A Sprinkling of Stardust over the Outhouse: Musings, Memories, Madness and Pillow Talk!

By Paul E. Brogan

A Sprinkling of Stardust over the Outhouse is the long-awaited follow-up to Paul Brogan’s highly successful first book, Was That a Name I Dropped? released in 2011.

Paul came out as gay when he was ten in the early 1960s and faced a number of obstacles for doing so. He approached them without losing sight of who he was, eventually winning over the naysayers who urged him to be someone other than himself.

A Sprinkling of Stardust is a true story that is rich in detail as it tells Paul’s story with humor and heart as well as harsh and sometimes shockingly brutal reality.

In the 1980s, playing the starring role in a musical production of Peter Pan, Paul Brogan sang the song “Never Never Land.” The lyrics “I have a place where dreams are born, and time is never planned. It’s not on any chart. You must find it with your heart. Never Never Land” had a great deal of meaning to Paul. Frequently he found himself getting choked up as he sang them.

After coming out at the age of ten, Paul created his own Never Never Land. It represented a safe haven, a refuge where he could do and be himself. It was a place to which he escaped after being sexually abused, raped, and suffering a series of life-threatening health issues.

His latest book is not a sequel to his 2011 best-seller, Was That a Name I Dropped? Instead, it is the rest of the story told in the same frank and honest manner that earned him kudos for the first book.

It is funny, sexy, insightful, moving, and will have the viewer turning away in shock and horror in some instances. Ultimately, it is life.

Enthusiastic Response to Paul Brogan’s Writing

Was That a Name I Dropped? is even more rare. It is a must-read, and incredible journey and the fastest and most enticing 532 pages I have enjoyed in years. (Tommy Lightfoot Garrett, Canyon News, June 19, 2011)

Paul has now written a top-flight memoir, which has the narrative flow of a Dickensian novel. (David Kaufman, celebrated New York author of Ridiculous! The Theatrical Life and Times of Charles Ludlam [2002] and Doris Day: The Untold Story of the Girl Next Door [2008], May 30, 2011)

It was a nice mixture of personal tragedy and high-octane gossip, and of course we all love titillation.” (Rex Reed, columnist, June 8, 2011)

I also HIGHLY recommend Was That a Name I Dropped? by Paul Brogan. Paul has known EVERYONE in Hollywood. It is an incredible memoir accounting an incredible journey! (Richard Skipper; celebrated producer, performer, and writer; December 10, 2011)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662483592

Book preview

Chapter 1

Once upon a time, there was a television show entitled This Is Your Life . Ralph Edwards created and hosted the program for many years.

The gist of the show was that an unsuspecting individual would be brought on the show and surprised by Edwards. Ralph would then bring on an array of people from that person’s past, as he told the story of their life. The program’s subjects were not limited to just celebrities, but to people who had made a name for themselves with their respective lives and careers.

On Thursday, May 9, 2019, I felt a bit as though I was participating in a variation of This Is Your Life. That evening, pieces of my past had suddenly come together, and the result for me was a bit overwhelming.

The setting was Gibson’s Bookstore, and the event was the official launch of my second book, The Concord Theatre and Concord’s Love Affair with the Movies.

As is my custom, my day consisted of vomiting, dry heaves, and other gastric disturbances that always accompany me whenever I need to speak in public. Alan and I arrived at Gibson’s nearly an hour before the event was scheduled to begin.

I’ll be lucky if fifty people show up, I told Alan. After all, it’s not a topic that is at the top of everyone’s list to read about.

Alan, as is his wont, told me to relax, take a deep breath, and just enjoy the experience.

You might be surprised, he said reassuringly. There are a lot of people in Concord who like you. You’re famous.

More like infamous, I tartly replied.

About twenty minutes before my talk was to begin, people began to pour in. Seeing their faces, I was more than overwhelmed. It was a regular walk down memory lane. The good lane and the not so nice.

