From Here to Eternity

The red brick building stood erect and steadfast, holding the alley in place. Inside, Catholic nuns did what they have done in convents for thousands of years; prayed the rosary and baked chocolate chip cookies. Attired in my own little nun’s habit made from two black skirts my aunt had given me for playing dress-up, I knocked on their kitchen door whenever I smelled the cookies baking. The nuns handed an extra cookie to me at their kitchen door. I was dying to get inside and show them what a good little nun I could be and join the order of the Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary. We called them “BVMs”. Alas, I never was invited to join the order. I suspect I wasn’t the only neighborhood kiddo who sponged off them. The rumor was if you forgot your lunch, the BVMs would make you a bologna sandwich. I couldn’t use that excuse because I lived across the alley from the school and went home for lunch every day.

Nuns were intimidating to children, like huge penguins gliding on ice in the halls. They all looked alike to me: pasty faces; starched white wimples peeking from under black veils. From their waists hung huge silver crucifixes on beaded rosaries large enough to use as self-defense weapons; long black skirts skimming black granny shoes that never made a squeak. But for the bead chattering and the swishing of their skirts, they were silent. Very much like denizens of the deep, you wouldn’t see one until she was upon you, then it was too late to make excuses. They seemed to lurk in dark corners, like Professor Snape. They all smelled alike, too, with some sensible soap that smelled like Ivory Flakes. I don’t remember ever touching a nun, though. I don’t know what I thought would happen if I accidentally poked her one day as she glided past my desk, but I was sure Satan would send witches to live under my bed. I already had a witch living under my bed at the time and I didn’t want to compound the problem, so I kept my itchy hands to myself.

Typically, young nuns were assigned to teach the 1st and 2nd grades, while the battle-worn, tougher birds taught 7th and 8th grades. Everything in between followed this pattern, which reflects life if you think about it. We start out excited to learn but we lose this enthusiasm by the time we graduate from grammar school. Things get harder, the world makes less sense. By now we’re sure there’s no Santa Claus, so have nothing much to look forward to in life. Who is going to ask me what I want for Christmas? Who is going to leave my presents under the tree?

In second grade, I remember the smallest details of that year, more than any other. We were the first wave of Baby Boomers starting school in the early 1950s and were we crowded! Sixty-two students in one classroom, packed in like sardines. The nun decorated a corkboard pinned with 62 white paper clouds representing our souls. When we misbehaved, we had to make an ugly pencil mark on our soul. When we did something to impress the Sister, we were forgiven one sin and erased one pencil mark. We soon saw there were gray smudgy marks from dirty erasers on the paper souls, which ensured our sins, though forgiven, were never to be forgotten.

The only nun whose name I can remember, Sister Mary Margaret Daniel, was the lucky one who pulled our second grade class roster out of a hat. She was a little on the chubby side, young and pretty. The clearest picture in my memory is of her reading to us outside, under the trees. She would have a button, turning it over and over in her fingers as she read. She was divine. I wanted to be just like her. I loved being outside in the fresh air, listening to the wind shaking the tree leaves and hearing her lovely voice telling us stories.

Over-crowded classrooms contributed to overworked nuns. Students got into trouble daily when desks were crowded together. Passing notes was where I got into trouble. A cute boy across the aisle and two seats back had a little crush on me. He kept passing love notes to me and I wrote replies and passed them back. I can’t remember what the notes said, but it kept us so engrossed that we didn’t notice the nun until it was too late. Hence, my soul received another black mark.

The whole experience was medieval and a bit scary at the time. We outlived our teaching nuns, but I hope I will meet Sister Mary Margaret Daniel in the afterlife. Even if it's just to show her how I enjoy reading with a button in my fingers.