Working in the Fields

With winter weather, early darkness, and cold frozen snow driven by rambunctious winds, it encourages those of us who are ancient to hunker down inside our home, snugly wrapped in down-filled comforters, close to heat registers sipping honey-laced tea. In the hours east of midnight, old black-and-white television movies serve as company for those who struggle with erratic sleep. On one such night, a movie strikes a chord and awakens thoughts and images that are interlaced over a lifetime.

We learn early, events go by at the speed of life and one does not recognize or is preoccupied with other priorities that detract from fully appreciating the lessons being learned. As each day unfolds there is an agenda to be followed and the ramifications of the tasks, labors, and interactions connected minute by minute go unnoticed. Awareness is usually self-directed toward objectives or goals in order to achieve desired outcomes. Regardless of age or station in life, each of us proceeds according to our means, capabilities, skills, and interest. Subconsciously, we put forth an allotment of energy, effort, importance, and time in order to satisfy our individual standards of excellence. Hectic daily chores, interruptions and random distractions are inevitable causing one to become sidetracked or lose focus requiring redirection as we toil in the fields.

How many activities and duties performed over a lifetime are viewed as insignificant, drab, unglamorous, and unimportant? Like a tenant farmer sowing his fields we follow patterns, routines, sameness—trudge along well-worn ruts as we live out the hours of each day. How long does it take before one realizes that every moment in life is ripe with opportunity, potential, adventure and the magic of human goodness? Once understood, these gifts have to be accepted and embraced. What does it take to change inconvenience to opportunity, disruption to welcome, uninteresting to joyful and work to love? At what point in one’s life does the transition take place changing shadow to sunshine, sorrow to gladness, oneness to unity, anger to forgiveness, selfishness to sharing and sadness to laughter? What does it take to transform meaningless to meaningful?

From our earliest years, we are encouraged to “count our blessings” be humbled by ordinary moments that become extraordinary memories. As we labor in the field we are taught to remove unwanted weeds in order to cultivate good growth. Over thousands of years, Biblical words and parables convey wisdom to insure a bountiful harvest. How many times in life have we witnessed a weed become a rose, an unwanted event become a valuable lesson, a painful experience leave us with renewed strength; and personal tragedy fill us with Faith? What is the magic and mystery of working in the fields, day after day struggling to meet obligations, duties, responsibilities and commitments? From what source is the spirit replenished when fatigue, despair, loneliness, and illness challenge one’s will to continue?

We find solace and take comfort in unexpected places that previously went unnoticed. Strangers thrown together in similar situations develop common bonds and help one another--some become friends: small acts of kindness—giving without hope of receiving; lending a helping hand in moments of need, listening to others who have no one else to talk to; sharing conversation with outsiders who seek reassurance and validation of personal worth. Like tending a garden, each snippet of human interaction nurtures the spirit and strengthens character. Throughout life we carefully tend the fields, hoping our efforts will bear the fulfillment of dreams and reward us with bounty promised ages ago. Like children we are filled with anticipation and excitement savoring the bountiful harvest from our endeavors. After many years, we learn that many weeds—unwanted initially-- are worthy of care because they, too, have importance to our lives. Their diversity awaits discovery by those who follow our labors. We also learn that growing among the weeds are elegant lilies of the field: jewels to tease sunshine from the sky above and within ourselves

The richness of one’s life is a mosaic of diversity: work, play, rest, prayer, and belief in all that is good. The wealth measured is one of purposeful actions, thoughtful considerations of others, moments of conveyed appreciation and kind words; and the abundance of bounty harvested from working in the fields.

Favorites

As life unfolds, an automatic compilation of people, places, and things that shape, effect and mark one’s journey are recorded into indelible memories. Each experience enriches and adds meaningful moments. As time moves along, one is consciously aware of the residue from these encounters and the degree they have added to the fabric of life. Some are welcome positive recollections, others initiate less favorable thoughts and awaken unwanted feelings that burden and detract enjoyment from one’s personal inventory of living.

As humans, we live on memories. It is our most treasured keepsake: for it is our memories that define, connect, and nourish us. We use these recollections to reinforce linkage to ourselves. They become a major portion of our identity, value and definition of our humanness. Our experiences bond us in friendship, solidify relationships and fuse the mosaic we display each and every day of our life, providing us with courage and confidence to trust, risk, and love.

