Islanders and eventually deep within the recesses of my own brain. Without a doubt there was salt in the pepper shaker, and it couldn’t have been more evident.

Even back then as I integrated myself into this new environment, I became keenly aware that the Crucians possessed a personal set of principles, codes if you will, that sprang forth from a solid foundation in etiquette. Everyone, even the youngest individuals, employed impressively good manners. All encounters were conducted with the utmost of courtesy. The Crucians took great pride in their use of proper manners. Islanders knew what to expect of others and what was expected of them so that social frictions were rare. Gracious people resided in harmony due to the fact that everyone was well versed in the proper forms of behavior.

There was a devoted reverence toward elderly folks. Acts not included in this etiquette code were considered rude, and rude covered a lot of territory indeed. I’ll be the first to admit there were countless occasions when I had been singled out as the rude little whitey boy, and tongue lashed on account of my wayward ill-mannered actions. I often spoke too loud or out of turn, neglected to bid good morning or good evening or didn’t always remember to pay the proper respects where and when they were due. Those tongue lashings happened all too often and inevitably occurred at most inopportune times.

One particular incident forever etched in my memory took place one unforgettable afternoon in front of a specific yellow house on King Cross Street in the heart of town. It became a lesson well heeded. In those days it was customary for people to leave their doors wide open to allow faint tropical breezes to bestow relief by cooling the house down. Naturally, whatever was happening in the lives of those people residing in those houses was exposed for all the world to see. I didn’t understand it at that time, but the basic premise which allowed those people to live their lives for all the world to see was because rude little whitey boys were not supposed to peek inside so to let those people live their lives in privacy.

But in my youthful innocence at the time I hadn’t learned that lesson yet so I curiously peeped inside that open doorway while passing the yellow house that unforgettable day. Much to my nosey surprise an angry old woman rushed through that open doorway shaking her finger shouting, rude, you mustn’t watch in people house rude boy, stop doing that! She folded her arms across her chest and stood there glaring at me. Hollering out that way, she caused a startling confusion and everyone who happened to be within earshot turned their heads in the direction of her noise and looked to see what was happening. At that ghastly moment I suddenly realized everyone was staring at me. Many pointed their fingers whispering under their breath leaving no doubt whom they were conferring about.

I can’t describe the feelings of embarrassment that shot through me just then and became so rattled by the experience I could do nothing but hang my head in shame and continue on my way. I never forgot that unsettling experience and never committed that horrible crime again. As the news spread, the people of Frederiksted must have breathed a collective sigh of relief to realize their sense of privacy was once again restored.

The Crucians definitely had their own ways of doing things while the cultural differences between the blacks and the whites couldn’t have been more obvious. The Statesiders ate beef stew while the islanders ate stew beef. The Continentals celebrated New Years Eve while the locals celebrated Old Years Night. It took a while to realize that trusting shopkeepers who extended the helping hand of credit were the very same shopkeepers who posted signs in their establishments stating NO CREDIT. Folks seemed more integral in those days and Mr. Trust was alive and well, thriving actually, in our adopted hometown of Frederiksted. Amen.

Trading and bartering were everyday affairs and sharing what you had was the rule rather than the exception thank you. One thing that stuck out as particularly strange was the islanders’ concept of cold. The temperature never once fell below seventy degrees yet whenever it got into the low seventies, which was rare, people walked around wearing sweaters proclaiming with a laugh, the world is coming to an end. On rainy days folks didn’t bother to go to work and kept the kids home from school. Few roads were paved so school buses rarely ventured on mud clogged trails. Ill never forget the time I was in the movie theatre where a cold wintry scene with snowy icicles clung to trees in the background shot on the screen. As the actors spoke their lines, we could see their frosty breath. Sitting behind me, a gentleman turned to his lady friend saying, I see smoke coming from everyone’s mouth but nobody’s smoking any cigarette. Years later when the first supermarket opened on island, folks would sometimes venture to the back door seeking a chance to step inside the built in cooler to experience what winter was like. Statesiders would emerge commenting, gee that was great, while shivering islanders would return outside with tears in their eyes exclaiming, Lord, I feel so sorry for those people who live in the states."

