Give that Kid a Cigar...Box

6.
In September of 1956, I started first grade at St. Peter Canasius School. St. Pete’s was a large, active parish with lots of Irish and a good smattering of Italian families. It was founded in 1925 with the gradual construction of a church, rectory, convent and school, all situated within two blocks along the 5000 block of North Avenue. In the early years of the parish, the area consisted of clusters of houses separated by spans of prairie. The northwest corner of the city had bec ome a desirable area for raising families and as the years passed, the prairies gave way to city blocks of two flats and bungalows. The urban spread continued and by the 1950s, over 1200 students were enrolled in the school.

My anticipation of starting school was heightened by the knowledge that I would be attending with lots of kids from Cortland Street as well as many others from along the half mile of blocks we walked to get to school. The day I started first grade, everyone in my family prepared for it as a big event. I had my uniform - a white blouse under a navy blue jumper. A blue ribbon bow tie was pinned at the collar and a patch with the letters “SPC” was stitched near the shoulder of the jumper. New school shoes - saddle shoes, a style which I came to hate by fourth grade - all stiff and free of any scuffs or marks, white socks and barrettes in my hair completed the outfit.

Dad was waiting in the car as my mother and I scrambled down the stairs with my two sisters. We settled in and he was about to pull away when I realized I was missing something.

“Who has my cigar box?” I asked. My required cigar box with two safety pins, a ribbon and two very fat pencils without erasers had been left behind on the dining room table.

“I need my cigar box and we’re going to be late for school!” I was near tears; my father had to race up the stairs, unlock the door, retrieve it and return. While he was gone my mother discussed with me the importance of being responsible for my school supplies, now that I was in first grade.

“You make sure your uniform is hanging up each night and your schoolwork is in your schoolbag, Nancy. Your are in first grade now and you have to be responsible for your things. I have to worry about your little sisters - I can’t be looking for your things, too.”

This was big time school and I wasn’t sure I was ready for it. I was only five years old and had not been to kindergarten, the reason being that my December birthday was beyond the November 1 deadline of the public schools. When the teacher at the public school told my mother to come back the following fall, my mother responded with, “Why should I? St. Pete’s will take her in first grade next year.”

Instead of kindergarten, my mother did a bit of home schooling on my alphabet and numbers, but it was frustrating for both of us. I can still remember working on a page of letters on which she had me copy each line of A’s or B’s. I thought I did such a great job but she gave it back to me with what she called a “goose egg” at the top because my printing was still so undeveloped. I cried at her criticism and tried to do a better job, but she was not a teacher and I would have rather played with my sisters or watched tv. By the time September of 1956 rolled around, I was more than ready to be in a real classroom.

We arrived at St. Pete’s, turning off North Avenue onto LeClaire, the street that separated the school from the convent, and my whole family went with in me, walking right to the first classroom off the stairs in the basement. Sister Joseph Ann greeted the parents in the hall and made us say our goodbyes before I walked in alone to find my seat. I found it in short order, put my cigar box in my desk and made friends with a dark haired girl named Marie who sat next to me. Mom stood in the doorway, Judy in her arms and tears in her eyes. Sue was very curious about the classroom with so many kids. I smiled and waved goodbye - I wasn’t about to cry like some of the other kids who wouldn’t leave their mothers, and as soon as she was gone, the very thought of crying left me, too.