Change of Life Baby

I am the only product of my parents marriage.  They met late in life.  My Mom was a single Mom of two grown sons and my Dad was married with two teenage children.  As my Mom told the story, they'd finally found the loves of their lives.  Mom was a good storyteller and one might think that she embellished the story for my ears.  If you saw him look at her, you would know the story was true.

She was 45, he 47 when I was born and in all practical ways, I was an only child.  My Dad's kids lived with their Mom but were frequent visitors.  I knew they were my siblings, but because of the age difference, they felt more like aunts or uncles.  Mom's boys were already in the service.  One in the Army and one in the Navy.

I guess I was everything you'd expect an only child to be. I had anything I ever wanted, but you wouldn't call me spoiled.  Doted on?  Absolutely, but my parents were survivors of the Depression and in their world you used it up and wore it out.  That was my world.

Things fell apart fairly quickly around the time I was 8 or 9.  First, my Dad's work took a setback.  I never really understood, I just knew things were not the way they used to be.  Then my Dad became ill with a form of cancer.  He had surgery and underwent radiation and fought the good fight, still, in 1958, he passed away.
There was little insurance and my mother while well read and very world smart, had little education. She cleaned houses for wealthy ladies and we collected survivor benefits from Social Security.

We did alright, my Mom and me.  In many ways, she became my best friend.  We laughed a lot.  She did what she could to make my life the best it could be.

There are so many stories within stories here that I could tell, and I guess I will one day, but the moral of this one is that for me ... being a change-of-life baby made me who I am.  The positive side of this story is that my parents gave me the gift of their experience. The negative is that I lost them both early in my life.

Catholic School

I started school in 1952 in the first grade.  At that time, Catholic schools didn't do Kindergarten...in NYC anyway.  The school itself was impressive.  A huge building that housed the parish church at the center and the school rooms on three sides and on top.  We were taught by the Ursuline Sisters of St. Louis, Mo. Grades 1-8.  Boys on one side of the building, Girls on the other.  The boys wore military uniforms and we wore very specific uniforms right from the start.

I remember the excitement as my mother ordered the uniform from Brucks Collegiate Outfitters.  Two blue serge jumpers and two short sleeved white blouses.  There were local stores where be bought the other necessary items.  Beanie, navy blue bobby socks, flesh colored cotton stockings and navy blue oxford shoes.  Cotton stockings????? Yes!  The biggest adventure of all was buying the garter belt and then learning how to wear it.  At six years old, this was one great milestone!  

I only have a few recollections of those early days.  My first grade teacher was Mother Maura.  She was absolutely beautiful. Young and elegant. I vividly remember our first lesson.  Mother told us that when we wanted to ask a question, or speak, we must raise our hand.  Then she said, "Who wants _______?" (I don't recall what it was, but we all wanted it.) We all shouted "Me!"  She laughed and reminded us that we must raise our hands. She asked again.  This time we all raised our hands ... and shouted, "Me!"

My second grade teacher was as old as Mother Maura was young.  Mother Maura was tall and stately.  Mother Immaculata was small and bent.  Mother Maura taught with laughter.  Mother Immaculata was a diciplinarian.  I know there are loads of horror stories about nuns.  I know a few actually, but happily I was never a victim.  I learned early on to find out what the teacher wanted and I gave it to them. No musss, no fuss. Mother Immaculata did break my heart though.  We were preparing for some presentation, I do not recall what...perhaps a Christmas Concert, or a Feast Day.  Anyway, we were to sing. As Mother listened, someone was off key.  Mother went down the line and made us all sing.  Evidently I was the culprit.  She told me not to sing anymore...just mouth the words.  It was years before I sang anything again.

In January of 1955, my family moved out of New York City to a very small town well north of the city.  I still went to a Catholic School, but things were very different.  That's a story for tomorrow.