On Sunday mornings I also attended religion classes, or “instructions," for
Catholic students who attended public school. I attended in Senior year as well, when
the class for high school students was dubbed “Newman Club" and I was elected its
first secretary. Father Boniface Weckmann, pastor of the church, conducted the high
school class. A scholarly man, his subject matter was intellectually stimulating, going
beyond a mere rehashing of the grade school catechism. In addition, he was a
friendly, cultivated gentleman. I had great respect for Father Boniface and I am
grateful still today for an appreciation of the church’s liturgical heritage as well as the
religious values he inculcated in me.
Other church activities occupied my time. I continued to serve on the altar
throughout this year and the next, even though I failed to make my assignments more
often than I like to admit. In most cases I simply overslept. It was certainly not due
to dwindling religious fervor, for I continued to be faithful to my voluntary
attendance at the weekly Miraculous Medal Novena at Saint Mary’s Church and the
weekly Saint Anthony’s Devotion at Saints Peter and Paul’s, and I tried to attend
Mass and receive Communion on the first Friday of each month.
And now, from the exalted to the inane: I started collecting matchbook
covers! Father Leander was a collector and he got me interested. There must be
thousands of those things created daily, assuring a superabundance for as many
collectors as the world might generate. Avidly, I accumulated covers of all sorts, most
being of the advertising variety. I could have made the collection somewhat
interesting by limiting my collection to a category (e.g., restaurants), a design (e.g.,
black with gold letters) or a size (e.g., jumbo). But I didn’t. And I found most of the
objects of my search...on the street! Then I put them neatly into a large album. For
what purpose. I don’t know. I only record this to be as complete as possible.
I wonder what cynical Barney Wickard would have said if he knew of my new
hobby. Properly speaking, I refer to Harold C. Wickard, most memorable of my male
teachers in junior and senior high school. He taught chemistry and physics, but most
of all he was entrepreneur extraordinaire of extracurricular stage productions. As
though defending his small stature, Barney was gruff, brash, irreverent, insulting. He
knew his subjects well but he was something less than great as a teacher. Even so, he
did succeed in getting me to learn material that was not really my cup of tea and even
motivated me to earn good grades.
But Barney’s heart was in his art. In 1938 he exercised that art in the staging
of “Babes in Toyland" by Victor Herbert. “Glorious extravaganza" was not mere
hyperbole on the part of the newspaper reviewer. Over l00 students were in the cast,
having rehearsed tricky musical numbers and dance routines for many weeks.
Costumes and scenery were spectacular. The operetta was presented at a local movie
theater - the Strand - not in the inadequate school auditorium. This meant there could
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