CHAPTER 1
MY EARLY YEARS
I started school when we lived in Elmhurst at St. Bartholomew’s, where my sister and both my Uncles/Cousins also went. In those days, there was “1 A” and “1 B” since it was a sort of rolling admissions. I started in 1A with an ancient Dominican named Sister Grace Winifred. There were 82 kids in the class. Really. 82. Baby Boomers, one and all. I had my first official run-in with a teacher when I was just six. (Notice I wrote “first!” and I was only six and in the first year of my education! There have been many more!)
I remember the whole episode vividly, some 60+ years later. Scarred me for life!!
It was late in the day, and we were reading “Dick and Jane” for about the 400th time. I had the book memorized, and I was bored, so I sat in my seat, taking a pencil that had lost its eraser, pressing the end into my hand, and making circles on my palm. Suddenly my name was called (both names…you knew you were in trouble when Sister said both your first name and your last name!), and she made me come up to the front of the room and sit on one of those “bad kids” flip-down seats with no desk. I wasn’t sure what I’d done.
I remember the whole episode vividly, some 60+ years later. Scarred me for life!!
It was late in the day, and we were reading “Dick and Jane” for about the 400th time. I had the book memorized, and I was bored, so I sat in my seat, taking a pencil that had lost its eraser, pressing the end into my hand, and making circles on my palm. Suddenly my name was called (both names…you knew you were in trouble when Sister said both your first name and your last name!), and she made me come up to the front of the room and sit on one of those “bad kids” flip-down seats with no desk. I wasn’t sure what I’d done.
The next thing I knew, the end-of-day bell rang, and Sister presented me with the most awful thing you could ever get as a first-grader: The Black Star!
I was in tears when I went out to meet my Mom to walk home. She was not happy since she was of the generation that believed teachers, especially nuns, could do no wrong, and whatever you did was worthy of whatever punishment you got. I was marched back to the house and sent up to my room with the admonishment every child dreads: “Wait till your Father gets home!”
Well, Dad wasn’t at all happy either, and I got sent to bed with no supper. The whole episode so traumatized me that not only did I never get another black star, from then on, I made sure if I did something wrong, Sister didn’t see me...and if I were sent to bed without supper, I kept a cache of crackers under my bed to keep me going til morning.
That worked for a while until I got to high school.
Well, Dad wasn’t at all happy either, and I got sent to bed with no supper. The whole episode so traumatized me that not only did I never get another black star, from then on, I made sure if I did something wrong, Sister didn’t see me...and if I were sent to bed without supper, I kept a cache of crackers under my bed to keep me going til morning.
That worked for a while until I got to high school.
One of the highlights of my early school years was making my First Holy Communion. It was pre-Vatican II so Mass was still in Latin, the priest faced the wall, you knelt at the altar rail and stuck out your tongue to receive the Eucharist. I remember what seemed to me at the time , days and days of practicing and I still can sing one of the songs we learned for the big event. I can't tell you a lot of verses from my favorite records when I was a teen-ager (in fact my kids, as they were growing up, learned early on that if I didn't know the words I made them up.) but I still remember that hymn. I also remember I had a fever that day. It seemed like almost every important event in my life I had some sort of illness.