My older brother Chris thought he was so special because he walked to Catholic school all by himself. St. Patrick School,on Buffalo Street, Franklin, Pa. All of a half block from our house. I thought he was special too, because I was currently only allowed to play between the two trees in front of our house. So Chris was allowed past the infamous alley, had to cross a street even! Meanwhile Mom would be watching him walk up the street every day, standing on the sunporch, and peering out the window nervously. She was holding a baby in one arm and usually a serving spoon in the other. (The usual breakfast fare was oatmeal or maltomeal or ralston. Sometimes my Dad would mix all three together and said this will be tastier.)
My school was down in the other direction, about six blocks away. St. Patrick School did not have a kindergarten then, so I had to go to a public school, hence my friend Sissy up the street was indispensable. My Mom did not particularly care for Sissy,but since Sissy was a few years older than me, bigger, and went to the public school every day, my Mom cultivated the friendship. We had many adventures along the way, none of which I shared with my Mother. The adventures were pretty much the same script: spend my milk money on candy for both of us.Sometimes we would ratch it up a notch and leave school early and play at the playground. Here I was the daughter of a State Police Trooper, getting into trouble already at the tender age of four. I did not turn five until October, but that is how things were done back then. I wouldn't see Sissy much after this year as Sissy continued going to PUBLIC school and I would be going to CATHOLIC school. From the get go,Catholic school kids were inbred with a smug superiority that we were different from other folks and we were glad we were.
So, Kindergarten was over and I was entering first grade at St.Patrick School. Chris walked me up the street very courteously and introduced me to my nun teacher, Sr. Rita Marie. He unceremoniously announced loudly, "This is my sister Julie. I got a whole bunch more at home, but if she is bad, send her home. We just live down the street!" Sister Rita Marie looked at me like she was just hand delivered the grand booby prize of a student. Chris winked at me, punched me on the arm, and said"Good for you and good for America!" He ran down the hall to his class of fifty kids.
Sister Rita Marie soon discerned she had nothing to worry about with the likes of me. I sat down at the desk she showed me and was totally quiet and in awe as I saw kid after kid file into the the newly painted and varnished hardwood floored classroom. (That smell makes me queasy to this day!) Each child had that same terrified look on their face, as they gazed at bulletin boards, blackboards festooned with colorful letters and numbers. I was seated next to a girl named Jane. As I recall, she had a dreadfully ungroomed nose which she would snack on from time to time. I gagged out loud and the nun came running over as my eyes were tearing up from the gagging. She asked me why I was crying and I said my eyes were just watery. As luck would have it, three boys started to fight across the room and I was left in peace.
The first order of the day was to learn how to write our names, telephone numbers and addresses. Mercifully for me, my parents taught me all of that. I smugly wrote my information down on my new tablet with my new pencil. Many kids were crying as they had no knowledge of their letters or numbers at all. Too busy watching Howdy Doodie all the time, I shook my head in disgust.I surveyed the vast expanse of the classroom around me and felt like I was in an ocean, safe in a lifeboat, surrounded by a bunch of kids thrashing around who could not swim, and were being pursued by sharks. Sharks were black and white and so were nuns. And just as scary, I might add.I made it through that first day, very thankful to my parents for their hours of teaching me and reading to me, as I saw what happened when the other kids had to start from square one. I made three great friends: Becky, Jane and Val. We were great friends for the next twelve years.
By October, we were well entrenched into Sr. Rita Marie's routine. We sat up straight, shut up, did not "visit with our neighbor" (so why put two desks together if we could not chat?!) We were permitted to go to the bathroom once in the morning and once in the afternoon. God forbid if one had to tinkle before those times. One day, Beverly could not hold it any longer. I had just whispered a "knock knock" joke to her and she laughed so hard she peed herself. I will never forget the horrified look on Sister's face as she ran down the aisle and ordered Beverly home. She ordered a boy to go get a mop and bucket to clean it up. All the day's learning effectively stopped there, as everyone was either terrified or mortified and we sure all had to pee bad. From that day on, Beverly's theme song was "Tinkle Tinkle Little Star" courtesy of several sarcastic boys in the class that followed her right through eighth grade.
In second grade, we had to memorize many many long prayers. Acts of faith, hope and charity. The Apostles Creed. The Act of Contrition. My parents helped me learn these quickly. I don't know when they had time but they did. Mom was the Valedictorian of her High School class, and Dad certainly was an intelligent man, so they both saw to it that our homework was done every night, that it was done well, on clean paper. They would check our work before we put it in our book bags. They would drill math facts with us and drill spelling words with us. It was a good thing too, because my parents knew the teacher I was assigned for second grade
was a very mean nun. I will not mention her name. She had no mercy for any student who did not know their lesson. She would drag whomever did not know their lesson by the ear, to the front of the class, and say: "Class, this is what a loser looks like." Back in those days, if you were disciplined at school, you got it double at home. The teacher was always right. No parent would ever stand up against a nun. Thanks to Mom and Dad, I won the award for highest grade point average that year.
My sister Barb, a year younger than me, and Mary Kay, two years younger than me. were asked to join the children's choir. We three girls and another family up the street with three daughters. We got to get out of school and sing at all the funerals. If we were really lucky, sometimes five people would die in a week and we could blow off every morning. We sang all the hymns in Latin. We had perfect pitch and were told we sang like angels. Between songs we would eat soda crackers and sometimes it was harder to sing, but with Latin, no one understood a word we said anyhow. After we sang at the Funeral Mass, we would go to school and sit in the lunchroom and eat the breakfast Mom made us. We would have a baby food jar full of milk and cinnamon toast wrapped up in wax paper.
I recall singing at an infant's funeral. The casket was tiny, white and covered with gold angels. I would watch, high from the choir loft, the sobbing Mother and Father of the baby, stumbling down the aisle, as the man would help support his grieving wife. It was surreal and made us all cry. After the funeral, the family came up to the choir loft and was amazed there were only six little girls singing, as they said it sounded like a choir of angels. I am convinced to this day that a choir of angels was truly singing with us.
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