Rod Labbe's Blog

I survived "The Blue Classroom!"

When I decided to write a novel, I burned through several ideas. First, there was the one about zombies. Pure gold, right? This was in 1986, before zombies were all the rage, so I’d be cornering the market! Well, my zombie novel lasted nine pages before sputtering out like a deflating balloon. I just could not get a handle on zombies or why they’re so darned interesting. Still can’t.

Then, I tried my hand at writing a vampire tale. Since Stephen King had such great success with Salem’s Lot, and I’m also a Maine boy born and bred, I figured, hey, why not? Vampires and living in Maine kinda go hand in hand, don’t they?

Apparently not…when I’m writing about them. What I didn’t realize is, King had the perfect combination: a small Maine town, an insidious villain, and a plague of vampirism. What did I have? A small Maine city with a super Wal-Mart. Scary, yes, but not the stuff of modern-day classics.

So, despondent but certainly not discouraged, I dug into my past and pulled out an experience that provided the seed for The Blue Classroom, my first horror novel from Samhain Publishing, now on sale. Sit back, and I’ll tell you all about it.

The Blue Classroom is a ghost story involving a haunted Catholic school. Oh, and a vengeful nun, can’t forget that part. The first third of the novel is a lengthy flashback to 1957 and the second grade of my protagonist, Timmy Stinneford. Most of the reviews and comments I’ve received concentrate on this flashback. Why? I suppose because the scenario is very real. Genuine, you might say…after all, I was there.

In September 1959, a little six year old boy named Rodney Labbe started his first day of the first grade at Notre Dame Catholic School. Yep, that’s me! My older sister, Suzanne, already a worldly seventh grader, helped make that transition a relatively painless one. I listened to her advice carefully--which teachers to avoid, what pitfalls to watch out for, and how, basically, to succeed and prosper. The lessons were invaluable.

Notre Dame was an imposing--and ancient--brick structure located in my hometown of Waterville, Maine. The entire top floor housed a church. We (meaning my family) were good Catholics and members of the parish and attended boring church services every Sunday and on holy days. That required climbing a steep slate stairway to the top (not handicapped accessible, by any means), entering the cavernous church, genuflecting with respect, and finding a seat--as other parishioners disapprovingly watched your every move.

Classrooms, offices, cafeteria and bathrooms comprised the main and basement floors. Our teachers, save for one (Mrs. Drouin, who taught fourth grade), were Ursuline nuns, some young and some old…but they were all imposing figures, no matter the age. Their wardrobe was simple: floor-length black habits, complemented by long, airy veils. Needless to say, these formidable women commanded respect and exuded Authority with a capital A. You did NOT disobey a nun, whom we all addressed as “Mother.” If you did, there’d be hell to pay. Literally.

My first grade teacher was Mother Rosary. I’d lucked out! Mother Rosary must’ve been at least 60, but she made even the most mundane classroom work fun. I remember her as a kind, generous and vivacious person, always laughing. What a grand way for me to start my school career!

Mother Rosary, too, was draped in black, with a long, filmy veil, rosary beads and a thick leather belt around her waist. Above her forehead was a white band of some stiff material (it held up the veil), and across her breast was a “wimple,” again a stiff, white band. Sometimes, she’d reach up under the wimple to pull out a pocket watch. Other times, her veil would get caught on desks and chalk holders. She chuckled good-naturedly whenever that happened, and so did we.

Our laughing stopped one year later, in the blue classroom--where we were introduced to Notre Dame’s new second grade teacher, Mother Ernestine. A younger woman, approximately 35, Mother Ernestine was a strict disciplinarian and tolerated no “shenanigans.” She expected “superlative academic results” from the second grade. Catholic students excelled. The word “mediocrity” did not exist and therefore had no meaning.

Mother Ernestine devised a special punishment for wrongdoers, something she referred to as “the Pill.” Neither a vitamin nor an aspirin, this “Pill” could be anything from a humiliating dressing down to classroom chores (like cleaning erasers or washing the blackboard) to corporal punishment. Because none of us knew what it entailed exactly, we toed the line and stayed good, sweet Catholic children.

