from school to my grandmother’s where I was headed for lunch. The kid threw me
down and threw himself on me. We wrestled a while, but I gave up when he sat on
me and I felt his several-pound advantage. Crushed and humiliated, I stomped to
Grandma’s and bawled and quit school forever!
Eventually I was accepted by my classmates and a few of us, including those
earlier, as well as my wrestling opponent, became friends. These were the boys who
lived in the Wallaces’ neighborhood on Fayette Street, my playmates on Sundays
when I visited my grandparents. I was also befriended by another set of kids who
often played after school in Junior Doerner’s magnificent playhouse built by his
father. Things were working out pretty well in my new school after all.
Mother and Nets were very proud of my academic progress. On my report
card I received A+ in most subjects and a few A’s and B+’s. Even in Religion, a
school subject completely new to me, I had excelled. At least I thought so, but as it
turned out, my First Confession came close to being a disaster. The night before,
Mother wanted to hear me say the Act of Contrition which I would have to say in the
confessional. I went blank. Mother prompted: “Oh, my God, I am most heartily sorry
for all my sins....." But I couldn’t continue. I just didn’t know it! Never heard of it!
Had I been out sick when that prayer was taught. Mother worked with me for a long
time until finally she was satisfied I had mastered the prayer of sorrow and repentance
for sin, the essence of the sacrament of Penance, or sacrament of Reconciliation, as it
is now named. And thus disaster was averted.
First Communion the following day, May 25, 1930, was accomplished
without a hitch as far as I was aware. The sisters, with their little clickers, ensured
that our genuflecting, standing, kneeling, marching were done in unison. In our
childish singsong, we recited our before- and after-Communion prayers. Then it was
all over. Nine months to get ready and then, after less than an hour, that was it!
My fourth-grade teacher was Sister Bernita, a skinny woman in spite of her
full black habit, which was accentuated at the top by a sharp face encased in a stiff
white frame. I think of her as “mean," but I’m sure my recollection of her is biased.
My wife had her later on and loved her. Of course, it was a well-known fact that some
sisters liked only girls and others only boys, and that may explain it.
I am grateful, though, to Sister Bernita for drilling, drilling, drilling us in our
multiplication tables and other functions, as well as in spelling. Unfortunately, one
incident was enough to cloud my perception of her forever. A number of boys,
including me, had done something to displease Sister Bernita—laughing, talking or
some other “sinful" act, so she lined us up to receive our punishment, a whack on the
palms of the hands with a metal-edged ruler. I had witnessed this chastisement
before, but it would be my first time to receive it and I was scared, humiliated,
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