Greg Brantner Presents: My Once and Future Mustache...: Nica Stories: The Piñata

(More) Tales from a non-traditional honeymoon...

This poor frightening clown had no idea what he was in for

After a rather lengthy and completely random discussion with a co-worker about overstuffed 3rd world buses, I've once again become nostalgic, and motivated to continue documenting my Nicaraguan honeymoon. I take you now to San Carlos, my official Peace Corps site during my two year term as a small business volunteer. The stories I can tell about this hidden and muddy gem are many, however I'll attempt to focus on two aspects: my nica family and the amazing piñata party that Melody and I threw for them. I'm convinced that the primary reason that Nicaragua - the country and all of its wackiness - remains dear to me is due to the care and loving nature that my Nica family showed me from the very moment I was dropped off at their concrete doorstep, by a nun. (True story, by the way...and it involves a 10 hour bus ride with my saintly chaperone).

"It's not a successful piñata party until someone cries!"

Me, explaining to Melody why our party was all sorts of awesome.

I was 24 when I first met what I then referred to as my host family, but now simply call my Nica family. I was assigned San Carlos as my official Nica 35 Peace Corps site, and after two months of language training in Niquinohomo, I spent a week in San Carlos getting to know the town, the school I'd be working in, and future co-workers.

One of them, Reyna Granja Delgado, graciously offered to put me up for the week and act as both my tour guide and social coordinator. You see, Reyna was a teacher at Colegio Cristo Rey, the small town high school that had brokered a deal with the Peace Corps to secure a handsome gringo small business teacher. Or something like that.

Reyna's boss - my bus companion - was Sor Xiomarra, the nun who was the director of Cristo Rey, and who once famously uttered the following phrase in front of my entire group when we first met: "Gregorio es un regalito de Dios". Gregorio is a little gift from God. By the time I met Reyna, it's safe to say that my reputation preceded itself.

Throughout my week long dry run in San Carlos, I fell into a pattern that didn't stop once it became my official home. I would run around like crazy all day, talking to anyone and everyone, eating all sorts of food offered to me by strangers non-stop, at all hours of the day, sweat my skin off (San Carlos is a less glamorous rain forest) and limp back to Reyna's house late in the evening for some dinner and conversation.

After the kids went to bed or scurried to their real home, Reyna and I would stay up late eating rice and beans, tortillas, fried cheese, and on a good day, maybe a fried egg or an avocado. I'd chug water to rehydrate and she'd grade student's papers with one eye while watching telenovelas (spanish soap operas) with the other. We'd talk about our students, the fam, politics, gringos, the weather, and from time to time she'd dish out some amazing neighborhood gossip. Teachers do hear all!

From the very first night I spent in her house, I knew that I had found my family; this was a development that comforted my gringo family more than I needed it, as they were assuredly uncertain about where I'd be living. No matter that my room in the house (pictured below) didn't technically have walls, or locks, or even a door for that matter. I turned a blind eye to Peace Corps regulations - not for the first time - that stated that host families must offer volunteers sleeping quarters with walls, locks and, you know, doors. If a hung bed sheet was good enough for the fam, it was good enough for me.

Reyna remains a true gem, the hardest working woman in San Carlos, maybe the entire country - and after my honeymoon, she's now the proud owner of red and blue Kansas Jayhawk bracelets. She does love her fashion jewelry! Not surprisingly, she's risen to become the Director of Education for all schools in San Carlos and the surrounding areas. I miss our late night chats and debates, the times I snuck us Cokes after the kids fell asleep, and our short trips up the steps to the park by the house.

I miss the woman who took me in as my Nicaraguan mother and caretaker, then became a great friend and inspiration.

Typical kid-filled scene

Four generations of my Nica Fam: Mama Elena, Nilda, Reyna (sitting) and Isaacito

Man I forget how awesome my hair was back then!

The other person who participated in the nun's gringo trade-off would become my very best Nica friend. The only real sister that I ever had. Nilda Granja Delgado. Or as I called her affectionately, Nildicita. And non-affectionately, Gordita. Hey...she's my little sister so I can totally call her that.

I constantly joked that Nilda was like a walnut (though I actually just said "nut" because I didn't know how to say "walnut" in Spanish) - that is to say she's tough on the outside and only slightly less tough in the inside. She was not a big fan of what you would call people. I had no idea of this because she was overly hospitable from the moment I was first plopped into her living room.

