Brother Broken


Alf Reads about music lessons at the convent...

When I was seven, Dad signed me up for piano lessons. A nun taught me to play. I was excited to learn about music. Once a week, I arrived at the main door of the convent. I rang the buzzer and the butler nun ushered me in. The first thing I noticed inside was convent smell. Everything within was hospital-like, sterile, and squeaky-clean, but the place always skunked a smelly brew of Pinesol and wet wool.

I removed my boots and placed them on a mat. The piano was situated in a small room at the back, so the nun led me through a series of hallways and rooms. A crucifix and a font of holy water hung on every door jamb. The waxed tile floor was slippery beneath my socked feet, and I glided along, as though on skates. The nun opened the door to the music room, showed me in, and left. I was given a few minutes before each lesson to practise on my own. Then, the music teacher nun joined me and gave me instructions.

Lessons were held in the evening, during fall and winter, and I was responsible for arriving at the convent on time. I had to hoof it there rain or shine—but mostly snow. It was a ten-minute walk for adult legs, but mine were short, so it took me longer to get there. And the sky was almost always dark, both coming and going.

I wasn’t afraid of the dark. Contending with the cold was enough to keep me anxious. Night takes up seventy-five percent of the day during the winter in Northern Saskatchewan—I had no choice but to get used to it. There were no streetlights on the way to the convent, and there was seldom any traffic to help brighten the road. I had nothing practical like a flashlight to show me the path. I sensed I was walking through a tunnel and blackness was closing in on me. When clouds blocked the moon, making the street dark as dirt, I relied on other senses to navigate.

Brother Broken

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