From our earliest days through adulthood, we learn to depend on our experiences—they literally become matters of life and death. The people, places, things, and events we integrate within ourselves during our lifetime serve as our physical, social, and moral compass. Each item in our cognitive file carries useful information: guidance, safety, lessons, goodness, sorrow, success, failure, happiness, advice…the list is quite extensive. Each in their own way prepares us to confront challenges and changes presented daily in our lives.

One may wonder how places and things—inanimate objects—could have such effect on one’s life? They do because they serve as the arena and props for the interactions that occurred within their boundaries, and the happenings generated by people sharing that space at that time. As children we are acutely aware of surroundings, soaking up impressions of where, what, why, and how. Often, these childhood inputs of life stay dormant until appropriate processing organizes and catalogs them into usable, viable data. Some are so subtle they take years before the impact is fully savored and understood. Others are so overpowering we store them in places far within us until there is sufficient courage to confront, conquer, and understand their importance.

Early in life, the people, places and things we confront are not of choice. So much of one’s early impressions are due to the choices of others. As we mature, we learn about power, control, and choice. Most importantly, we learn about sovereignty—to be in command of ourselves and to understand the power of individuality. What follows is a small sample from the wonder years of this writer, from the neatest little home town ever—Whiting, Indiana!

In February of 1949, when I was 8 years-old, our family moved from grandma’s house on Oliver Street to Cleveland Avenue . Strategically located in the 1800 block, it was gateway to 119th Street ’s business district. Because our family never owned a car, the main mode of transportation was walking, and later, a Spartan accessorized bicycle. Both methods for getting from here to there turned out to be a Godsend.

It is difficult to name all the “favorite” places in my Industrial Mayberry, but the ones listed here have stood the test of time. Each time I go by one of these locations or recall events from my life, the “movie” that plays in my mind always touches my heart in magical wonderful ways. Granted, many of these places are coated with the idealism of youth, preserved in idyllic childhood and adolescent remembrances, and viewed as hallowed locations brimming with fond memories--so be it. This is my movie and watching it through ancient rose-colored glasses suits me just fine. Get the popcorn!

--Whiting High School This was my dream factory. Within the confines of this educational palace I met classmates who became lifelong friends; teachers who believed in me and changed my life, and where I learn the Power of Possibility.

--Whiting Public Library From first grade on, this wonderful castle-like structure became my Adventure Land . Within these walls the magic of words fired imagination and adventure, opened new horizons, and filled my mind with knowledge, understanding, diversity of thought and human expression.

--Whiting Community Center The Mecca of Industrial Mayberry: a place where kids were not only welcomed, but appreciated. Sport activities, recreation, field trips, social gatherings, theatrical plays, municipal exhibitions, corporate presentations, and a myriad of community functions, was headquartered in this marvelous architectural structure. I literally grew up in this building. As a teenager, I worked as pin boy in the bowling alley. The Community Center is a museum for the mind.

--Neal Price’s Firestone Store The variety of goods made music for the senses.

--Dave’s Drug Store What a menu: root beer floats, potato chips, and Dave’s wisdom.

--Whiting Park Truly a place for all seasons: baseball, ice skating, playground, picnics and the beach. The little stone houses always had their “Welcome Mats” out for visitors.

--Sacred Heart Church and School Lessons for Heaven and Earth. No Free Passes!

--Whiting Post Office 46394: Is there a better Zip Code for cards and letters?

--Nick’s Pool Room An adolescent male oasis featuring snooker, pinball, and verbal expression.

-- Hot Dog Louie’s Gourmet dining at its best! Germs never stood a chance!

--White Castle Hamburger Hall of Fame! Nourish your body; cleanse your pipes, and so much more! I just love ‘em!

--And……and…..

We Need Cheerleaders, Honesty, Integrity, Leadership and Common Sense

By now, we’ve all aware of the unsettling news about the economy. The stock market is unstable, companies are going bankrupt, financial institutions are struggling, the housing market is saturated with foreclosure and the average citizen is worried about their savings as investments dwindle in value. Daily, television screens are filled with images of politicians, corporate executives, economic advisors and media personalities posturing, lamenting, explaining, discussing and conveying to the American people how troubled, mismanaged and dire our economic institutions have become. They are expert at emphasizing the negative and “selling” financial fear.