She'd make Mama Elena (her grandma) get out of the one good rocking chair and politely demand that I sit in it - a weird thing to happen to a healthy twenty four year old male. She'd make the little kids around the house run to the corner store for cookies and Coke (hilariously referred to as "gaseosas" in Nicaragua) just for me. Also, it took more than a few months before she relented and let me compensate her for hand-washing my clothes. (As an aside, this always felt a bit weird, however after a few pitiful attempts of washing my clothes by hand, I realized that a) it took freaking forever and b) while I succeeded in stretching my clothes out to the very last fiber, upon drying they were just as rank as before).

When I told Nilda what the phrase on her shirt meant, she was surprised, to say the least

Soon we began talking just like Reyna and I did, only at different times of the day. Over lunch - typically rice, plantains and chicken, beef or pork - we'd talk about the kids, the heat, crazy gringos and she'd tell me which girls liked me, which ones were married and which ones I had a shot with - something that, apparently, wasn't mutually exclusive. Having a sister-figure was great! It was not lost on me that I was one of just a few individuals that she felt comfortable enough with to gab for hours.

We talked a lot about her two children. Her oldest, Isaac, pictured cradled in Reyna's arms, suffers from congenital hydrocephalus, a disease where the primary symptom is an excess of cerebrospinal fluid in the brain. Shortly after his birth, he was operated on and given a stent that allows the fluid to be drained from his head, but has obviously resulted in other complications.

Reyna taking great care of the ever-growing Isaacito

He has to be cared for full-time, mostly by Nilda, Reyna and Nilda's dad, Chepe. He can't talk or walk, but he can communicate and express emotion. He recognizes voices and understands touch, song and compassion. He's one of the most popular kids in El Proyecto, the neighborhood they live in. Barrio kids take short play breaks to come in and talk to him, scratch his skinny shoulders and ask how Isaacito is doing.

He has tough moments when pain comes out of nowhere, but he also has beautiful times when he can't stop grinning and laughing. Both come quickly, and man, are the good times gratifying. It took me aback when, four years after my last visit, he broke out a huge smile when Melody and I visited. The kid's amazing! To say that he's a miracle child is an understatement, as he was only given a few years to live, but now is a still-growing 11 year old. Simply amazing.

Nilda's other child was born less than a month after I arrived in San Carlos. Hany is the ear-to-ear troublemaker posing with the piñata clown at the top of the page. She was the first child that I saw grow up right before my eyes. Crawling, walking, first words, that sort of thing. I'll never forget the time Nilda forced her into my arms as a one-week old, and all I could think was, "Yep, totally going to drop her." But I didn't. And now she's adorable.

Hany and Melody posing with some vigoron, a delicious Nica treat

To this day, she still recognizes me as the guy with the mustache (a look I rocked for months on end in Nicaragua) with her in a hammock in the picture on the wall, right next to the family graduation photos. Hany and I are buds, as I continually bailed her out of trouble with Nilda during her terrible ones's and two's. Yes...Hany may have (awesomely) launched her plantain at the TV, but since the gringo picked her up, and she stopped her tantrum, she was in the safe zone. Much to Nilda's chagrin.

I feel like I owe you a Piñata story.

I'll use Hany as the segue...

Melody HAD to visit my Nica family. You see, Nilda and I are Facebook friends, and have kept in touch over the years (this still amazes me, as in 2004 San Carlos didn't even have Internet access). While a long-haired Jesus-bearded volunteer, she regularly reiterated that she would have to approve of my future wife. Never having had a sister before, I assumed that this was an ingrained right, and not up for debate.

Nilda liked the pictures that I sent her, and remarked that Melody was "muy guapa". Like she would expect anything less. She also dug the red hair, a rarity in her country, and I made the decision not to reveal that it's red dye number-whatever.

Since I wasn't able to visit San Carlos before the wedding, I took her "muy guapa" comment in good faith as a green light for inviting Melody into the Brantner family. When I let Nilda know that we were getting married, she was thrilled. When I told her that we were going to spend our honeymoon in Nicaragua, she was ecstatic.