Life was simpler back then and there were many occasions that would make you pause, reflecting warmly on the signs of the times. Christmas heralded a joyous time with its own unique traditions when folks would put decorations on their Christmas bush. The season was awash with blazing wild poinsettias swaying in the lofty Christmas winds which often blew for months. It was customary to paint the outside of your house in anticipation of the Christ child"s arrival and holiday lights tacked to the gallery often stayed shining all year long. Guava Berri, the traditional holiday drink was home brewed and strangers as well as friends were made to feel welcome in everyone’s homes where crowds would sit around the radio and chat. As there was no T.V. back then we often sat glued to our radio sets for hours. Broadcasts were live and fraught with mistakes, goof ups and bloopers, but nothing in life however, could possibly prepare you for one particular show that everyone tuned into.

The Talk of the Town was not your typical radio call in show and no matter how private or embarrassing your secret happened to be, sooner or later it was bound to become the main topic of discussion on that Godforsaken program. In those days the laws on the books regarding defamation of character were not clearly defined by law so the doors leading to innuendo, inference and hearsay were all but wide open. There were undeniable ways of beating around the bush to get to the heart of the matter and much implication left little to the imagination. Unseen callers would go to great lengths in an attempt to disguise their voices and most participants had their own devices as a means to achieve that end.

A handmade funnel molded from tin foil always made the speaker sound older. Rattling a piece of wax paper close to the phone’s receiver gave listeners a false impression the call could be long distance. Taking your phone into a closet was sure to make your voice sound deeper and putting a cardboard box over your head made it impossible to discern whether the speaker were male or female. Callers were forbidden to announce over the airwaves that Theresa Wilson was having an affair with Billy Watson, but could easily declare that the woman driving the blue Toyota with the broken muffler pipe was having an affair with the gas pump attendant who walks with a limp over at Finkies filling station. You couldn’t state outright that Mary Joseph was getting fat and putting on weight but could fearlessly announce that Mary Joseph"s clothes were getting tight. Many islanders became virtual hermits after having their dirty laundry broadcast to the world aired over that life altering program. Listeners lived in constant fear their innermost secrets would be revealed and more often than not whenever someone unexpectedly left town on a one way trip to Brooklyn you’d know for sure the lurid gossipy rumors were true. When that program was broadcast on Saturday afternoons, the town would seem deserted as gossip mongers would be tucked at home eager to hear the other side of the story.

Frederiksted was an intimately quiet place and the sleepiness of the town was one of its special charms. Little excitement ever happened that would cause folks to stir. It was highly unusual for anyone to raise their voices so when they did you’d immediately know something out of the ordinary was coming about. One hazy afternoon a noisy mob congregated on the so called hot corner near Miguel’s grocery on Queen Street. Being the nosey young man I was at that time, my curiosity peaked so I bounced on over to find out what was happening. Entering the crowd I was taken by surprise as I came face to face with the man who had no legs!

As our eyes met, I saw a pleasant looking fellow with an infectious smile and eyes that sparkled beneath a shock of wavy black hair. He stood no taller than me. Balanced on a hunk of form fitting wood, he teetered upon a squeaky worn roller skate and used his arms to pull himself along so not surprisingly, was very mobile. He jokingly laughed and spoke with the crowd as his warm personality flowed out to us in a friendly personal manner. People at the back of the crowd whispered with their hand upside their mouth, How does he go to the bathroom?

It was openly revealed in a proud sort of way that he’d been run over by a sugar train in some cane fields east of Ponce of Puerto Rico one unfortunate day when he was literally sliced in half beneath a sugar train’s wheels. It had been a grisly accident beyond a shadow of doubt, though he remained conscious throughout the ordeal. Thanks to the miracles of modern medicine, he pulled thru to survive the mishap.

Mishap he called it, for he firmly believed it was no accident but his personal destiny so he had no misgivings over losing the lower half of his body. A blessed holy man, it was evident from his pride he was grateful to be alive and he spoke of God’s kindness in words that flowed from his heart. I’m thankful to God for sparing my life and embrace the belief that all events have purpose and everything happens for a reason. We all have a mission in life he said, and I’m deeply indebted to the almighty creator for allowing me another chance to be able to achieve mine. I unquestionably believe in heaven, gosh, that’s where we all existed before we came here and I know for certain there is no hell. Having once looked death square in the face I can honestly say I no longer fear dying. God’s love for us is endless and his most compelling lesson is our need to give and receive love. God’s gift to us is life itself but it’s what we do with our lives that’s most important, it’s what we give back that counts, trust me.