By the time I was introduced by Elisabeth Jewell, who handles events for Gibson’s, there were nearly 150 people assembled. In fact, they had to add extra chairs, and still there were more than two dozen who had to stand up along the back wall.

Fortunately, Gibson’s provided me a podium to stand behind as well as to clutch. My damp hands and palms held on to it as though my very life depended on it. My knees were shaking rhythmically.

Suddenly I felt like the third or fourth grader at St. Peter’s Catholic School called upon by Sister Mary Joan to do my book report in front of the entire class. Not much had changed in six decades.

As I began to speak, I couldn’t help but notice the faces watching me intently. It was hard to concentrate on what I was saying as well as the excerpt from the book that I eventually shared. My mind kept going back in time as the memories flooded over me.

There were people from my grammar school years as well as from Bishop Brady High School, where I had graduated from on that warm June evening many years before.

I recognized former coworkers from Blue Cross and Blue Shield as well as the Department of Motor Vehicles and Concord Group Insurance. I noticed that many were smiling as I spoke, and some were nodding as though in agreement with what I was sharing.

There were friends, some new and some from the long ago past. There were even former lovers, for whom I retained affectionate and treasured memories.

The theatrical community was well represented. Angie, the director of Red River Theatres, was smiling broadly as were Joe, Nicki, and Katie from the Capitol Center for the Arts. They had all been instrumental in saving the Concord Theatre, the main topic of the book whose publication we were celebrating.

An author that I greatly admired, Margaret Porter, was enjoying herself, as was longtime friend to all things related to theater—Jim Webber. The Community Players of Concord, New Hampshire, were also represented.

Some of the class members from the film classes I had taught for OLLI (Osher Lifelong Learning Institute) at Granite State College were in attendance.

My former probation officer and then warden of the women’s prison in Concord, Joanne (Heapes) Fortier, was smiling and beaming while standing at the back of the room. We had shared a lot, and I was honored that we were now sharing this evening.

Concord’s mayor Jim Bouley, whom I had run against in a mayoral race in 2015, occupied a special place in the crowded room, as well as Concord Patch’s editor, Tony Schinella.

My mother was seated with several friends, and their visible enthusiasm was not simply because they knew the author. Instead, they laughed at all the funny things I said and looked a bit misty-eyed when I discussed an especially poignant moment in the theater’s storied history.

Finally, Alan, who’d endured me throughout the entire process of writing my first two books, was a study in why we have remained together and happy for more than a decade and a half. I winked quickly at Alan, and his return wink gave me the impetus to continue what ended up being a fifty-minute talk. Concord TV for whom I host a talk show captured the entire event on film. I was able to almost enjoy watching it since I had no clear recollection of what I said or how I answered the many questions thrown my way by the audience.

Gibson’s sold out every book they had in stock that evening while I signed copies for almost an hour, while catching up with some of the parts of my life that had turned up for me.

The public response to the book, both critically and from resultant sales, made me extremely happy. Not for myself, but because I had told the story of the Concord Theatre and Theresa Cantin. It was a story that needed to be shared for history’s sake. I’d been but a small part of the story, but I relished telling it.

The publication of my second book seemed to create a renewed interest in the first book, which was no longer in print. Used copies were available on Amazon.com and even through eBay, but the price tag was exorbitant. There were copies going for hundreds of dollars, and I quickly made it clear that I didn’t receive a penny.

Had I ever suspected that my book would be selling for that amount, I’d have bought and hoarded several dozen in order to finance my retirement someday, I joked.

I could only surmise that since the cover photo was me and Doris Day, that interest had increased after her untimely passing in 2019.

If I had followed another path in life and become a male escort, I could not have made enough money to buy a copy of my own book.

It did get me to thinking about tweaking the book, tossing out some of the run-on sentences, editing it as I would have if given the time, and telling it from a different life perspective. When you’ve entered the last quarter of your expected life, you qualify as something of a survivor. Sharing heretofore untold bits and pieces about making it through a few storms with humor intact might be of interest to some.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers, nor do I hold up my life as a perfect example of how to do it the right way. But I haven’t a speck of bitterness in me, nor does anger hover on the fringes. I no longer care if people find it difficult to forgive my stupidity or ineptitude. I do, however, forgive everyone who may have been responsible for the bumps on the road of life. I love where I am in life and look forward to what may be right around the corner.