I immediately began thinking of ways for us to pass the time with the Nica fam, since Melody's Spanish consists of what she's been able to glean from the Taco Bell drive-through. A particular party came to mind, the going-away party that I threw for the neighborhood kids who became my tiny brethren during my two years in the barrio El Projecto (Spanish for "The Project", by the way...that's right, singular!). The biggest hit of the rug-rat-packed celebration was the unveiling, and subsequent demolition of a Batman Piñata.

Kids went, pardon the pun, Bat-shit loco! THIS is what we were going to do! The plan was in place before I had time to think about it. It would allow Melody to be with the family for hours, but with plenty of distractions to make up for the fact that she didn't speak our language.

Here's what needed to happen:

Tell Nilda that Melody and I are throwing a Piñata party
Buy a Piñata
Buy meat - probably beef or pork
Convince someone to cook
Buy Coke (Gaseosa : )
Buy candy
Find a house to party in
Tell Hany to round up all of the kids in the ever-growing family
Put someone in charge of music (VERY important)
Find a stick
Wait for darkness

Seems simple, and in some sense it was. In another sense, it was quite the opposite. Like, where do you find a Piñata on a Sunday afternoon? You see, commerce in the "downtown" area of muddy San Carlos comes to a stand-still on Sunday, something that I had not accounted for. We were headed for an adventure.

Melody and I snagged Hany because we thought it would be fun. After a quick Coke break, we decided to cab it to the center of town. When I lived there, I'd always walk the 20 or so minutes, however as visitors, true gringos, I ponied up the equivalent 78 cents for the not-as-sweaty cab ride.

Veggies were a lock, since the fruit and vegetable market was still open. No meat in sight, though. And the goods market - a high-stress, jam-packed bazaar that consists of staples such as fashion blouses, bundled socks, Barcelona-branded boxers, faux-leather shoes, knock-off belts, soccer gear, kids toys, and everything else in the world, including piñatas - was also closed.

With just a few items checked off of our list, we strode up towards the park to see if any small business looked promising along the way. I remained hopeful, but was already formulating Plan B for a piñata-less party; one that would be, in three words, way more lame.

A candy shop caught our collective eye, so we slipped in and bought enough candy to feed the entire Nicaraguan National Assembly (poignant Latin American political joke). Turns out it's tough to say "no" when you bring a nine year old candy shopping. Being a parent sounds exhausting.

We were all in for the piñata once we had the candy in our possession - eating candy that didn't erupt from a paper-mache belly would seem silly at that point.

Fortuitously, it was Hany who first spotted the apparently closed shop with a handful of crudely constructed piñatas in the window. Ever the diligent father figure, I rapped on the door and belted a hearty "BUENAS!!!". Just a few seconds later, and gray-haired man wearing slacks and a wife-beater undershirt (I can't think of another way to describe it, but it looks bad when typed out) ambled to the door and gave us a smile. We were in!

He flipped on the lights and let Hany guide us in. I told her that she was in charge, and that she had to pick out the very best piñata. I use the term "very best" very loosely, as these particular piñatas, though obviously crafted with love, appeared to have been built by middle-schoolers.

Regardless of the skill that went into creating them, we'd bash the tar out of it just the same. I thought Hany would go for the princess or a hilarious Sponge Bob(ish) facsimile, but she surprised me and chose a life size (for her) clown. It's pointy hat, which post-mortem would become a small girl's candy chalice, measured a good 3+ inches over her head.

So innocent, yet their thoughts towards this clown are devious

Already the center of attention

We headed back towards El Proyecto only slightly victorious, lacking in the meat department. I dropped off the goods so that Jahaira, Nilda's sister, could start the prep work, while Hany paraded her clown for all to see. It was the college equivalent of sticking party flyers on car windshields - one look at that sad sack clown and our entire barrio knew where the party was going to be that night!

We found a dusty pulperia off the side of the main road that looked promising. Pulperias are small convenient stores, primarily operated out of family's home, that sell everyday items such as rice, beans, cooking oil, sugar, vegetables, candy, Coke, toilet paper, shampoo, booze, etc. Some sell meat, though I greatly preferred to buy from the town butcher - being in the third world and all, raw meat of any quality is something typically not purchased from a countertop that is within visual range of the family latrine. Still, some risks are worth it. Other risks cause diarrhea. We rolled the dice.