The man with no legs explained how God and Mother Nature work hand in hand then spoke at length about the beauty of our world repeating over and over how lucky we were to be living in such a supreme paradise. He said that being aware of Mother Nature’s presence would lead us unwaveringly toward God. That we only need to search to find the meanings of life and that life’s answers had everything to do with love. He said he felt God’s presence everywhere and smiled at us as he called us God’s chosen people. Indeed he was a most remarkable individual. As twilight came upon us, the evening bell chimed and tho the crowd was anxious to hear more it was sadly time to part. The uplifted group dispersed from the scene allowing that man without legs to roll along on his worn roller skate toward the waterfront bound in a glorious sunset. In spite of the hand fate had dealt him, he seemed a contented man and I stood amazed at his lack of bitterness and positive outlook on life. It had been a rare encounter that left me feeling warm inside so easy to conclude at that point in time it must be possible for him to dance. Gosh, after listening to him speak, I felt certain he could do anything he chose. That man with no legs created quite an impression on me.

Not long after, the magic day when the man with no legs would dance arrived. Dressing in my best Sunday clothes I took special care shining my shoes, combing my hair then selected a fancy cap. Leaving early, I raced from the house to be first in line and certain to get a front row seat at St. Gerard’s Hall where the man would dance. Along the way I came across a gathering of people under a gallery’s shade alongside King’s bakery on King Street. Assuming the man with no legs would be at the center of that circle, I entered into the gathering expecting to meet him again. But he wasn’t in the middle of that noisy crowd. Instead, an astonished mob stood engaged in heated verbal exchanges alerting me to the obvious fact that something was terribly amiss. Listening carefully I could hardly believe my ears. An excited old woman, flailing her arms in the center of the crowd exclaimed to the spellbound listeners that a nearby tree had killed a man. Yes, killed a man. I couldn’t imagine what on earth she was talking about and the only way I could rationalize the event was that the tree must have fallen on top of him. But in those days, things were not always as they seemed and that action couldn’t have been further from the truth. The mob seemed shaken by the concept of the event and I could sense by concerned expressions on faces in the crowd that some ungodly situation had transpired. An exodus of souls drifted toward West Shore Road to view the murderous tree and the woman who had carried the news trotted off to alert others. As stated earlier, the island was rife with strange happenings yet not wanting to miss the man with no legs, curiosity had gotten the better of me so I, too, followed off in that direction as I wanted to view this murderous tree for myself. It was a wickedly hot afternoon. One of those days when even sitting in deep shade villagers would holler in despairing torment, it’s pouring hot.

Coming upon the scene of the crime, an accusatory mob huddled in hushed mournful tones on hell-hot sands by the sea’s edge. Sad faced onlookers gestured toward a particular cocoanut palm tree slanted at an unusual angle horizontally across the beach. By all accounts it appeared a friendly tree. Not the kind that would kill a man and of all the other trees in the area, that struck me as particularly odd. I was personally familiar with this tree as I had climbed on it many times. As a matter of fact everyone around had also climbed on this tree. Due to it’s unusual horizontal angle it seemed to coax you to sit on it’s trunk swinging your feet below, swaying to rhythms in the breeze. Before long people began to whisper and with rumors filtering thru the crowd, the truth of the matter revealed itself. As it so happened, the dead man in question was our very own Sharkie, that brave mighty fisherman who had single handedly nabbed that massive tiger shark back in the nineteen fifties that people still talked about. Even though I hadn’t been around long, I knew Sharkie as a friendly man who’d always attract a circus of children with his buccaneering fables and I, as well as most other youth, had sat on his lap absorbed in his oceanic conquests.

A crusty seaman, Sharkie’s warm brown eyes and easy laugh made him seem meek in spite of his large muscular build, yet he was the only man in town to sport a stud earring in his ear. Generous with his time, he possessed a sensitive heart so people tended to surrender to his warm trusting nature. When he held court, we’d sit mesmerized with imaginations running wild as he’d recall his tales about the mammoth man-eating octopus who grabbed Blinkie, or the crashing tidal wave that inundated Frederiksted or the time his foot became trapped in the gigantic clam at the bottom of the deep blue sea. He and his boat, The Foxy Lady, were revered in the community and his tales of swashbuckling mayhem on Neptune’s high seas were spoken with reverence by all who knew him. He often said, If my life were any sweeter, I’d open a candy factory, and put Hershey’s out of business. We called him a local legend. Throughout his life he’d been enamored with a fine sweet woman everyone called Beauty and friends often said their love affair had been carved in the book of love. His affections for her were infinite.