Weeks passed without The Pill being dispensed. In fact, we’d pretty much forgotten about it.

Until one day…

It was close to Halloween, 1960, I remember. An innocuous afternoon, one like any other.

The first and only recipient of Mother Ernestine’s Pill was a boy (Ronnie B.) who’d stayed back twice. I hated his guts; he’d bullied me on the playground relentlessly, pulling at my jacket and pushing me down, even spatting in my face. When he was physically hauled up to the front of the classroom by our teacher, I watched in eager fascination. And anticipation! Ah, at last, the bully gets his deserved comeuppance.

Mother Ernestine let go of Ronnie’s ear, stood back, and observed him as if he was a bug under a microscope. “Why were you talking during the lesson?” she asked.

“I weren’t talkin’,” he defiantly responded, head down.

“What? Speak up! Do you have marbles in your mouth? You can speak English, I presume?”

“Uh-huh,” Ronnie mumbled. “I kin speak inglish.”

That’s when things descended into craziness. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Mother Ernestine screeched, suddenly grabbing him by his hair and yanking it hard. He said nothing, mouth opening in silent agony. Then, for good measure, she stomped on his foot. He howled, fell backward against the blackboard, and accidentally erased the Catechism lesson.

That sent Mother Ernestine into a paroxysm of fury. She attacked him viciously, slapping, punching, kicking, tweaking his nose and ears, tearing at his clothes and actually knocking the poor kid to the floor.

We sat there watching in awestruck silence. And horror. I’d never seen anything like this before! It frightened me to the core of my being.

“You’ll kneel until recess,” Mother Ernestine wheezed. “And ask God for forgiveness. Imagine, talking during a lesson. What’s wrong with you? Are you a moron?” For good measure, she struck him on the head with an eraser. “Are you?!”

As Mother Ernestine composed herself, untwisting the rosary beads and straightening the leather belt and filmy veil, she breathlessly explained to us what just transpired.

“When Rules are broken, punishment is swift. That is the way things are in this disgusting world, and you might as well learn it now. I trust our obnoxious friend here won’t break the rules again.”

Of course, he did break the rules again…he was the only one who EVER broke the rules. Seeing him up there as Mother Ernestine’s punching bag became a part of school day routine. She’d end each session with a dire warning. “Don’t tell what you just saw, children. This is a Catholic school, and our doings here are sacred. I will know if you told. God will know if you told. And the Pill you’ll receive with make this one look small by comparison.”

None of us told. The year trundled on, more and more Pills were dispensed, and then it was June. We had our last day of the second grade, a happy event. Mother Ernestine said goodbye, exiting permanently from our lives…at least, physically.

I finished school, graduated, went to college and became a freelance writer. In 1989, trying my hand at writing a novel, I revisited the blue classroom and Mother Ernestine. Memories, once hazy, solidified, and I saw see the situation through adult eyes. It shocked and saddened me. How did Ronnie B. survive? Isolated by Mother Ernestine and hated, en masse, by us?

Survive, he did. I called him while doing research for my book.

“What do you remember about the second grade?” I asked.

Without hesitation, Ronnie replied, “sometimes, she’d hit herself, and I was glad.”

My God, had Mother Ernestine smacked him with something? Her metal pointer, perhaps? I do remember her thwacking the blackboard with it…but human flesh and bone?

That’s the moment everything came rushing back at me: the ritualistic beatings in the cause of “discipline,” sinful recriminations, blood and bruises and a fear of “telling outsiders.”

Mother Ernestine has certainly passed away by now, and I’ve no doubt she had a beautiful funeral Mass with a eulogy uplifting and inspiring. Nobody knew about the torments she rained down upon one innocent soul. We played our part and kept her secret.

And so, The Blue Classroom grew from that nugget of truth and became a fictional ghost story.

Alas, in real life, there was no epic conclusion and settling of scores. Evil triumphed. The scales of Justice remain forever unbalanced.