The Palmer Method and Gold Stars

10. Second grade was very different from first and it was a big deal in many ways. Our classroom was on the second floor, very close to the principal's office. It was during this time that St. Pete’s seemed to hit the maximum number of students it could possibly hold in one building and hurried to construct a new building east of the convent to take the overflow. There were 113 kids in my communion class and undoubtedly it wasn’t the largest grade in the school.

Sister Ann Josephine, my second grade teacher, (shown above) was a sweet nun with a very Irish face who could always make her students smile, but who still demanded good discipline. Once, when a very tall blond boy named John kept putting his head down on his desk as he did his assignments, Sister finally stuck a yardstick down the back of his shirt to remind him to sit up straight. He did sit up but was embarassed to tears, his fair skin beet-red. Still, Sister was popular with her students and would come out on to the playground to talk to the girls or throw a ball around with the boys. Susie would eventually have her in second grade too, and Sister became one of her favorite teachers as well as a favorite of my mother’s.

Second grade meant learning cursive handwriting, using funny looking Palmer pens. They were shaped to fit our hands and we began to learn the process by drawing continuous rows of up-and-down strokes followed by rows and rows of circles. The alphabet above the blackboard now had the letters in both printed and cursive styles, with little arrows indicating the direction the pen should move to create the letter. Before too long we had developed callouses on our middle fingers, but by the middle of the year, most students were well on their way to a fairly decent looking handwriting - all due to Sister's close attention to the Palmer method.

"Don't grip the pen so tightly, you're choking it to death!"

"Smooth movements, boys and girls, don't jab at the paper."

And it didn't end there. Each year we all participated in handwriting contests and by fourth grade, our class managed to produce a winner. Catholic school kids always had an edge, since most of us were taught by a nun.

"Nun handwriting" was forever known as the most beautiful handwriting in the world. It was used for your official name on your report card, for stern warnings on work and test papers, "Stay within the lines! You can do better!" or the more hoped for, "Keep up the good work! Very nice!"

One of the first things we learned to write, as opposed to print, were the letters A.M.D.G. at the top of our work papers. "Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam" or, “to the greater glory of God” is the motto of the Jesuit order of priests and since St. Peter Canisius was a Jesuit, I guess that's why we had to use it. Most other Catholic schools used J.M.J. for "Jesus, Mary and Joseph" but the Jesuits always did like to stand out among all the rest. Sister didn’t really explain all of that to us; the Latin pretty much went in one ear and out the other. Some kids repeated that it stood for “admire the might and glory of God,” - close, but no cigar. We only knew it was supposed to be done in our very best capital letter handwriting.

Sister also had a collection of angel stamps that she used on assignment papers. The cute little cartoon-y stamps complemented her handwritten comments with, for example, a sweet angel looking with prayerful hands and eyes looking heavenward was used with a “Very Good!” The stamps continued down the range to an angel with its halo askew, dissheveled gown and a “Very Messy!” admonishment. Boys usually got the “very messy” angel and it was usually because of excessive erasures on handwriting papers or a ragged edge from not tearing a sheet out of a workbook carefully.

Throughout the year, we were given gold stars after completing certain milestones in our studies. Sister created a large chart with everyone’s name in alphabetical order running along the left side. After each accomplishment, we received a star next to our names, forming a row of stars growing toward the right side. Once we filled the row with stars, we would receive a Miraculous Medal that was waiting at the end of the row - the girls had pink ribbons on the medal and the boys had blue. In looking back, it was quite an effort on Sister’s part - I was number 55 in the class and my last name began with an S! When we finally received the medal, Sister also gave us the entire strip with our names and the accumulated stars.

It stayed in my underwear drawer for years.

Losing the training wheels...

9. Christmases on Cortland were a time of eating, visiting family and a bounty of presents. Christmas morning we would wake up to find the living room crammed with toys: dolls, dishes, miniature tables and chairs, games, and candy in our stockings. Sue and I loved all the girlie stuff and had Revlon dolls one year, and Shirley Temple dolls another. Judy got a Betsy Wetsy (or maybe it was Tiny Tears) that she usually dragged around by one leg. There was always the temptation to wash our dolls' hair, despite our mother's warnings and inevitably someone would also try to give Shirley a haircut, becoming completely distraught that it didn't grow back.

Just after my sixth birthday, Santa brought me a 16-inch two-wheeler. And even though it came with training wheels, I was thrilled to be riding a big kid bike. Sue got a tricycle and the two of us would softly pedal around the apartment, Dad taking pictures as we came down the hall. We couldn't wait for the snow to melt so we could ride outside along the sidewalk with the rest of the neighborhood kids. Of course, we wouldn't dare go in the street.

By springtime, the training wheels had come off and my father would run along side of me holding the seat as I quickly learned to keep my balance while pedaling as fast as I dared. The problem was, bike had no brakes and I usually stopped by dragging my feet along the sidewalk or purposefully riding onto the grass of the parkway or someone's lawn to slow down. I loved riding the bike and would spend hours going up and down the block. On one afternoon as I rode past our neighbor’s building, I felt something wet on my head. I looked up to see a robin hop from one branch in a tree to another, and immediately knew what little present had been deposited in my hair. Bursting into tears, I ran home, up the stairs and into the house. Through my sobs my mother managed to figure out what was wrong and found my situation extremely funny. She could hardly contain her laughter as she stuck my head under the faucet in the sink to wash my hair, probably with dishwashing liquid. For some reason, that little incident and the bike remain connected in my mind. It was a good little bike to learn on but when August rolled around, I had already almost grown out of it.

At some point around this time, our paternal grandparents became more involved in our lives - or at least a number of occasions stand out as quite memorable. Nonni Amabile and Nonno Cenzo were lovers of the arts. As immigrants to this country, they always looked for ways to preserve their heritage and to share a love for Italian culture with others who had made America their home. One great love was the opera. During the 30s, they helped to found an operetta club in Roseland, their first neighborhood on Chicago's south side. They worked on a number of productions and this avocation eventually led to my grandmother's career as one of the first female radio announcers in Chicago.

One night they took me to an opera downtown. I don't remember much about it except that I was only six and may have fallen asleep but otherwise was well-behaved. Because of my grandmother's connections, we went backstage after the performance. I remember being held in my grandfather's arms as I met one of the actresses who was still in costume. Her dress was very feathery, very chiffon-y and very purple - I was in complete awe.

My grandmother was also a bit of a celebrity in Chicago at the time. She was one of the few women in radio and had her own program. It was a daytime show that covered news features of local interest, particularly for Italian women who would listen as they ironed or cooked - and who hadn't quite come on board to soap operas on television. Nonni really knew her audience and with the interviews and stories she told, she truly connected with them.

One day my grandmother decided she wanted to have me on her program. She talked to my mother - who obviously couldn't say no - and took her time preparing me for for my five minutes on the air. The plan was for everyone in our family to listen from home while I went down to the station with her. I watched and waited nervously as the program began. It was all in Italian, of course and my "part" was very well rehearsed. I was to recite a little prayer in Italian after she introduced me and gave me my cue. The prayer was about a little angel with golden hair and eyes full of love - it all rhymed and I managed to pronounce the words fairly well, even though I had no idea as to their exact meanings. When I finished, all the people in the studio applauded, even while we were still on the air.

Back home, my parents and sisters sat in the kitchen and listened to my voice coming from the red radio with black knobs that sat on top of the refrigerator. It's pretty safe to say my first day on the radio was also my last, but I did a fairly decent job for a six year old - and at least my family got a kick out of it.