Every morning, we all had to attend religious service at 6:45 a.m., followed by breakfast in a large mess hall, followed by school from 9:30 to 3:00 p.m. Various duties were assigned to the older girls, from washing floors to feeding farm animals. More religious service at 5:30 p.m., supper at 6:00 p.m., and then recreation until 8:45 p.m. There was drudgery, mind-numbing monotony, and religious brainwashing on a daily basis dished out as a form of penance.

On weekends, the workload greatly increased for the girls and recreation was in little measure for them. An occasional opened letter or a visit from a relative would be some lucky girl's weekend. Every girl got on with life as best they could and my life was about to get a whole lot better. I met my first girlfriend and her name was Marie.

We did everything together and for the first time, Michael and I became more apart.

She was seven years old and I thought that she was the most beautiful girl in the world. The other girls endlessly teased us, but we didn't care. Even the nuns, not renowned for their sense of humour, were amused. We held hands, kissed on the lips, and whispered endless sweet nothings into each other's ears on our many romantic walks through the prison grounds.

One evening, near a wooded area, Marie and I came across an injured fox cub with one of its legs broken. It was motionless save for frantic eyes and was under siege by a cat who lay in waiting, ready to pounce. I launched a well-aimed missile at the feisty feline that had him looking for easier prey. I found a flimsy crate for the fox and for a few days at least with feeding and TLC he seemed to thrive. On the fifth day we found him dead. Marie and I were shocked, but it probably was frightened to death during the night by one of the many nocturnal predators growling and clawing at the box. In that small wooded area we dug a tiny grave and placed him there. Having filled it back in we placed a small wood cross that we had made on the little mound. Kneeling down we held hands, said a prayer, and wished it a speedy journey into fox heaven as the sun was going down in front of us. It all seemed so natural as two butterflies fussed or fought over a flower while a wild rabbit strolled over to look on in curiosity. That sunset would always stay with me, stored in my memory to always remind me of how beautiful children really are.

One afternoon came along when, for once, I was alone. I wandered away from the main buildings and into an out-of-bounds area where the nuns lived. The atmosphere changed as if leaving one world for another like Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz." Here there was a small cluster of cottages reserved for the nuns so they could live in semi-privacy. The area had a communal vegetable area of the best fruits and vegetables, a mini botanical garden, and walkways with white and blue stone edgings. The whitewashed walls of the cottages along with the thatched roofs lined together looked like a well-fitted cap on a handsome head. Chimneys cast out soft and gentle plumes of smoke under a calm summer's evening giving everything a fairy tale look. Ignoring images of the "Three Bears," that flitted through my mind, the only thing that I wanted to do was feed my insatiable curiosity as to what was inside these cottages.

As luck would have it there were no nuns about. They were busy praying for my soul and I needed all the prayers I could get. After they had finished church, they would be having communal supper. So for a little while, time was on my side and I had the run of the place.

The doors of the cottages were unlocked and I entered the first one. Inside was just one big room that served all functions. Today, it would have been given a more fanciful description, an open-plan, self-contained apartment. At its gable end was a huge open fireplace with a great vat of water simmering away over a turf fire. A single bed sat in a corner with a giant crucifix above it. The slate floor had felt many feet over time that had polished it to a fine sheen. The center of the room held a great big table with the best of breads, eggs, cakes, and goodies. All were displayed proudly. Overhead, exposed, rough wooden ceiling beams gave a nod to the simple wooden furnishings and windows. There was a simplicity to its luxury designed not to hide its humble look but show it to the world. I had never seen anything like this before. I tiptoed around the room marveling at the new sights before me and I was filled with adrenaline knowing that I shouldn't be here in this cottage. If Snow White and the Seven dwarfs, Goldilocks, the Three Bears, the Wicked Witch, and Darby O'Gill the leprechaun had poured into this room for a wild party, it would not have looked out of place.

It was a children's book come to life.

After filling my senses with the sight, sound, and smell of this wonderful little nest, I decided to investigate further some of the other buildings. I came across another cottage similar in appearance to the one that I was just in, at least it was on the outside. As I pushed the door in further, to my mixed shock and surprise I found that the occupants had not left but were peering down at me with great accusation and suspicion. A sudden gust of wind caught the door behind me and banged it shut. The deadbolt lock, too high over my head, dropped into position and completed my imprisonment. I swallowed a spit as sheer terror seized all my emotions and I became rooted to the spot.

The crackling and crowing within these four walls rose to a terrible symphony of indignation and came, not from nuns, but hens. I was trapped in a henhouse among over a hundred angry and equally frightened birds. At last, instinct or reflex propelled my body as several hens flew past my face, while another dropped its well-aimed feces on my shoulder.

