White Patent Leather Shoes

11. That spring, in 1958, I made my first Communion. As the oldest child, and oldest grandchild on my father’s side, it was a major event. The official outfit, navy blue suits with white pointed collars for the boys and white chiffon dresses and veils for the girls, entailed no special shopping on my mother’s part since we ordered everything through the school, except for shoes. Finding those shoes was a major pain for my mother since most dressy shoes were always way too wide for my skinny feet. She finally found a pair at Madigan's - a place on the west side that she could always depend on for kids' clothes. The shoes were white and pretty with one strap that buckled - they rubbed my ankles raw but I liked them because they were the fanciest shoes I ever had.

The nuns approached preparation for First Communion like basic training in the army. We practiced our procession for weeks and weeks, girls in the front rows, and the boys behind us with the shortest kids in front. By the spring of second grade, we were pros at walking in and out of church in a procession but now Sister Ann Josephine had to get down to the nitty gritty: learning about Mass. She painstakingly took us through each portion, telling us what we were to do at each part. She was young, energetic and raised with an Irish-Catholic upbringing that moved her to instruct us with a zealousness that instilled an enthusiasm and excitement at preparing for our first communion.

“No, genuflect with your back straight, you love God and you are honoring Him with a GEN-U-FLEC-TION, (her black robes swished around her as she demonstrated) now this is so special children, your special day and you will be filled with God’s love, you must be ready to receive it!!!” She smiled a broad wide smile, her arms wide open as she spoke, she hugged herself when speaking of God’s love and we smiled back, sitting up straight, hands clasped on our desks and ready to have her show us the way. Even though this was pre-Sound of Music, she looked like Julie Andrews twirling away on the mountain top.

At the offertory, we were to sing our Communion song, a child’s song that the class practiced every day for at least a month, and that my whole family knew by the time Saturday, April 13 rolled around:
Dearest Lord I love Thee
With my whole, whole heart
Not for what Thou givest
But for what Thou art.

Come oh come Sweet Savior
Come to me and stay
For I love Thee Jesus
More than I can say.

We had started learning the song in school, but then Sister brought us in church. It was empty, except for our class - already we were experiencing the specialness that she spoke of - and the echoes of our footsteps as we walked in added to the building excitement. We moved into the front pews, knowing the exact places she wanted us to sit.

"Stand up, children. Let's practice our song," she said, a little above a whisper. Her hands raised up, and we began. Our young voices resonated like bells in the church, sounding so different from our sessions in the classroom. The words came out so pure and clear, perfectly on key, we had practiced so much. As we finished, Sister smiled at us. Her hard work had paid off.

On the Friday before the big day, we had to have our first confession - with the strongest admonition that we had to remain in the state of absolute grace throughout the evening and into the next day. We memorized the words and knew them flawlessly: “Bless me Father, for I have sinned and this is my first confession.” We had practiced with Sister in listing our sins and she helped us to figure out what they were; seven year olds did not have much to tell beyond fights with their siblings, disobeying parents, a lie here and there, and if you were really bad, you might have to add swearing.

Again we filed into the church, but this time with butterflies in our stomachs, looking at where the priests were hidden in the confessional boxes as they awaited the penitent second graders with their lists of transgressions. We watched carefully as each one of our classmates came out, wondering what penances they were given, if they had been yelled at, if it was scary in the dark. Sometimes a kid came out crying and it scared us beyond belief.

By the next day, we were more than ready. We had fasted since the night before, confession had cleaned our souls, and Sister had prepared her charges with the precision of a drill team. The church was filled with proud parents and relatives and we processed down the aisle in our white and blue finery. Strains of music came from the organ above in the balcony. The priest and altar boys entered from the side sacristy. They approached the steps below the altar, bowed, and began the opening prayers in Latin. The priest stepped up to the altar, his back to the congregation, and continued in this language that was foreign to us, but one that was becoming very familiar to us.