Everyday citizens are filled with apprehension, anxiety and uncertainty as investment institutions collapse and their retirement funds, saving, and pension plans lose value. Like a roller coaster, markets plunge downward, yo-yoing back and forth between profit and loss, then, creep upward into positive territory. Parents saving for their child’s college education are worried when the time comes, funds will be insufficient to meet their intended needs. CEO’s describe their plight to Congress in hopes of a procuring a federal bailout. One gets the impression that our economy is hanging by a thread. Learned scholars use terms like recession, contraction, and volatile. A few media outlets show grainy black and white film clips of soup lines from the Great Depression. Images of despair, fearfulness and hopelessness now flood minds of Americans concerned about their future.

Loans are tough to come by, mortgages are scarce as the housing market faces millions of foreclosures and lenders deal with bankruptcies generated by homeowners unable to meet financial obligations. Retail stores forecast bleak shopping for the holiday season, as consumers “turtle up,” fearful of what the future holds. Automobile dealers are flooded with inventories of unsold vehicles sending ripple effects throughout the industry and economy. The bedrock of the American economy is the housing industry and automotive industry. The foundation of American society has always been the triad of Family, Church, and School. Today, our bedrock, the very foundation of our Country is being threatened, challenged and attacked.

Throughout the country, voices of disdain doom and gloom, and individuals—both within and outside—The United States strive to ridicule, demean, diminish and actively work to destroy our government, economy, society and sovereignty. Traditional values and individual rights are being threatened by secular activists working to eliminate Judeo-Christian values and implement their agenda. It is time for us to take action. It is a time for us to demand. It is also time for every American to invest. Now is the hour to demand of ourselves the investment of time, interest, energy and effort. We must hold accountable, all elected officials, corporate leaders, union officials, financial planners, and—ourselves. Let’s replace non-sense with common sense!

As a nation, we need to set an example of strength, confidence, courage, and belief in America for all to see. From border to border, shore to shore we must reinforce the qualities and values that are the bedrock of America . We need to vanquish fear and escalate Faith. As United States citizens, we need to fully exercise our duties and responsibilities. We need to stand tall up front not cowering in the shadows—we need to risk rather than withdraw. We must celebrate America ’s promise and belief in ourselves. We can do better---and, we must!

We need cheerleaders and leadership from podiums and pulpits, board rooms and classrooms, press boxes and soap boxes. We need celebrities and entertainers, athletes and movie stars, executives and officers, homebuilders and homeowners, corporations and associations, neighborhoods and brotherhoods, Unions and non-unions to promote honesty, integrity, decency and goodness. America needs to hear good news and reassurance from elected officials at all level of government: Federal, State and local. We have to set aside political bickering and cooperate for the good of America . We need to eliminate the negative and accentuate the positive. Our President, President-elect and members of Congress need to demonstrate leadership and reassure citizens at every opportunity that this Country, although battered and bruised economically, is fundamentally solid, strong, and secure.

Americans have always responded to challenges, adversities, threats, and harmful forces with resolve, courage, discipline and dedication. We face a difficult road ahead with many uncertainties; and we need to periodically hear voices of hope, inspiration, wisdom, prayerful words, and patriotic fervor to help restore confidence. We need to help one another—knowing that asking for help is not a sign of weakness; but a sign of strength. We are problem-solvers. Let solve the problems! And, along the way, prayerfully seek guidance until threats are vanquished, security reinforced, faith renewed, and the American spirit re-energized.

Soon it will be Christmas. And so I wish each of you: “Merry Christmas.” It’s been quite a year. God bless us all.

You Can Go Home Again

The title of Thomas Wolfe’s 1940 novel, “You can’t go home again,” is the story of writer George Weber and his journey back to his home town. These words have become both poetic and prophetic to anyone who left home and returned a number of years later only to be affected by changes over the period of their absence. In late September, members of the Whiting High School Class of 1958 came home to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary of graduation. It was a weekend filled with remembrance, renewal, and melancholy reflection. Activities began on Friday with an informal get-together at this writer’s home and continued at the Whiting Elks Club to enjoy dinner and more conversation. Saturday evening, classmates enjoyed a banquet and culminated their celebration with a Sunday picnic at Whiting Park . Friends from the classes of 1956 and 1957 joined in the camaraderie and exchanged “war stories” embellished by half-a-century of memories with the “youngsters” from the Class of 1958.