May, 2019 book launch in Concord at Gibson’s Bookstore

Chapter 2

Iwas born on October 31—Halloween. Beyond that, I probably suffer from some form of identity crisis since other facts about my origin are a little skewed.

Clara and Edward Brogan of Concord, New Hampshire, had adopted me through Catholic Charities, bringing me home to 41 Franklin Street on a very warm August day. My sister, Nancy, would also be brought home from Catholic Charities the following year.

In the 1970s when I worked for the state of New Hampshire Department of Motor Vehicles, a very nice coworker offered to assist me in finding out information about my natural parents. I was intrigued and asked her to find out anything she could.

What she told me some months later was that my birth name was Philip Speigel. I was born out of wedlock to a very troubled young couple who never married and died tragically young.

Should I look further into it and find out if you have any surviving relatives, my work colleague queried.

Thanks, but no thanks, I responded. In the movies it always seems to be so intriguing. I’m not sure what I was hoping for, but I think I’ll let it go.

After my book came out in 2011, I was told that my birth name had been Richard Forbes. I had been born out of wedlock and had a twin brother.

Maybe I was cynical or maybe my priorities had markedly changed in the decades since my first inquiry. I genuinely had no interest in pursuing the truth about my birth. I was more interested in living in the present and moving toward the future than in visiting the past. Some friends have urged me to investigate or to get answers, but I truly have no iota of motivation in that direction.

What was the truth was the day of my birth—Halloween.

In Catholic grammar school, Sister Mary John had told me that I was born on the Devil’s day and that no good Catholic can be born on such a day that honors sin.

When she told me, I almost expected her to douse me with holy water or wave a crucifix in front of me. She seemed genuinely disturbed at the notion of one of her students being born on Halloween.

From now on, we’ll acknowledge your birthday as being October 30th.

The twins Bette and Bonnie Ferns, who were classmates of mine for years and two of my favorite people, were born on October 30. The idea of sharing that date with them made me extremely happy. I resisted telling my parents that my birthday was not acceptable to my teacher and continued letting them make me a Halloween cake and sing Happy Birthday to me on the thirty-first. I even had a few birthday parties and disregarded the fact that some of those attending were in my class and knew of Sister’s displeasure at the date.

My adopted parents were good, hardworking people who truly wanted the 1950s ideal of an all-American family. A mother and father and two children, a boy and a girl. In the years following World War II, life was truly becoming what was represented on television programs.

Some may wink or chuckle at the notion of June Cleaver on Leave It to Beaver or Harriet Nelson on her family’s show doing housework or cooking while garbed in stylish clothing with makeup and a string of pearls around her neck as being unrealistic. However, in millions of homes, that is exactly the way it was. I never came home from school to find my mother in jeans or even slacks. She was always dressed in either a dress or a skirt, and when she cooked, she’d select an apron from a drawer that was filled with every assortment.

Most of the women in the neighborhood who were friends with my mom did not work outside the home. They spent their days doing housework, planning and preparing meals, and being the best mother they knew how to be. They actively participated in the PTA and eagerly volunteered for organizations and charities throughout the city.

My mother was an exception. Not only did she do everything that other women did, but she also worked. She was a substitute teacher in the school district. In addition, she taught piano five days a week in our home after school. She typically taught from 2:45 p.m. until 5:30 p.m., usually having 20 to 25 students each week.

Concord had a great many private piano teachers who provided lessons for upwards of 250 to 300 students each week. Angela Annicchiarico, Mitzi Berman, Alice Lavoy, Dorothy Botallico, Ellen Downing, and several others were passionately devoted to providing a rich and diversified learning experience. Some of the students took lessons for many years while others, at the urging and insistence of their parents, gave it a try for a year or two and quickly left. This was especially true of the boys who would much rather have been tossing a ball at White’s Park than sitting at Mrs. Brogan’s home learning Für Elise and then being forced to practice at home until their parents’ heads were splitting from the racket.