The consecration, we had thoroughly learned by now, was the most solemn part of the Mass. Heads bowed down and the first bell, complete silence in the church, heads go up as the priest raises the host above his head to the tone of the next bells, heads go down as he brings the host down to the altar and genuflects. We repeat the exercise for the chalice of wine. Even if you were a chronic mass-talker, you NEVER talked during the consecration - we were convinced such a sin came with major punishment, on earth or in the hereafter, and never risked the sin.

When the big moment finally came, communion time, we had the movements all down pat. The smallest kids were in the front pews, and each row stood, carefully filed out to the communion rail and knelt down. The priest came down the rail, altar boy holding the patent under our chins as we received the hosts on our tongues. The patent was a flat, gold plate with a handle at one end, used to avoid the disastrous possibility of a host falling on the floor. (At home, we would play with badmitton rackets and Necco wafers, pretending to go to communion. It was a good way to make the candy last longer, and if you got to be the the priest, you gave your sister all the Neccos you didn’t like.)

Everyone was curious as to what communion would taste like. We had asked Sister questions like, “what if it sticks to the roof of my mouth? Can I touch it to get it off?” Answer: never touch the host with your fingers. “What if I get sick and throw it up?” Answer: Call a priest. “What if I don’t like the taste?” Answer: It doesn’t really taste of anything. Later, we found out that communion tasted just like the edible fake flowers the bakery put on fancy cakes.

As each row knelt at the railing, the second row stood up and began to file out. When the new communicants left the railing, the next row was ready to kneel down. We returned to our pews, waited until the last kid was in the pew, then knelt down as one - perfectly done and no one was over the age of eight! Once back in our places, we buried our faces in our hands, head down so low, praying so hard as the Sisters taught us, filled with gratitude at such a wonderful blessing.

After Mass, the procession out of church began with the short boys and girls from the front pews, followed by the parents, family and friends. A professional photographer had taken photos from the balcony during the mass - all done very unobtrusively to maintain the solemnity of the ceremony. The resulting black and white photos remained as crisp and sharp decades later as the day on which they were taken.

We also took pictures afterward in the classrooms (see Mom and me at right). The girls paraded around the room showing off our white gloves and making our veils blow in the breeze. We felt we were like brides. As we walked out the door to go home where a big family party would begin, my uncle Swede drove up in front of the school, got out and handed me a bouquet of roses - I was so touched by the special attention, but it was a classic Uncle Swede move. Throughout my life he would do things like that.

My grandmothers, mother and aunts had prepared the huge meal that awaited us back at our apartment. Relatives, friends and neighbors all stopped by to enjoy the feast and have a few drinks on the cool spring afternoon. They brought gifts, of course, usually what we called a "boosta" - money in a card. I also received a few prayer books and a statue of Mary.

All the kids played in the lot and I got to wear my communion dress most of the day until my mother suggested I wear something else so it wouldn't get dirty. Nonno took some movies as we ran around, encouraging us to stop and wave to the camera. It was a special day for the whole family, and no matter how many years have gone by, I can remember almost everything about it.

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.

Saving Grace...and Judy

8.
Despite my minor transgressions during the early years of grammar school, my mother had already become a favorite of all the nuns in St. Pete’s convent even before I started first grade. But the way she found herself in their good graces was not a path she would every want to take again.

Earlier that year, my little sister Judy developed pneumonia at only three months old. Sue and I did our best to keep out of the way - we knew something terrible was happening, just by looking at the worried looks on our parents faces. Judy's crib was brought into the dining room and the doctor came to the house, spending a long time examining her and talking to my mother. He determined she had to go to the hospital as her fever continued to climb and, being the smallest baby my mother delivered, she didn't have a whole lot to fight with. It was during this time that my mother looked to her faith and her family for comfort and support.

