Turning Points
Life is a journey. It has a beginning and it has an end. All along its path are events, places
and people who are turning points. Here, I relate some of these turning points in my own
journey. Hopefully, the stories will illuminate and maybe entertain some of those who care
enough to read.
Life is a journey. It has a beginning and it has an end. All along its path are events, places
and people who are turning points. Here, I relate some of these turning points in my own
journey. Hopefully, the stories will illuminate and maybe entertain some of those who care
enough to read.
| Brothers and Sisters June 9, 2006 |
St Catherine’s school for all 12 grades had sisters teaching in the
classes while I was there. Even after the new high school was built, for
the years I was there only nuns taught us.
They lived in a big square two story white clapboard house on the
grounds just north of the grade school. I was never in that building but I
am guessing it must have housed about 15 nuns. They all wore black
habits of the Ursuline order that flowed to their ankles, black stockings
and black, heeled shoes with laces. It was hard to see what they really
classes while I was there. Even after the new high school was built, for
the years I was there only nuns taught us.
They lived in a big square two story white clapboard house on the
grounds just north of the grade school. I was never in that building but I
am guessing it must have housed about 15 nuns. They all wore black
habits of the Ursuline order that flowed to their ankles, black stockings
and black, heeled shoes with laces. It was hard to see what they really
looked like as their faces were covered from the eyebrows up and even around the ears. Their
long rosaries hung from the midriff much as swords would have had they had been soldiers. All of
them had names chosen for various saints such as Sister Mary Bartholomew, Sister Catherine,
Sister Philomena, etc. Behind their backs we called them “Bartholomew,” “Catherine,” and
“Philomena,” dispensing with the title of respect. The nuns paraded the ½ block every morning to
the church to attend early mass where they occupied the first couple pews.
The sisters seemed to know their stuff and didn’t tolerate a lot of mis-behavior. A wooden paddle
was always in easy reach and they consulted with no one before making use of it when needed.
Some even used their hands as Sister Philomena did one day on the playground during recess.
One of her commands was met by me with a response of “Nuts.” General McAuliffe got away with
that crack when surrounded by the Germans at the Battle of the Bulge, but I didn’t. I was within
arm’s length of Sister Philomena and received a speedy slap on my kisser.
These women took solemn vows to devote their lives to Christ, to give up all worldly possessions,
to own nothing, and to take no husbands. They received no salary and lived in a cloistered
environment. They even gave up their own names. Yet they were professional, and maintained a
cheerful disposition, giving their lives for our well being. They weren't in it for the money. They
deserved a lot more respect than I gave them.
In my senior year, our family moved to Louisville where I transferred to Flaget High School, an all
male Catholic High School that has since closed down. Here, the faculty were mostly brothers; the
male counterpart to the nuns and, yes, they all wore black cassocks flowing to their ankles. Their
heads were fully exposed though and they seemed less mysterious than the nuns maybe for that
reason. But they too were highly qualified and brooked little nonsense.
As the years wore on, more and more teaching positions were taken over by lay teachers as the
ranks of sisters and brothers thinned out in the Catholic Church.
long rosaries hung from the midriff much as swords would have had they had been soldiers. All of
them had names chosen for various saints such as Sister Mary Bartholomew, Sister Catherine,
Sister Philomena, etc. Behind their backs we called them “Bartholomew,” “Catherine,” and
“Philomena,” dispensing with the title of respect. The nuns paraded the ½ block every morning to
the church to attend early mass where they occupied the first couple pews.
The sisters seemed to know their stuff and didn’t tolerate a lot of mis-behavior. A wooden paddle
was always in easy reach and they consulted with no one before making use of it when needed.
Some even used their hands as Sister Philomena did one day on the playground during recess.
One of her commands was met by me with a response of “Nuts.” General McAuliffe got away with
that crack when surrounded by the Germans at the Battle of the Bulge, but I didn’t. I was within
arm’s length of Sister Philomena and received a speedy slap on my kisser.
These women took solemn vows to devote their lives to Christ, to give up all worldly possessions,
to own nothing, and to take no husbands. They received no salary and lived in a cloistered
environment. They even gave up their own names. Yet they were professional, and maintained a
cheerful disposition, giving their lives for our well being. They weren't in it for the money. They
deserved a lot more respect than I gave them.
In my senior year, our family moved to Louisville where I transferred to Flaget High School, an all
male Catholic High School that has since closed down. Here, the faculty were mostly brothers; the
male counterpart to the nuns and, yes, they all wore black cassocks flowing to their ankles. Their
heads were fully exposed though and they seemed less mysterious than the nuns maybe for that
reason. But they too were highly qualified and brooked little nonsense.
As the years wore on, more and more teaching positions were taken over by lay teachers as the
ranks of sisters and brothers thinned out in the Catholic Church.
___________________________________________________
| And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:28 KJV) |
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