By process of elimination, we were having pork. It was fitting, really, because when I lived in San Carlos I would regularly awaken at two in the morning, jerked awake by a dying pig's blood-gurgling squeals. My neighbors, who killed pigs and sold their meat for a living, made up for my sleep interruptions by saving me a choice selection of (obviously) fresh chicharones (fried pig fat) in the morning.

Pork and limes - Jahaira's specialty

Speaking of my Nica neighbors, we decided to have the party in a place very familiar to me, my old house. When I moved out of Reyna's house, seeking my American independence, I didn't go very far. Thirty feet was all, in fact. I rented the house across from them, which was crazy convenient considering I ate all of my meals with the fam, Nilda hand-washed my clothes, and I spent most of my free time there anyway. I was the family member who enjoyed visiting and watching soccer at the house, but needed his own space. Kind of like when Carlton and Will moved into the pool house in The Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire.

Melody checking out the barbed wire in front of my Peace Corps house. A top three pic from the trip.

Don't be too impressed, but I totally dug out that dirt walkway eight years ago

Exhausted from the shopping ordeal, we rested with the fam for an hour or so before the party was to begin. Hany was in charge of gathering the troops for the event, impressing everyone with her leadership and organizational skills. Nilda surprised all by offering to MC the festivities - a shocking act for someone so naturally disliking of...people. But she's a great mother, and a successful piñata party is all about corralling kids and not taking any of their crap. In this regard, Nilda is a sensation!

Stuffing the poor bastard full of candy

As the Rio San Juan slowly swallowed the sun, silhouetting the numerous palm trees in El Proyecto, the party began to take place. Reggaeton billowed out of a boombox straight out the eighties, cranked up to twelve. Kids showed up, seemingly out of nowhere. I recognized most, but others were new to me, either born in the years since I resided there, friends of friends or street kids headed to the park looking to score free candy.

If you're reading this and have never been to a piñata party thrown by native latinos, then you know absolutely nothing about piñata parties. For instance, did you know that dancing is required? In fact, if you don't dance, not only can you not take a swing, you'll literally get booed away. I've seen it happen to many an imminently crying child.

Another rule, you don't just set it up and start whacking. That's insanity! No, you have to warm up first. This can come in the form of dancing-themed games; in our case, it was musical chairs. Nilda (somehow) turned Daddy Yankee up even louder, risking speaker blowout, then split the kids up into various age groups as she sent them around the dwindling supply of chairs.

Nilda, our dance instructor and piñata MC

No amount of training can prevent me from dancing like a white guy

The kids who simply walked around the chairs were told to dance. If they didn't comply, they were TOLD to dance! So they danced. Each and every kid shook it hard, from the stumbling little ones to the pre-teens who danced (uncomfortably for us) like the girls in reggaeton music videos. One by one they bowed out until each age group had its winner. The winner's prize was, you guessed it, candy.

After a few rounds of this, even those who bowed out early were awarded with participation candy, or what I refer to as piñata primer. This tiny sugar-spark would be the catalyst for the super-human strength they'd need to successfully beat the clown into submission and ward off the candy crazed kid zombies.

Creepy the Clown was strung up on the very same beam that used to support my hammock, that cloth pea pod that allowed me to slowly sway back and forth for hours upon hours, reading and napping during my time in that house. This day it would allow us to gyrate the piñata up and down, up and down, up and down again. Until it went down and out. For good.

If that clown only knew...

The kid circus milling about, pre-party

If ever there was a clown that need a smug smile wiped from its face

The little ones went first, what with their tiny T-rex arms, feather-soft power and lack of killer instinct. Before any swinging took place, they were handed the whupping stick and, same as above, told to dance. This proved to be the beginning of the hilarity. Tiny latino kids dancing with a stick is great, because they actually look like they know what they're doing. They held it over their head with both hands and moved their hips around in a circle, like Elvis. They held it in front of them, vertically, and did an innocent version of a pole dance, equal parts amusing and awkward. They swung it like a bat, danced around it, pumped it in the air and gestured with it as if it were a cane. All with a serious look on their face. I was cackling to the extent I was doubled over! Melody had tears in the corner of her eyes she was laughing so hard. Everyone was having a blast, and we had yet to take a swing.

What an experience for Melody. You grow up your whole life thinking you know how to piñata party, only to find out you have no idea. One of the many life lessons she picked up on this trip.

