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.