Mom had been born in Texas on December 31, 1923, and had attended a Catholic college in the Midwest with the intention of becoming a Sister of Charity. Summers spent playing the piano for the USO during the war quickly made her realize that becoming a nun was not something she wanted to do.

While working summers in Los Angeles, she had dated Robert Stack’s brother as well as actor Mark Stevens, who had starred in a string of B pictures. Later she attended Julliard in New York City, becoming friendly with musician and singer Bobby Short, who was just starting his long and successful career as a legendary cabaret artist.

My father, Edward, had been born in 1918 in North Cambridge, Massachusetts, and never made it to college. As a youngster, he became good friends with a neighbor, Mildred Anne Miller. Everyone called her Millie, and in 1941, she would marry another North Cambridge resident, Thomas P. O’Neill, known by most as Tip. My father remained friends with both.

His mother was widowed when my father was fourteen, and he had to balance working two jobs while finishing high school to support a family of seven. It instilled in him a work ethic, second to none, and he enlisted in the Air Force in 1943 after his brothers and sisters were old enough to help with family obligations.

He and my mother met at one of her USO shows, and they eventually married in October of 1946 at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City.

In 1948, they moved to Concord, New Hampshire, because of my father’s job with H. J. Heinz. They rented a place on South Spring Street before moving to Franklin Street. The back of the house faced a fence that surrounded the New Hampshire State Hospital.

The state hospital was a collection of brick buildings sprawled over a campus that almost resembled the campus of a college. The peaceful exterior hid something far darker and almost sinister in nature.

To anyone who may have seen the movie Snake Pit or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, you have caught a glimpse of what went on in those days when mental illness was something people feared. Family members who suffered from a mental illness were often shunned and sent away to a facility like the one in Concord. In some instances, they lived out their life being shuttled from building to building, eventually ending up in the geriatric building. The hospital housed nearly three thousand people at the time my parents moved to Concord.

My father worked on the road from Monday until Thursday, leaving my mom alone in a city that she was unfamiliar with. The few new friends she made warned her about living next to the state hospital, telling her that when there was a full moon, the patients became agitated and possibly violent. Nightly my mother slept with a butcher knife under her pillow.

During the daylight hours, she explored her new community and found much to enjoy.

Downtown Concord was a mecca of shops and stores as well as restaurants and markets. She could walk from the apartment to Main Street and would spend hours perusing the aisles of the many downtown businesses. In the evening, she would alternate taking in a movie at one of the three downtown movie theaters—the Capitol, the Concord, and the Star.

In addition to the beautiful state capitol building, the other crowning jewel in Concord was the railroad station. It was located just east of Main Street and was a reminder of what an important role the railroad played in Concord’s history. The railroad employed hundreds upon hundreds of residents and was a vital gateway to points in Maine, Vermont, and Canada as well as southern points like Manchester and Boston.

By the time I had arrived on the scene, my folks were occupying a two-family dwelling on Franklin Street which remains to this day a lovely residential part of Concord.

Among my earliest memories are the hours I spent daydreaming while looking out the window and watching the cars speed up and down Franklin. Even at three or four, I would create stories about the people driving those cars or even those who would walk by alone, in pairs, or perhaps pushing a baby carriage or walking a dog. Concord seemed to be the best place anyone would ever want to live.

My mother seemed anxious to share Concord with me, and daily, we were out and about with me in a carriage or merely walking beside her while she pushed the stroller that my sister filled.

White’s Park was a very popular destination for us, and we regularly fed the ducks in an era when that seemed like the perfectly normal thing to do. We also watched the ball games and enjoyed seeing the swimming pool filled with all the kids from the area, who were clearly having the time of their life. The park takes up twenty-five acres and is a piece of heaven.

