The Training Field, a Book

Terry Phelps is a past resident of Charlestown. He has written a book (The Training Field) about his younger years growing up on Adams Street at the "top of the park." Although he lives in South Carolina now, he just can't get the townie out of his heart. He'll be a guest this week on Charlestown Live, if you're interested in hearing more. For more details, email him at: ctowntownie@gmail.com. The following is the third excerpt from his book that Patch has published. You can read the first and the second .

Sometime around my fourth or fifth grade of school, a girl named Margaret caught the eye of me and another admirer, Johnny. Her nickname was Peggy, which to me made her all the cuter. Cute enough, in fact, to make two boys throw caution to the wind, and risk their Catholic upbringing. Because she lived outside of our immediate neighborhood, we decided to try and follow her home, undetected.

So we skulked around corners and darted between parked cars. It seemed like the logical thing to do as amateur stalkers. Twice she spotted us. But even though our cover had been blown, we kept dogging Peggy in order to find out where she lived. We were confident that a romance was in our future, but in order for that to happen we first had to snag a house number.  Introductions would come later.

As she reached her house and flung open the door, Peggy (oh that name!) gave a quick glance back in our direction. Johnny and I were five or six doors away when, just as we began to sprint toward our goal, Peggy reappeared with her mother on the front steps, stopping us dead in our tracks. Raising her arm and pointing in our direction, Peggy ruined any future she may have had with us, shooting us straight through the heart.  In that instant, she was now just Margaret again. 

The next day at school my teacher was interrupted during class when a student from another room entered after knocking.  A folded note was handed to her.  The nun slowly opened it, and read the words that no doubt had been written in the perfect Palmer method, and folded it back again.

“Master Phelps.” There was a long pause. “Sister Superior would like to see you in her office immediately.” 

Master Phelps, I thought. What could she possibly want to see me about?

I don’t recall getting up from my desk, leaving the room, or even walking down and across the corridor past the cloak rooms. What I do recall though, is standing before a very large, darkly stained, paneled door. Two knocks received an, “Enter, please.” 

Her office was dark, with the exception of a dim bulb, shrouded by a frosted globe, suspended from a tin-clad ceiling. There was some natural light coming through a large window behind her, but even that light was discouraged because of a heavy green window shade that had been drawn midway. Sister Superior sat at a desk the size of a ‘56 Buick, her back toward the window. She was shrouded in black making the room seem even darker than this moment. Why I was there soon became apparent.

 “Master Phelps, Margaret’s mother informs me” (I had no idea that you could phone a nun, let alone a superior one.) “that you and another boy were following Margaret home from school yesterday. Is this true?”

If I admitted to it she would only think me to be a wayward Catholic. If I lied then the sister would know that I had been raised as a pagan baby. I took the lesser of two evils. 

“Yes, sister,” I said sheepishly.

“This will not happen again in the future. Do you understand me?” 

“Yes, sister,” I agreed. 

But how did she know what would happen in the future? This must have been why she was a superior sister. 

With one foolish error in judgment, Peggy had removed herself from the hearts of two would-be suitors, and sentenced herself to a lonely life, known only as Margaret.