With panicked determination I bolted for the only window to escape, but it would not open as the latch and frame had become fossilized together over time. Then I smashed the pane with my hand and elbow and crawled my way through to safety. A shard of glass, still firmly toothed to the top part of the frame, cut deep into my neck. The blood pumped out into a wide arc over my white shirt, but I was oblivious to the wound for my resolve was to get as far away from the henhouse, and as quickly as possible. I ran past two amazed looking nuns and suddenly became aware of the growing sheet of blood covering my shirt. I stopped in my tracks and started to cry.

One of the two nuns quickly swept me up in her arms and ran with me to the infirmary. Before I knew it, I was quickly laid on a long wooden table with several nuns coming from all sides, pulling off my shirt and wiping the blood away. Lots of antiseptic, bandages, and cuddles later, I was ready for action again. The nuns were not even upset, more amused and relieved that I was still above ground. When I rejoined my brother and all the girls, the story had already done the rounds. I had become a minor celebrity, becoming Marie's little hero. I received the most attention from her (of course!) Even now, after all these years, I often touch the back of my neck to see if the old mark is still there. It is, along with all the other wounds of war and misadventure.

By nine o'clock p.m. each night, it was lights out in the dormitories; an area where rows of beds were lined up in domino style, like in a factory or warehouse that gave no privacy of any kind. This was a time when reality hit home, where there was nowhere to hide our hurt, our tears, or our nakedness. Some nights I would hear girls crying and grieving for their families and now understood too well what they were crying about.

My bed was alongside a girl called Susan. She had a glass eye. Before we all turned in, she would wrestle the eye from its socket and put it into a glass filled with a blue solution that was on her bedside table. Susan was a pretty girl who often was cruelly teased because of her eye. Hiding her feelings, she spoke very little with most of it being done in her sleep.

Most times that we talked she tried to convince me and herself that her mother would be taking her home soon. She didn't and never came to see Susan again.

Maybe distance was one obstacle, poverty another, followed by guilt, shame, weakness or fear. It kept the many away that laid waste any hope the children might have.

Strangely, the less expectant survived, all the better for their independence made for better choices. I would lay in the darkness hoping to say something to comfort Susan in those moments, but no words would come. Years later, I was listening to a song on the radio and a line came over the air waves which reminded me of Susan and of all the other girls of that place. "So hush little babies don't you cry, you know your daddy's are bound to die, but all your trials will soon be over." That line and its beautiful melancholy sound helped me to understand those times and the feelings of desolation and loneliness that they all must have felt back then. This was most especially at midnight, in a world that had been upside down, and waking up each morning, as a child, in a reformatory school. Their minds over time were then guilted and broken to a warped notion of morals that was called sin. The cleansing of which could only be exacted from the more frail souls by domestic slavery paid in permanent tribute to the nuns charged with saving their immortal souls. And they wanted that tribute in full with high interest. The stronger ones got out in the end but would never feel fully part of society again.

Around Jesus' birthday back then, my thoughts were on more serious matters. Would his messenger, Santa Claus, come around as he usually did now that December was wagging its cold finger? By January, I was mourning him. The killing of old Kris Kringle came to me that Christmas Eve when the nuns held a party for us all and he was invited. With festivities in full swing, Santa had to go pee and so did I. The shock could not have been greater before he zipped up and turned to go. I knew he was Santa when he came in to the bathroom, but all I saw leaving was a man with a fake beard and an even stranger hair piece. The glamour had completely fallen from him. This could not be Santa, I thought, as I dribbled and struggled to button up my pants in dismay and disappointment. He died right there, along with the elves and reindeers and a little bit more of my innocence.

Four months later and just shy of my sixth birthday, Michael and I made our Holy Communion, or it made us. A rite of passage to show that we were on our way to becoming good Catholics. The nuns made us feel very special that day. Showering us with treats and dressing us nicely in matching suits with rosary beads draped over our hands. Someone clicked a camera, capturing a photograph of not only us, but part of our character as well. A milli second frozen in time caught on film that said a thousand words about our futures. In it, Michael looked a soul of apprehension and hesitancy, while I looked like a cheeky monkey searching for laughs. Coming across that photograph recently, I realized how much of a crystal ball it had been.