Before I digress, let me acknowledge the name of the park so that I do not find myself inundated with angry readers telling me that I do not know what I am talking about.

For purists, the name of the park is White Park. I have never, however, met a single person—adult or child—from the era of the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s who did not refer to it as White’s Park.

I’m going to White’s, you would announce, and instantly the person listening knew what you were talking about.

I had postcards showing the park, its lovely stone bridge, and the pond, and all were labeled White’s Park. That’s what it’ll always be to me, and I’ll let others call it what they will. You really had to be there to understand.

One day a week we would head down to the railroad station and take the 4:00 p.m. train to Manchester, the state’s largest city and located about eighteen miles south of Concord. The train ride took about twenty minutes, and the train traveled, part of the way, along the beautiful Merrimack River.

Once we arrived in Manchester, we would disembark and head to the hot dog stand located right outside of the station. We would then gorge ourselves on the delicious grilled hot dogs that cost fifteen cents. A small Coke was enough to wash down our feast prior to boarding the 5:00 p.m. train that would take us back to Concord.

I can still remember running across the broad expanse of the Concord train station and the sound that my shoes made on the tiled floor. The expansive ceiling seemed to stretch on to heaven, or so it seemed to a small child of four or five. Watching the throngs purchasing their tickets and heading to the appropriate track always filled me with wonder. I even stated to my mother on one occasion that I thought the family should move to the railroad station. The railroad station would always get my youthful adrenaline pumping.

Trains always fascinated me, and I remember the sound of a train’s whistle waking me at night as a child. It was a reassuring noise that cut through the darkness and seemed to tell me that all was right in the world.

My Lionel train set was probably my favorite Christmas gift as a child. I spent hours playing with it and creating towns and villages for the train to race through. I was fortunate to be blessed with a vivid imagination.

Tom and Rita Roberts were good friends with my parents and often visited us. Tom worked for the railroad in Concord and had for many years. When he would talk about his experiences, I would sit and hang on every word about his workin’ on the railroad.

Whenever we visited my father’s family in the Boston area, I would insist that we take the streetcar in Cambridge, followed by a trip on the subway to the end of the line which was then the Ashmont Station.

While our family didn’t get to live in the railroad station, we did move to a new home on Academy Street in Concord. It was less than three small blocks from White’s Park on a small street that ran between Washington and Cambridge. The cost of the house was just over $9,000, and the monthly mortgage my parents paid for twenty years was $92.

There were three bedrooms, so my sister, who had been sleeping in the upstairs hallway on Franklin Street, had her own bedroom. Mine faced the west, and even in the middle of a cold winter, the afternoon sun seemed to keep it warm.

We made the move in August, just weeks before I was to begin first grade at Kimball School on Spring Street. It took about five minutes to walk to school. Prior to moving, I had attended kindergarten at Walker School and, from my first day there, had looked forward to attending school. The structure of learning seemed to agree with me, and I loved my teachers—Ms. Stevens and Mrs. Smith. Changing school, I knew, would be an adjustment. It would not be the last such change.

White’s Park, a little piece of Heaven

Chapter 3

Soon after we made the move to Academy Street, I began to experience night terrors. These would occur two or three times a week, and I would be drenched in sweat that would roll down my body and a fear that seemed to not easily abate.

My bed faced a closet door. Behind the hangars was another door that led to the attic as well as a set of stairs leading downstairs to the kitchen. I was convinced that something had come from the attic and was lurking in the closet.

Our family doctor, Dr. Penhale, assured my parents that it was nothing to be alarmed about.

More than likely the upheaval of moving and starting at a new school has caused an emotional trauma, he explained. He’ll outgrow it, he quickly added.

I don’t know how quick it was, but they continued to plague me well into my teens, although with less regularity. In fact, I developed an iron will with respect to these nighttime intruders and was able to sense when I was falling into a night terror. They usually occur during the first third to the first half of the night.