A number of out-of-town classmates as well as those who live distant from the community took advantage of the delicious autumn weather to tour their home town. Many returned to neighborhoods where they lived as teenagers, visiting favorite places enjoyed as a youngster. I, too, travelled the community that shaped my life, remembering those who served as role models and helped me along the way. Although I’ve lived the majority of my life in the Whiting-Robertsdale area—only recently moving to Dyer--I like to visit the places where so many moments and so many memories are now part of my life. In 1949, when I was in third grade, our family moved from my grandmother’s house on Oliver Street to Cleveland Avenue . I lived in that house until I married in 1965. It was the house in which I grew up. One of the joys of youth was walking to school each day with neighborhood classmates and friends. Initially, we walked to Sacred Heart; then, as high school students, two additional blocks to Whiting High. After a half century, I still clearly recall many of those journeys as we laughed, talked and shared friendship that has bonded us together over a lifetime. Some days we used sidewalks, other days we’d cut through neighbor’s yards and travel alleys. Over the course of our four years at Whiting High, routes to and from school and home were modified to meet adolescent priorities; and the camaraderie, friendship and affection for one another increased.

Inside the covers of my WHS Reflectors from ‘54 to ‘58, yellowing pages reveal photographs of captured moments from times long ago. Travelling through town, photos of yesteryear are compared with current observations: past locations that once housed storefronts and familiar establishments are now absent or reflect change. Landmarks like the Community Center seems subdued and no longer pulse and throb with the vibrancy of energetic youngsters as it once did. To teens of the 50’s, the Center was our Mecca , ground zero for gathering, activities, and for some—employment. I can still detect the bowling alley’s aroma and the ambiance of the pits as I plied my pinsetter skills on alleys 3 and 4. Images of Hardy Keilman and Andy Yanas are still vivid in my mind. Most of the graffiti we wrote on the ceiling and walls has eroded, but the spirit of those days remains.

We used street corners along 119th for our informal seminars, drugstores to quench thirsts, Neal Prices to preview the latest 45 records and dream about items that filled his store’s shelves. We regularly feasted at Hot Dog Louie’s gulping down soft drinks and his famous chili. On subsequent visits, we savored Louie’s hamburgers and mustard-drenched hot dogs. Immunized from all known bacteria and viruses we’d cross the street and head for Nick’s. Snooker tables and pinball machines beckoned adolescent skill. It was a “Boys Only” establishment; a sanctuary where teenaged guys could smoke and carry-on without disdain. After more than fifty years the ambiance of this marvelous parlor of pool balls and pinball, neon, and green felt tables still generates pleasant memories of friendship, camaraderie, laughter, and good times.

A restaurant replaced Salmon’s barber shop where my “greaser” haircut was trimmed and made ready for the next application of Charles Antell’s Formula Number 9. Walgreen’s now occupies Ande’s Pizza original location. Sacred Heart School closed long ago, and so many mature trees on Oliver Street are gone. To this day, the White Castle stands sentry to the entrance of my Mayberry. Sautéed onions and the perfume of Slyders activate saliva glands; and I fight the urge to indulge a half-dozen tempting geometric belly bombers. Places of my youth: Whiting High School , The Public Library and Whiting Park still saturate my mind with cherished memories of childhood and adolescence adventures.

As I complete my tour, I say a few words of thanksgiving for the people, places, and once-upon-a-time moments that gave me opportunity to do better. Rarely has a finer gift been presented and appreciated. And, if I could talk to Thomas Wolfe I would tell him without reservation that you can come home again; especially if one is a member of the Class of ’58 and their home town is Whiting, Indiana.

To Measure What We Have Lost

How do we measure what we’ve lost? Some losses are easy to document. There are a sundry of devices to indicate change, level, quantity, intensity or amount in both relative and precise degrees. Tangibles are readily measured: weight, temperature, consumption, calories, blood pressure, distance and time—a lengthy menu. But how are intangibles measured? Intangibles are the life-affecting elements that have no physical properties. How is the loss of a loved one measured, personal sadness, sorrow, joy, happiness?

What instruments are available to measure emotional devastation and damage that occurs within us? How do we measure the erosion of moral standards, of spiritual apathy? What marking system is there to note the quantity and quality of personal character: what level of trust, honor, respect and responsibility is present at any given time? If we are a “quart low” in trust, where do we go for needed replenishment? How do we know when our moral filter needs cleaning or replacement?

As a Nation, we’ve let so much slip away over the years we struggle to understand meaning, purpose and direction. Consider the civic carnage: loss of allegiance to democratic ideals, deterioration of work ethic, absence of attention to detail, flippant attitude toward commitment, disregard for the sacredness of life, and cavalier dedication to duty.