The teenies did virtually no damage to the clown, whiffing any time the clown was raised up and down. There were a few leg shots, but as any seasoned piñata aficionado knows the sweet spot is above the belt, out of reach of this demographic. Belting piñatas is definitely a group activity, so the little ones knew their older siblings would bring the candy home. As such, there weren't any tantrums or fits when the stick was grabbed from them. Just a few surprised reactions because of how quickly their time was up.

As the bigger kids stepped up to the clown, though, we had to shift our strategy. A good piñata party is similar to a successful 5-year life plan; you want the experience to be challenging, yet ultimately achievable. The advanced coordination and dexterity of the older group meant we had to make the clown a moving target. This required an advanced "puller", or at the very least, me.

I took hold of the piñata twine, spun the clown in a single swiping motion and began to drill for oil, so to speak. One by one the older ones took swipes at the clown, blindfolded and continually being ordered to dance, while I made it jump up and down like a mad puppeteer.

One strike out of five would land, and the special ones would really land. Still, it takes a village, or least a barrio to open up a piñata. Even with the candy nestled securely in the clown's belly, his arms and legs flew across the room one by one, revealing newspaper insides and ribbon trails. Kids dove on them, attempting to secure them to use as a candy scoop.

The less of the clown there was hanging from the ceiling, the more crazed the kids became. Though their eyes were covered with a blindfold, I have no doubt their pupils had rolled back into their heads. They were definitely white-eying it now that the could smell paper mache clown blood!

The force of their swinging intensified.

Whap!

Whoosh!

Crack!

Spark!

Boom!

Wait, what was that last one? Not the Boom! Did I hear a Spark!? That my friends, is what happens when your piñata string is rubbing back and forth over an exposed electrical wire on a wooden beam. This noise jilted us to a stand still - if there had been a DJ as opposed to a boombox, he would have made that scratchy sound that you hear on TV when someone says something ridiculous and everyone freezes.

I was certain that we were seconds from seeing the house blow up. What a way to say goodbye to the domicile in which I spent so many hours. Leave it to the gringo to ruin the party.

But as luck would have it, the tiny spark was nothing more than a tiny spark. I repositioned the mostly limbless clown, bracing him for the home stretch. Insanity was just a matter of moments away.

The last kid to swing played the role of the too cool for school adolescent who was just a bit too old to be having this much fun at what was essentially a children's party. The kind of kid who it wouldn't surprise me if he showed up with his own custom piñata stick.

He did his best baseball wiggle before landing the first true damaging strike to the clown's mid section. I was on my game, pulling the string quickly and decisively, with purpose, attempting to avoid the inevitable for as long as I could.

I was by now sweating profusely, beads dripping down my nose as I remained locked into my task. A particularly good strike loosened a few random pieces of candy, at which point the entire circle of kids hit the floor as diving for a loose ball on a basketball court. We grabbed the swinger so he wouldn't accidentally remove one of their heads.

The scuffling kids on the house's concrete floor were elbowing and jockeying for position, not knowing how few pieces had actually landed. After a few minutes, the adults were able to break up the melee and force the kids to spread out again, their mouths salivating.

A few more whacks split open the clown's abdomen, but no candy emerged. Solid strikes soon followed, but still no sugary windfall. At this point, the combination of anticipation, adrenaline, loud music and warm-up candy had the kids in a stupor. They were uncontrollable - danger was imminent. They all wanted to be the first in the pile once candy fell, placing them at risk of charging too soon and getting smacked in the neck. The adults were no longer able to keep all of them at bay. Chaos theory proved. So Nilda made an executive decision.

The candy had apparently been stuffed so far deep into clown that even when the body was freed from its now-floating head, it didn't fly out. The clown's digestive track (the inside of a roll of paper towels) was full of candy, stuffed tight like foie gras. Nilda grabbed it, frantically ripped it in two and shook the two sides like maracas. A good amount of candy flew out, but that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Nilda randomly chucking candy

Nilda then ripped off the clown's chest cavity, and shoved her hand through the paper mache very much like heart removal scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. She threw out the first handful of candy, then shook the limbless clown chest like a kid erasing an Etch-A-Sketch.

If you look closely, you see many kids on the floor, plus grandma lunging out of her rocking chair, reaching for candy, while still cradling a baby.

To say that pandemonium then ensued is an insult to the word pandemonium. The kids, no longer able to control their emotions or their bodies, fell into each other like a rugby scrum gone bad. EVERYONE was screaming, yelling, shouting, all while rolling around on the floor, with total disregard for who was in their way.