When I would feel one coming on, I would force myself to become fully awake and alert. I would then turn on the light over my bed, get out of bed, and walk, defiantly, to the door of the closet. I’d stand there for about a minute or two before grabbing the doorknob and flinging the door open. Next, I would part the clothing hangars and verbally dare anything to come at me.

It worked about half the time, and by the time I was twenty, they had stopped with only a rare exception while in my twenties, and usually during a time of stress.

While Dr. Penhale had been right about night terrors, he proved to be less than infallible when it came to my allergies and, in particular, my asthma.

Today, asthma can be more readily controlled and treated. That was not the case in the 1950s and early 1960s.

Asthma, also known as bronchial asthma, is a lung disorder that is characterized by the narrowing of the airways, the tubes which carry air into the lungs. They are inflamed and constricted, and this causes a shortness of breath, as well as wheezing and a persistent cough.

Dr. Penhale and his irascible nurse, Mrs. O’Brien, treated me with the best shots and medication that were available in those days. None of that stopped me from being admitted to the hospital more than thirty times by the time I reached the age of eight.

Gasping for every breath became a regular part of my life. In the summer, the heat would trigger attacks. In the fall, the dust from the falling leaves would bring on wheezing, while the cold weather in the winter left me struggling for air after more than five minutes outside.

The spring seemed to be the worst time, and even years as opposed to odd years brought some type of pollen that was particularly damaging to asthmatics.

Scratch tests were conducted and helped determine that there were about twenty things that I was allergic to.

Again, I was assured that I would outgrow those allergies with the passage of time.

Once Paul matures into adulthood, these allergies should subside, and his asthma dissipate.

I must still be waiting to become an adult because the last time I had a scratch test done, about five years ago, it indicated there were more than eighty things that I was allergic to. As for the asthma, thanks to the treatments available in this new century, I can control the asthma instead of it controlling me.

One thing not noted while discussing my allergies was cigarette smoke.

I was surrounded by it. Both my parents smoked. My father, because he spent so much time on the road traveling, averaged about three to four packs each day. My mother was more of a social smoker and could make a pack last for a week.

Many of my parents’ friends smoked, and they would often have five or six couples at the house on a Saturday evening. Heavy smoke would waft its way up the front staircase and fill our bedrooms on the second floor. On family trips, with the car windows closed during the winter, the smoke from the front seat would send me into coughing spasms although no one seemed to make the connection between smoking and an asthma attack.

Whenever my parents had one of their evening socials, my sister and I were given our supper around 5:00 p.m. and told that we were to spend the evening in our rooms either reading or doing homework. We were also told that at 7:30 p.m., we should be dressed in our best so that we could come downstairs to say hello to the guests and briefly entertain them.

At 7:30 p.m., my mother would tell her guests that Paul and Nancy would like to say hello and provide a few minutes of musical entertainment for them.

We’d come downstairs and greet each guest as we walked around the living room, and I would try to not take in the heavy smoke that had, in less than an hour, created such a fog that there seemed something almost ethereal about the setting.

Although I was only about five or six, I would sit down at the Baldwin grand piano that my mother used when she taught piano lessons and play a simple piece that I had learned from my mother. I started playing when I was three or four and began serious lessons at the age of five.

My sister would sing along to my plucking, and when we finished, about five minutes later, everyone would enthusiastically applaud, tell my parents how fortunate they were to have such talented children, and we would bow and make our exit.

One instance in which there was little applause, in fact there was a deafening silence, was the year that I, a precocious eight, decided to change the entertainment mix.

By then, I’d learned to play Frankie and Johnny, a song often associated at the time with Mae West. While my playing still lacked the polish that would only come with extensive practice and time, I did okay, although it was not a particular favorite of my mother, who had a less-than-generous feeling about Mae.

While playing, I launched into an imitation of Mae West, replete with writhing shoulders and an insinuating tone to my voice. When I finished, I noticed people looking at one another as though they couldn’t fathom what they’d just seen.