How to we measure the loss of missed opportunities to be kinder, more thoughtful, generous, understanding and charitable? How do we measure the degree of damage done to neglected and abused children? In the arena of political, social, religious and civic endeavors we tacitly accept, tolerate, and justify shoddy performance at all levels. If we could definitively measure these detrimental elements we could demand more accountability, and employ effective remedies. Loss seems so final. Gone. Never again. Remember as kids we used days as if there was an unlimited supply. We realize, as adults, that each day reduces the number by one. Now, we make a conscious effort to put every minute to good use and not waste precious moments. How do we measure the loss of childhood innocence and wonder? How is the erosion of imagination, inquisitiveness, and exploration measured? One needs to know the severity of loss in order to apply appropriate strategies
and remedies.

How do we measure the loss of security and safety at home, school, work and play? How do we measure the impact of violence in our daily lives? What magnitude of fear causes people to withdraw, retreat, and give up?
How do we measure the loss of faith in our politicians, clergy, government and ourselves? What scale of loss illustrates the damage of corruption? What definitive instrument is there to assess rampant greed, selfishness, immorality, and evil? What criterion is there that clearly shows the wear and tear on the human spirit?
Many go about their daily routine insulated from such concerns as if they do not exist. Others justify their ambivalence because such concerns do not apply or affect them. Humans readily learn selective blindness and selective deafness—doing so prevents the cognitive intrusion of uncomfortable circumstances, and keeps one’s conscious awareness tranquil and unruffled. But time is running out. The ideals and values that serve as the bedrock of The United States: government, schools, society and ourselves are being challenged and threatened. There is so much that needs to be done and the work must begin with each of us. Now is not the time to shrink from responsibility. Now is the time to become involved measuring what we’ve lost and begin remediating the deficits. To quote a famous line: “We have met the enemy, and he is us!”

If You Had to Choose...

One of Nat “King” Cole’s classic recordings is the 1963 summer hit—“That Sunday, That Summer.” A portion of the David Weiss, Joe Sherman lyrics is the lines:

“If I had to choose just one day
To last my whole life through,
It would surely be that Sunday
The day that I …”

Listening to that song I wondered what day I would choose. Of the more than twenty-four thousand days of life given to me thus far, which one do I treasure above all others to relive? Which 24 golden hours; which 1440 minutes would I choose? It is not an easy decision. Would the selection come from childhood or adolescence? Is the choice governed by age, circumstance, or happenstance? Was this day shared with others, or, was it a solitary expenditure of personal time? Were these hours part of a birth, beginning, culmination, or farewell? Did these golden moments involve triumph, success, wonder, romance, melancholy, awe, or an unexpected turn of events?

“If I had to choose one moment
To live within my heart,
It would be that tender moment
Recalling………”

Each of us gathers personal keepsakes of the heart. Among our memories we store images, sights, sounds, scents, and feelings that engender extraordinary emotional reactions. Within an instant, tears of recollection fill our eyes, feelings of contentment flood our senses, and an unexplainable pleasantness saturates our conscious awareness.

What is this magic? How does one explain the mechanism that provides these brief micro-seconds of cognitive luxuriousness? Like a shooting star, they blaze brightly for the briefest time before returning to a place secret even to ourselves. What would we do if we could capture and keep for one day such personal magic?

As one inventories their precious moments, would it be from a particular season, a turning point in life, or an unexpected outcome from what started out as an insignificant occurrence? Would the moment chosen to “live within your heart” be one that was meticulously planned and came to desired fruition?

How many nights do people drift off to sleep recalling favorite memories? What person has not had dreams so vivid and real their emotions retain an afterglow hours after awakening? And, how often, during one’s waking hours, do subtle sensory stimuli trigger random flashbacks about events which have enriched their life? Maybe in some mysterious way, our mind automatically searches for life’s sweetest nectar knowing those remembrances will invigorate our spirit, refresh our thoughts and revitalize our humanness. As humans, we share a common bond and purpose. Each of us wants to be valued and appreciated. Each of us wants to be connected, to belong and be part of an emotionally nourishing relationship. We flourish in communities and thrive when validated by family and friends; respected by strangers. Knowingly and unknowingly we build memories in others as they build memories within us. And, each of us wants to be loved; and to love someone in return.

If you had to choose just one day, to last your whole life through, it would surely be…. What if you could assemble a week? What if you could collect a month? What would these days be? What are your special moments?

Each time I hear this song (it’s one of the selections on my recreation room jukebox) I always recall a special Friday in September of 1960. It was one of those ideal late summer days drenched in sunshine and canopied with blue sky. A particular young lady had caught my eye and our first date would be her school’s homecoming football game. Chosen as senior class attendant, she arrived with the queen’s court, then, met me in the stands for the game. Forty-eight years later, we’re still together.