A charming proud woman, Beauty had a sparkling personality, a friendly disposition and a cute pug nose who perceived the world thru hazel green eyes. Known for her kind generosity, Beauty hailed from a clan touted for its culinary talents and folks used to declare her secret recipe concocted the most flavorful kallaloo in God’s great universe. It was delicious. Voted Queen of Carnival countless times, she danced a spicy salsa and was widely considered the island’s reigning sweetheart of many young hearts. On Valentines day the postman always delivered her mail with a large satchel that he carried on the handlebars of his bike because there was no other way. But things were not always as they seemed and the love affair wasn’t all heaven made as it appeared to be for many. Back from the early days, Beauty had been madly in love with one particular senator and everyone knew her heart belonged to him. It was a strange situation because that very same senator was in love with a bitch named Lula and everyone knew his heart belonged to her. Those two women despised one another with burning passion and each held the other hostage in feudal regard. This triangle of mismatched feelings seesawed unresolved for years. It came as a crushing blow to Beauty, (but no surprise to anyone else) when it had been revealed on that radio talk show program one holiday weekend that this senator had secretly wed that man stealing bitch Lula then shortly thereafter scurried off island for a blissful honeymoon in Bridgetown Barbados. Beauty was devastated to the bottom of her heart and the event triggered a dark depression. Publicly she threatened to throw herself from the end of the dock and drown herself in the Caribbean sea. Upset to the point she couldn’t eat, rumors spread she lie wasting away. Talk persisted she’d take the plunge so Sharkie stuck close to shore for a while. He camped in the brambles of some sea grape trees fixing shaggy tatters in the sails of his boat. During that time he practiced mancook by boiling snapper with sweet potato in a pot every evening for his meals. Loneliness shook to the marrow of his bones. He yearned to comfort his true love but was advised to stay away for when the time arrived, his manhood would let him know. Men in town debated the issue while the women of town gossiped. Fatty Boom Boom Mabel (the town blabbermouth) spread the banner that if Beauty’s love for this backstabbin senator were true she should prove her worth and make good on her threats to throw herself adrift in the sea. That way there would be no doubt and everyone on the island would know for certain. The loose mouthed gossip grew loudly more persistent till Beauty could take the pressure no more. When time proved right and her house was in order she rushed thru our town in alarming regard then hurled herself from the precipice of the dock.

Lucky for Beauty, Sharkie waited at his boat launch nearby witnessing the alerting commotion. As everyone in town watched, he raced down the pier’s length then plunged forth after Beauty. Pulling his true love upon the shore, he immediately began mouth to mouth resuscitation in front of God’s chosen people. The unsurprised crowd that had assembled in wait, roared its approval at the not-so unexpected outcome. The lovelorn matter was finally resolved. It was quite a romantic drama in a town where few secrets are kept and the town blabbermouth is highly regarded. Shortly thereafter Sharkie and Beauty were united in holy matrimony and that two faced senator was never reelected again. There’s an old Caribbean proverb that goes, you should never marry the one you love, instead, marry the one that loves you.

It was a marriage made in heaven and townsfolk boasted Hollywood should film a movie reliving the drama starring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. The priest who performed the nuptials went so far as to contact Universal Studios in Hollywood with a handwritten script detailing the drama, but sad to say he never heard back from California. The happily wedded couple enjoyed many blissful years together.

As I stood on the beach that awful day studying the evil tree, I was trapped in confusion unable to figure out how that culprit could possibly have killed Sharkie. It obviously didn’t fall on him and I saw no other way. But soon more talk filtered through the crowds as once again the truth of the matter revealed itself and the gruesome facts of the crime came to light. As it so happened that previous night the two lovers had engaged in a passionate quarrel, about what, no one knew. But later on in a punishing move, Beauty had dragged Sharkie’s favorite easy chair down the hill to the beach then pitched it into the sea water. Incensed by her actions Sharkie plotted reactions. Fetching a lanyard rope from his boat’s galley, he marched with blind determination to that sandy spot by the sea. He secured one end of the lanyard rope to the evil palm tree’s trunk. He then tied the other end around his neck and in his moment of revengeful sorrow Sharkie jumped, dear God … he jumped.