I stood up and rather boldly stated, I can also imitate Katharine Hepburn and Carol Channing if you’d like to hear those.

There were no takers although my father loudly said, Come back when you can mimic John Wayne.

After that evening, the visitations from the children never happened again. I guess they were afraid I might launch into one of my other impersonations.

I found I loved imitating people and would sometimes stand, looking into the long mirror in my bedroom on the back of the door, and work at perfecting my imitations.

In truth, I could summon up Cary Grant from time to time as well as Jimmy Stewart, but the women whose voices I did seemed to come much more easily.

At that age, I would never have imagined that one day I would be sitting in Katharine Hepburn’s New York City home imitating her.

Fortunately, in 1964 when the surgeon general report came out about the dangers of cigarette smoking, my parents stopped—completely. They didn’t taper off but announced at supper that they were both giving up smoking, and they did. Until the day he passed in 2009, my father never picked up another cigarette, nor has my mother, who is ninety-eight.

My first year at Kimball was also the last year that the old school was in operation. Due to space limitations and the growing number of children who had been born in the years right after World War II, our classroom was in the basement. We were only feet away from the furnace, which would shake the room each time it came on. Fortunately, Ms. O’Mara had a very loud and clear voice which managed to be heard over the furnace.

Shortly after we finished first grade, the school was torn down, and the grounds converted into a small park. Kimball was relocated about one block south in a larger building that had housed the junior high school. The junior high had been moved to a large new modern building located in the south end of Concord.

Ms. Nancy Brogan was my second-grade teacher. She had the same name as my sister, and I faced a barrage of questions from classmates who wanted to know if I was related to our teacher. Some feared I would be given preferential treatment if that were the case. I assured them we were not related, although Nancy was a friend of my parents, and she remains, to this day, a friend of mine.

School continued to bring me a personal satisfaction and an eagerness to learn. I also found that I seemed to possess an ability to retain what I read or learned and could easily call upon it when needed. I also had a gift for memorization that made my studies come naturally. As a child, I just accepted it and assumed that everyone else had the same skill. It was only years later, as an adult, that I recognized how fortunate I was. Having that instant recall certainly came in handy when writing or in telling the story of my twenty-seven years at the Concord Theatre, with great detail.

My asthma, however, greatly limited my physical activity. Under certain conditions, the one-third mile walk to school could bring on wheezing and coughing and a serious shortness of breath that would often result in my being sent to the principal Mrs. Dearborn’s office to lie down. I barely understood why I had been so afflicted, so attempting to explain it to kids my age was a daunting task, to say the least.

When you’re five, six, seven, or eight, you seem to be blessed with a boundless energy to do everything.

Recess was a fifteen-minute break in the morning, and the schoolyard was filled with an electricity, which was the result of two hundred kids trying to cram as much into those short minutes as they could. I confess I was a little envious of the balls they threw, the hoops they tossed, and the frenzied games of tag.

It was the height of the Davy Crockett fad, and I had my coonskin cap, my fringed outfit, and knew every word to the title song. Dressing up like Davy was about as far as I got since I couldn’t run around pretending to be the hero or even a villain. I didn’t like the asthma getting the better of me but remained hopeful of outgrowing it.

The kids in the neighborhood couldn’t figure out why I didn’t do the things they did. When someone sits on the sidelines watching, it doesn’t take long for them to be singled out as a freak. Eventually you stop getting invited to participate in anything, even going to the movies, which was one thing I could do very well.

One of my neighborhood friends, Doug Irving, was wise beyond his years and seemed to instinctively know that it wasn’t because I didn’t want to be more active. After all, he had tried to teach me how to play basketball and baseball. The result was his witnessing, firsthand, the major asthma attack that it brought on.

From then on, I became Doug’s moviegoing friend. Whenever there was a movie he wanted to see, he’d invite me to go. He’d never put me in the spot of having to say no when a group wanted to go to the park and play ball. It worked fine for me.

As a means of offsetting my lack of athletic prowess, I approached my piano lessons and practice as though I were an athlete training for an Olympic event.