For us, in this place in the main, Michael and I were treated well and we got on with everybody including the nuns. This had certain advantages. There was no competition, just two of four boys among a couple of hundred girls who were at the mercy of nuns, who I felt were not a bad sort. I was too young to make judgements of any serious nature for cruelty is too often hidden which makes every story so individual. This for me is the only way to describe that time and what I felt as a child here, and each child has its own story to tell. For us, we were treated like little boy kings for just being a little different. We fit in here and life for me was good, Michael was getting happy and was never too far away, and I had Marie as my soul companion. I was almost eight years old and began to believe that all about me in this place was a natural state. Eighteen months had passed since we came here and in the quick pace of a child, I was starting to forget my family. So complete was my ability to adapt that it left me unguarded, for Michael and I were still inmates of this reformatory school, regardless of its being a relatively gentle one for us. March lambs and stray dogs showed more regard for danger than I did as spring gave way to summer.

On a warm early June evening I was sitting with Marie in an open meadow making ringlets out of daises and wearing my creations proudly. I had been busy making a bracelet for her when over the brow of a hill nearby, a nun appeared holding Michael by the hand.

Her name was Sister Theresa and she always had a soft spot for the two of us. By the time she had hurried over to where I was, she was out of breath. "Barry, you must come with me," she said almost pleadingly. Marie clutched my hand and then the three of us followed the Sister through the fields and back to the main building to Mother Superior's office. Marie and Sister Theresa waited outside while Michael and I entered the room. A stranger was waiting there, set apart from a heated discussion between two nuns. After a short while, this man took us both by the hand and led us out of the building where a car sat with the engine idling.

Suddenly it became clear to me why Sister Theresa had looked so upset and tight lipped when she brought us to the office. Alarm bells started ringing in my head. Mother Superior followed us out with a very troubled Sister Theresa and a crying Marie. No words would come from my mouth as I looked at her trembling body. My face said it all. My shock was so great that not even a tear would come. Michael kept his head bowed, and in the end I did too.

The car, with us now inside, started to slowly move along the gravel, Marie began to run after it and then started to wave. I waved back knowing somewhere in my heart I would never see her again as her beautiful face disappeared in the distance and into my past.

Without fanfare or ceremony, we were on the move again and we did not know where to or even told why. That day was the second of June 1964, when my world changed around me again. It was as if the last two years with the nuns were just an opening act for the main event. For me, it seemed every time I felt I could roll out the blanket and have a long rest, someone would take away the tent. It would become the pattern of my young life along with so much deja vu.

In that same year also, other changes were taking place all over the western world beyond Ireland, with Martin Luther King Jr. getting the Nobel peace prize, The Animals rock group literally bringing the house down with the song, "House of the Rising Sun." The Rolling Stones were starting to roll and Elvis's "Heartbreak Hotel" was already a golden oldie. The song, "Eve of Destruction," asked questions, while Ireland didn't feel the need to.

The times they were a changing but not here, and not for another twenty-five to thirty years or more.

After a long day, I was in a dream full of tears when the car suddenly pulled up. It was dark outside as the driver gently coaxed Michael and me awake. We had come to like him over the course of the day and he treated us very well. He brought us to a fairground, bought us a meal, gave us money for ice cream, and kept our spirits up as best he could. The whole day for me held an unsettling feeling that I had just left a piece of heaven, and was about to enter a place where even devils feared to thread .

I was nervous and missing Marie, and I knew that this man must have felt or known that all was not to be well in our future. His name was Mr. Regan and he was known as the "cruelty man." His job as a government agent ranged from reporting truancies of children to that of court enforcer and courier in the transportation of children to and from industrial or reformatory schools. He was a much-feared man and his appearance often spelled misery for families and children and was seen as a sort of a grim reaper but one that carried an ordinary face. I remember him as a kind man and on my journeys I would find many like him. It was never their fault; they were just doing their job. Jobs that would include evicting an old lady out of a derelict house with a leaking roof for being behind in her rent, or refusing food stamps to an expectant mother because she was not married. Then on Sundays, these same good men would put a few coins in a poor box to haggle for their own soul, coming away never quite sure why they felt a little cheated.

That night, Mr. Regan led Michael and me up to a very ominous looking building, the Industrial/Reformatory school for boys in Salthill, Galway. It was another mix of a church and a prison except here the wardens were males, who were once men, and now dressed up themselves as Christian Brothers. The nuns had been my dress rehearsal for this place, but I would never be ready. This was a place only spoken about in whispers, a children's limbo and a living hell.  BUT MAN, PROUD MAN, DRESSED IN A LITTLE BRIEF AUTHORITY, MOST IGNORANT OF WHAT HE'S MOST ASSURED, HIS GLASSY ESSENCE, LIKE AN ANGRY APE, PLAYS SUCH FANTASTIC TRICKS BEFORE HIGH HEAVEN AS MAKE THE ANGLES WEEP William Shakespeare

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