If you were blocking their path to candy, they went through you. The braver adults risked losing fingers helping to snag candy for the little ones. Lucky kids had a discarded clown limb - or hat - in which they stored their haul. Others used their shirt, pockets or mouth, some popping four or five pieces of candy at a time, just so they wouldn't lose them.

When I lived in this house, it typically not this hectic

One girl cried, which was to be expected. It's not a successful piñata party until someone cries. In this instance, someone had knocked into her clown leg, spilling her candy, at which point the other kids - mostly consisting of the older bunch - took advantage and swiped her goods. Us adults made it right by forcing them to return the stolen candy, which the kids then did, grudgingly.

As all of the candy found its way into a clown leg, shirt pocket or a pile on the floor, I assessed the damage. The house was a mess! The floor space not taken up by kids was layered with colorful paper mache bits, shreds of newspaper, candy wrappers, blood sweat and tears.

Nilda chucking more goods

This pic nails it. Kids following Nilda's hand, predicting where the candy will land, while in the background a sad girl cradles her clown leg.

It was long dark by now, and the kids spread out on the floor, each in their own space counting their haul methodically, much like someone in solitary confinement would do if they had to make their meals last. Fortunately for their tiny bellies, food was on the way and there would be a pork and rice base to help absorb some of the massive amount of sugar they had ingested.

Dinner was great, as Jahaira served us delicious pork with rice, tortillas, vegetables and, her specialty refried beans. We all ate at the table, and were joined by Daniela - Nilda's niece - and her husband Noel, who was a student of mine when I taught at Cristo Rey. We talked about what his old schoolmates were doing and who still lived in town. They have a kid now too, which is crazy for me to imagine. So much changed in the eight years since I lived there.

After dinner, we went back over to Reyna's place to talk with her and Isaac. Adding insult to the clown's death, one of the little girls at the party was parading his limbless and now empty corpse from house to house, dragging it behind her like something out of a King Arthur movie. Its dignity long gone, the clown had but one salvation - that fact that it would likely be burned in a trash heap within a few days. Though not great for the ozone, it would bring closure to this clown's tragic life. He only lives on in the stories we tell.

We saved some candy for Reyna and Isaac, who had stayed at their house. Melody tried to explain to Reyna what she had just seen, and even before I could translate, you could see Reyna pick up on Melody's excitement and wonderment about what had transpired. So we sat there, laughing, recounting the craziness, joking about how Isaac would have felled it in a single swing.

After another hour or so, we left their house exhausted, both physically and emotionally, stomachs hurting because of having laughed so much. Orchestrating this event was not an easy task, but judging from the fact that we saw piñata debris scattered two blocks away, it was a huge success.

Melody had not only survived her first true piñata party, she had thrived. She found ways to communicate with adults, teens and kids alike, using hand signals primarily, and her smile as well. The kids hugged her, showed her how to dance and offered her candy. They showed her warmth, and made her feel like a special guest.

In spite of what top Nica political brass think of us gringos, most Nicaraguans have no such issues with Americans. They love hosting, especially foreigners and others who are passing through their country. I saw this in the hospitality they showed me when I lived there, and again with Melody.

I hope you've found this helpful, and use it as a guide if you want to throw your very own piñata party. Follow my advice, and yes, you may see tears, but you'll also see joy - through the screams, fighting and shouting, that is. Eyes-rolling-in-the-back-of-your-head joy though! Nothing says party more than destruction. And nothing is more fun than destroying something beautiful. So pop in Don Omar, crank it to 12, start dancing and let the candy fall where it may. Just be sure to bring a camera and some band aids.

To complete my San Carlos tale, here are some of my faves:

I am a freaking giant in Nicaragua!

My beautiful muse

San Carlos selfie

San Carlos at sunset - a fisherman casts his net

Posing in the concrete frame, a Nica tradition that I just made up

My precious Sandinista

Brothers in arms

Holy cow, how adorable is Hany in her festive traditional Nica dress?

Pano of the main park - the building on the left is the church/school that I taught in. I once, some might say famously, chucked an unruly school kid's notebook out of the second floor window, then told him to retrieve it and head to the nun's office for what I (wrongly) assumed would be a good flogging.