My ability to memorize served me well as I took on more and more complicated musical compositions. I didn’t want to squander my time and effort by playing the kind of simpler pieces that were a staple for first- and second-year students. Even my mother was impressed with the ferocity I showed.

She was my teacher, and she never had to force me to sit down and practice. In some houses, it was not uncommon for a beginning student to have to be threatened with no television if they didn’t get to the piano and practice. Doug had taken lessons from my mother for a year or two and didn’t really feel he had the interest in continuing.

On more than one occasion, I voiced an opinion that if I’d been able to play sports, I would have approached it the same way I did the music—with a drive and impetus to be the best.

By the time I was eight, I had begun to formulate my future plans. I still wanted to be a movie star or actor, but I also wanted to be able to be a top-notch musician and dancer. Into that mix I soon threw an interest in singing opera.

At the conclusion of second grade, it was decided that I would begin attending parochial school. Our parish, St. Peter’s, had a school, and it only cost the children of parishioners $5 per semester. When told the news that I’d be attending St. Peter’s, I could not have been happier. It felt like an exciting new chapter in my life was about to open.

Chapter 4

In 2014, I attended a preview for upcoming classes as part of the OLLI (Osher Lifelong Learning Institute) program at Granite State College in Concord. I was there to talk about my upcoming class. I’d been associated with OLLI and teaching classes for about three years at the time.

While waiting to speak, I began chatting with Peg Fargo, who was another instructor and one of those people with whom you instantly feel a bond. She is such a warm, genuine, and caring individual that everyone tends to gravitate to her.

How are you doing, Paul? Your class sounds like an interesting idea.

Thanks, Peg. Maybe you’ll be able to take it although you have such a busy schedule of classes you are doing. Today, however, I’m battling a migraine. Today of all days. But I’m offering it up for the souls in purgatory…

Peg let out a laugh that could be heard blocks away.

I haven’t heard that expression in years. You must be Catholic!

Instantly we began sharing stories. It was as though we had attended school together.

Peg had attended Catholic school in New York State, but she, like me, had the Sisters of Mercy for teachers. I told Peg that some of my classmates had referred to them as Sisters Without Mercy.

From that conversation grew a class that we decided we would teach together. We called it Growing Up Catholic, and it certainly resonated.

Hundreds of OLLI members signed up for the series, which we did in Concord, Manchester, Portsmouth, Conway, and Nashua. In some locations, we had to schedule a second session to accommodate the demand.

There seemed a need to talk about their shared experiences during the 1940s, ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s. In fact, it became almost impossible to end the class at the designated two-hour mark. Peg and I would leave each class with a sense of exuberance and accomplishment.

I’ve taught dozens of classes in the past eleven years, but I rarely recall having attendees make it so personal and meaningful. The stories they shared were funny, touching, inspiring, and heartbreaking.

On Thanksgiving Day in 2015, Alan and I were walking into Strafford Farms Restaurant in Dover, New Hampshire. We had reservations for dinner.

As we walked by one table, a woman grabbed my arm and stopped me.

Aren’t you that guy who does the Catholic class for OLLI? she asked.

Yes I am. Why?

I saw your picture and thought I recognized you. My friend Judy just took your class. She said it was the most inspiring thing she’d ever done. She said you guys were like missionaries. You restored her faith, which had been lost. Since taking the class, she has gone back to church and has a renewed sense of her faith. Thank you.

I couldn’t get home quickly enough after dinner to email Peg. I told her that if we never got another compliment on the class, we had accomplished something extraordinary. Peg agreed.

When I was adopted, I was baptized into the Catholic Church.

Although I’d been adopted through Catholic Charities, there was no record of my having been baptized.

My faith has been a complex journey for me. It has given me moments of joy and happiness, and it has also angered me. I’ve been disappointed in the Catholic Church far more times than I have wanted to applaud them for an action. One of my greatest joys, however, was attending Catholic school. Something clicked in my brain, and the educational aspects