Judy’s condition grew worse; her breathing became difficult and she needed to be in an oxygen tent. My mother spent as much time as she could at the hospital in Oak Park and it was not easy to make the trip everyday, with Susie and me still at home. Oak Park was a bit south and west of our home. If my father was working, my mother had to depend on cabs to get back and forth. The trip didn’t take more than twenty minutes, but considering that she had to arrange for our care, call the taxi in advance and only guess at when she would be home, the whole effort was unwieldy and time consuming. Both my grandmothers helped out as much as they could, but Nonna Amabile worked each day and Nonna Ma had to be picked up by my dad or driven by my grandfather. It just wasn’t possible for my mother to get to the hospital inside of twenty minutes if she had to. As a result, she stayed as long as she could once she got there.

The experience at the hospital became particularly difficult one day, as, upon her arrival, Mom encountered student nurses surrounding Judy’s crib. As she got closer, she discovered they were using my baby sister’s tiny bottom as target practice in their efforts to learn how to give injections. It slowly dawned upon her what they were doing to her seriously sick baby. Their giggling and ineptitude, in addition to all the stress of the situation, was finally more than my mother could handle.

“Just what do you think you are doing???” she demanded. Judy’s weak, kitten-like cries were ignored as the young nurses had attempted and failed at the injections. My mother literally grabbed the primary offender by the neck and pushed her against the wall. The other stood by motionless.

“Touch her again and I’ll kill you,” was all that my mother could gasp out of her throat as she glared into the eyes of the young student. It was a threat that both nurses firmly believed would be their fate as they quickly dropped the hypodermics and fled the hospital room. My mother then made it clear to the head nurse that under no circumstances were the two offenders to step foot in Judy’s room. Returning to her baby daughter, she tried to soothe her and comfort her until it was time for her to leave. She did manage, after the difficult experience and nearly a week of very little sleep, to get to church where she could light a candle and pray for Judy’s recovery.

Hers was a prayer of desperation and the pain that only a young mother with a seriously ill child could know. No doubt, in addition to innumerable supplications and prayer, she offered her own life in return for her baby’s health.

It was a late Saturday afternoon. Some of the nuns from the parish convent walked into church, bringing in laundered altar cloths for Sunday Mass. As they neared the communion rail, they found my mother unconscious on the floor in front of the Blessed Mother’s statue. She was very pale and weak but they managed to get her over to the convent where they let her rest while they contacted my father. Fortunately, he was only two blocks away from the apartment building where his mother and sister lived.

When he came to pick up my mother, he had good news. Approximately an hour before, Judy had made considerable improvement and the doctors guardedly told my father that they thought she would be fine. My mother felt this turn for the better happened at the precise moment she was praying to the Blessed Mother. At that point, she made a vow that she would do something for the sisters in the convent every year for ten years on Judy’s birthday - it was a vow she never failed to keep.

From 1956 to 1966, my mother prepared a complete Italian dinner for all the sisters on December 13. She prepared everything from the antipasto, meatballs and pasta to the wine, dessert and coffee. As we got older, we were able to help her with this meal for anywhere from 16 to 30 nuns, and even as she was busy with all the preparations and transporting of the feast, she didn’t forget to get a cake for me and Judy as we celebrated our birthday with the rest of the family later in the evening.

You Can't Run from the Nun

7.
There were about 50 of us in one classroom with one nun to teach us all. Beneath her full habit was a rather plain, thin, young face with wire rimmed glasses. I knew she was a “she” but the habit took away any real indication of her gender, save the flowing black skirt. No hint of hair edged out from the severe white starched linen surrounding her face. The black wool sleeves came down to her wrists and she often hid her hands in the baggy oversleeve of each opposite ar m. She seemed very tall to me, and as one of the smallest children, I feared her but respected her; there really was no alternative - or escape.

For as young as she must have been, she knew how to strike fear in the rowdiest of boys or the sassiest of girls - though girls rarely caused any trouble. Her nun training was very effective - without any teacher aides she kept us all in line, and while her techniques may have caused tears among some of my classmates during the first few weeks, she knew how to take control and keep it.