This was unacceptable news and tragic to think someone so nice would do such a thing. How could this possibly have happened? We, as God’s chosen people stood in a shadow of disbelief hoping against hope there had somehow been a mistake and the news could be anything but true. It was becoming quite late and I knew if I didn’t leave soon I would miss the show at St. Gerard’s hall.

The sadness of the situation was broken by the wail of the police car’s siren as it came upon the scene of the treason. The police, armed with machetes emerged from the car with a devastated Beauty and we could clearly see by the redness in their eyes that all four of them had been crying. With firm determination the officers assaulted the villainous tree and we watched in silence as Sharkie’s avengers took morbid satisfaction in eliminating the satanic symbol from the holiness of God’s good earth. As the cursed tree crashed to the sand, we bellowed a lionic roar. The officers slaughtered the tree itself into a jigsaw of short round bundles, then from the squad car’s trunk our chief retrieved a container of gas then doused the mound with petrol. In unison and resolve the mob stepped back in anticipation of the hellfire. On a darkening brink of twilight Beauty stood in front of God’s chosen people as we witnessed the power of tears. With matches in her hand and head bent low she reflected in prayer the struck a match igniting the mound which burst into a mountain of flames. We floated there in a sea of sorrow watching those flames leap into a violet sunset sky. It was sad, Sharkie leaving us that way and the effect of his actions would be unhappily endured by many for years to come.

Again, after an eternity of deafening silence people started to whisper and in the blush of those whispers I overheard a word I had never heard before - suicide. The meaning didn’t click and at first I imagined one of those homemade belts craftsmen fashioned from guinea grass twine. But I was mistaken, the thoughts didn’t match but the more they whispered the more they revealed and as young as I was I began to grasp one of the basic philosophical principals held dear by the God loving people of paradise. That life is too precious to waste it in vain and nothing could be so hard to drive one to an act so final. God’s gift to us is life itself and each of us has a mission of love. That desperate actions can have far reaching reactions. But back in nineteen sixty one I was eight years old and much too young to grasp the concept of suicide and its ramifications on the master plan. I resisted. I was unable to accept the fact that Sharkie was gone and he wouldn’t be coming back. Trapped in confusion, blinded by sorrow, I felt one truth clearly which brought me forward to a firm resolution … Sharkie never really committed suicide that day, it was the tree that killed that man.

Monkey Puzzle

Disappointment hits hard when you’re young and the younger you are the harder it comes. It’s a most unwelcome experience which always seems to occur when you’re least prepared to cope with it.

Not long after moving to the island, I passed through a semester of bitter disappointments that struck close to my heart, sending my worldly convictions drifting in a sea of discontent. Though I emerged stronger for having passed through them, they served mainly to prepare me for future disappointments headed in my direction. A wise man said, Always leave room for disappointment. Then when disappointment comes, the blow won’t be so hard. But at that particular time in my young life, I hadn’t learned that lesson yet.

In nineteen sixty one I was enrolled in the fourth grade at St. Patrick’s school, adjacent to the Catholic church located on Prince Street at the northern edge of town. Administered by Flemish nuns, the disciplines were rigidly strict and the sisters wouldn’t hesitate to slap a ruler across the palm of your hand for chewing Bazooka in the classroom.

A priest dropped by my parents’ house delivering report cards and we were expected to bring a doctor’s note for being absent from Sunday Mass. Kneeling on hard cement floors was the traditional punishment for those of us who neglected to complete homework assignments. We attended Mass each morning before classes, spending time on our knees there too, so we knelt, then knelt some more.

Ironically, the school had an upstanding reputation. The punishments were as merciless as the rules themselves. Unfortunately there was no avenue of escape. In the schoolyard one Monday morning, the students were abuzz with the most astonishing news. Though my friends all said it was true, the rumors proved hard to believe.

According to hearsay, a prehistoric dinosaur had been ravaging the island, causing mass destruction, eating little children and cars. A gaggle of humans