Our room was small and separated from the next classroom by a thick folding curtain that moved along a track in the ceiling. The desks were miniature tables and chairs of blonde wood with a shelf beneath the surface for books and supplies. They touched one another on the sides, setting up the room in wide horizontal rows.

It was in this room where Sr. Joseph Ann patiently taught us all to read, write, learn basic arithmetic and begin our first instruction in catechism. One of the methods of learning to read was with a letter kit. With a box of single letters printed on heavy yellow paper, we placed them in a large card with sleeves across it for inserting the letters. We created words, then phrases, then sentences, all of which complemented the efforts in our readers and the stories of David and Ann. Over the months we progressed from “Oh, look! See Ann go.” to “Mother and Father teach the children to pray.” No early reading lesson was complete without someone knocking over a box of letters on the floor, much to Sister’s chagrin and immediate direction to “pick up each and every one of them!”

We had to line up for everything in grammar school - coming in, going out, going to lunch, going to the bathroom, going over to church - during first grade I got to know the back of Marie’s head pretty well. Many times when we were in church, however, it wasn’t just lining up and walking in, we were "pro-cessing" (as in walking in a procession) for special holy days. It was during one of these processions that I encountered a different side of Sr. Joseph Ann. As we were coming out of church into the vestibule, I dipped my hand in the holy water font, only to have Sister slap it away. “You don’t take holy water during a procession!” she scolded me. I was more shocked than hurt and managed to hold back the tears, if only because of my own pride. When I told my mother what happened, she was not happy to hear that someone, even a nun, had laid a hand on her child. I don’t know if there was any retaliation on her part, but where her kids were concerned, my mother’s protectiveness was like that of a lioness.

The church experience in those days was one filled with awe and not a little fear. We memorized basic questions and answers from the Baltimore Catechism and were taught the Ten Commandments, but to a six year old, “coveting your neighbor’s wife” didn’t hold a lot of meaning. We pretty much knew that disobeying your parents and teachers, fighting with your sister, telling lies or stealing could get you in pretty hot water with God, let alone your mother, and if you had any doubt that God called all the shots, you just had to spend a little time in church during 40 Hours Devotion or Lenten Benediction. The statues, stained glass windows, the organ you could hear but not see, the Latin prayers and hymns, incense, the big crucifix, vigil candles, all contributed to an air of solemnity and ritual that left most of us fearing for our souls if we dared let our butts touch the pew while kneeling. Talking to your neighbor was unthinkable. Of course, by the time third grade rolled around, Mass was the best opportunity to sit next to your best friends and trade holy cards.

“I already have a St. Catherine,” I would say in a whisper to my friend Helen, showing her the card placed perfectly as a marker on her feast day in my St. Joseph’s Daily Missal.

“That’s St. Catherine Laboure, this is St. Catherine of Siena," she said. "Want to trade her for a St. Patrick?”

“Oh, everyone has lots of St. Patricks. My mother gets them at wakes - you know, when your parents go to see sick people?” I had never been to a wake and when my parents dropped us off at my grandmother’s on their way to one, this was how they softened the story.

“What do you mean sick people? People at wakes are dead.” Helen was Irish, had older siblings and knew a lot more about such things than I did.

“Dead?" I was incredulous. "All of them?”

“What do you mean all of them? One person is dead and everyone goes to see them for the last time in a casket.”

“You look at a dead person?” Not only had I never thought my parents had seen a dead person, the very idea scared me silly. Helen, however, thought me the complete idiot.

“Jeesh! Yeah, they’re dead.”

“Girls! Stop talking!” Our teacher had gotten wind of the whispering and brought us immediately back to perfect form for Mass: head slightly bowed, clasped hands on the back of the pew in front of you, butts no where near the seat behind you. Unfortunately for me and Helen, it was too late. As we left church to go back to our rooms, our teacher pulled us out of line and told us that for talking during Mass we had to write the Hail Mary three times.

My parents were not pleased.

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.

The Garden in the Yard

5.
The small size of our Courtland Street apartment and our growing family gave my parents a good reason to start looking for a larger house. They had originally bought the two flat in early 1955 when I was four and Sue was two. By December of that year, on my fifth birthday, Judy was born. My mother joked for years about filling nut cups with M & M’s and peanuts for my birthday party in between labor pains.

The room Sue and I shared was quite small, but since we had bunk beds - beautiful maple four-poster beds that could be used stacked or side by side - it gave us a bit more room, especially once Judy entered the picture. The previous owners of the building had wallpapered our room with a circus mural that wrapped around the walls. What wasn’t part of the circus picture was white with red polka dots. To match it, my mother had bedspreads and pricilla-type curtains made for the single window of red dot material.

When our room was tidy, it looked quite nice. The annual flood of Christmas toys and birthday presents created a bit of a storage problem since, during the winter especially, we preferred to play in our room instead of the unheated sleeping porch off my parents’ room. Sometimes we did play out there, wearing jackets while we dressed our dolls, served our pretend meals with our dishes, miniature table and chairs. The room was cluttered with an assortment of stuffed animals, games, coloring books, and dressup clothes we had pilfered from my mother’s drawers and closet.

My parents’ room was painted a rather dark green. Judy’s crib alongside one wall, their bed, two dressers and two nightstands filled the room to capacity, but more often than not, one of us would wake up in the room most mornings. A belly ache for me or a bad dream for Sue would bring us climbing into our parents’ bed in the middle of the night - a tight squeeze that sometimes sent my father back into our bedroom, if only for some uninterrupted sleep.

Still, we made good use of the space we had - the side yard made it feel like the most spacious building on the block. We were always playing there or in the back yard and during at least one summer my maternal grandmother came over to plant tomatoes, zucchini and basil. No matter her age, Nonna Modesta - or Nonna Ma - always seemed a large, older woman, her gray hair constantly tied in a bun. I can see my mother hanging clothes on the lines while Nonni puttered through the vegetables, weeding here, watering there. Whisps of hair came free from her hairpins as she bent down and up, and her rough hands becoming dirty from the soil. She always wore a dress with an apron pinned to the bodice and tied around her waist. She and my mother would talk now and then, always in Italian, each woman intent upon her chore.

I would amble between the swings, playing in the dirt where our feet had worn away any semblance of grass. The dirtier I got, the more my mother wanted me to stay clear of the laundry, even though I loved to run through the sheets, smelling the soap and bleach and trying to catch the edges as they blew above my head.

Nonni called me away, knowing my mother wanted no part of dirty handprints on her laundry.

“You like tomatoes?”

She showed me the vines, heavy with green tomatoes just about ready to begin turning. I looked with some interest as she pointed out the little yellow flowers that would soon give birth to the final crop of the season. I squatted down next to her, watching her hands trim the plants, dig away at the weeds and pat down the soil. I started digging with a stick, working on some planting of my own.

“You like this guy, too?”

I turned to see her outstretched hand with a caterpillar the same shade as the tomatoes, and as thick as one of her fingers. I stood up and stepped back, immediately frightened or repulsed by the creature inching along her hand. She smiled at me.

“He likes the tomatoes and he puts holes in them. He looks like the tomatoes so the birds don’t eat him. But I don’t want him in the garden.”

She flicked her wrist toward the alley and the caterpillar flew off, now exposed for any hungry crow.

At my grandparents greystone house on Harrison Street further south in the city, they always managed to plant tomatoes, flowers and an overflowing grapevine in their tiny yard. Even after she reached 90, Nonni planted her tomatoes and put them up in Ball jars with basil. When age caught up with her, though there were no longer any tomatoes or grapes in the yard and only wild sage that grew year after year, she still thought the plants were there, and she would tell me to take something home “for when you’re cooking.”