“If I had to choose one moment
To live within my heart,
It would be that tender moment
Recalling how we started…..”

If I had to choose, it would surely be September 24, 1960, the day the magic began.
What day would you choose?

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

SCHOOL’S OUT FOR THE SUMMER!

Lately, there has been discussion about eliminating summer vacation and instituting year-round school. Students would still attend the mandated 180 days, but they would be spread out over the year. Perhaps, year-round schools are an idea whose time has come.

In the 50’s, when I was in grade school, I couldn’t wait for summer vacation; partly because I wouldn’t have to worry about getting biffed by Sister Bruiser for a while, partly because I’d have all-day recess, and partly because I wasn’t too thrilled with school. When the final bell sounded, we lined up by twos and marched out of school like a pint-sized parochial platoon preparing for maneuvers. Master Sergeant, Sister Bruiser, gave the moving columns of potential apostles a final inspection before discharging them to the outside world. As soon as we cleared “school property” we broke ranks and assumed normal kid conduct, pushing shoving, swinging book bags, and general rowdiness. Almost immediately, several boys began the sing-song end of school anthem.

“School’s out, school’s out,
Teacher let the monkeys out.
Some jumped in, some jumped out,
And one jumped in the teacher’s mouth.
School’s out, school’s out, teacher let the monkeys out.
No more lessons, no more books,
No more teachers’ dirty looks!”

By the second “school’s out,” all the student parolees were caught up in the refrain. These were days before school buses, so neighbors along the way heard several dozen choruses before the pupil herd dispersed to individual homebound routes. This was also the pre-uniform, pre-permanent press, pre-automatic washer and dryer era in parochial education.

A few years before, Sister Superior tried to require all boys wear white shirts with ties to school. Several ironing board angry mothers immediately formed a not-for-profit organization and stormed the convent swinging Sunbeam irons, and throwing Argo starch on the front steps. Luckily the parish Monsignor arrived in the nick of time and quelled the uprising. The issue of white shirts on little boys was never mentioned again.

Back then summer vacation seemed like forever. A kid had from June all the way to September before he had to worry about school. A few days after we were let out, the nuns packed up and left for summer training camp at their Motherhouse somewhere down south. This meant we could play softball on the empty lot next to the convent without the intimidation of staring eyes of nuns behind curtained glass. This had to be what Jefferson and the Founding Fathers meant when they talked about freedom!

Not only had we been released from our scholastic prison, but the jailers left town, too. For three delicious months, kids didn’t have to worry about raising their hand before speaking, and they could use the restroom anytime they wanted—without hurrying.

In school, Sister always monitored the boys on their restroom break. She stood just outside the washroom door holding a stopwatch while her charges made their individual porcelain novena. If a kid didn’t come out within a pre-set time, the wayward boy came face to face with a scowling representative of the Salvation Police.

Her appearance usually generated considerable fear and panic, and many frantic boys suffered zipper-generated injuries. The sight of an ecclesiastical penguin standing at the threshold of the comfort station, while in the process of purging unwanted fluids is definitely one of life’s major challenges. One either learned how to multi-task, or one suffered the consequences. Most grade school boys had trousers with rusty zippers!

Besides summer vacation, the next most important thing was your report card—not the grades, but the comments Sister wrote. In those days, if you passed everything, Sister would write at the bottom of the card: “Promoted to grade …” This made it official that you survived and were moving up the ladder of scholastic salvation.

At the end of the fifth grade, my promotion to sixth grade must have been in doubt, because on my card, Sister wrote: “Watch This Space!” Academically, I was not a star. I excelled in only two areas: recess and praying. I figured as bad as my grades were I needed all the help I could get. Eventually, with Heaven’s intervention, I passed all my classes and was granted promotion.
I was not the worst student in class, however. There was one other kid who didn’t pass anything except the time he ate six Twinkies and passed gas. Unfortunately, that particular offering wasn’t part of the curriculum, so instead of extra credit, Sister gave him penance. She also banned Twinkies from the classroom!

As years accumulate, one notices change. One is that summers get shorter. Time really zips by; school is barely dismissed in June before kids start returning in mid-August. Other things have changed too. Report cards no longer are hand written; they’re computer printed. Like a long ago favorite snack, Mrs. Klein’s Potato Chips, reports cards are “untouched by human hands.”
Today most parochial kids, and some public school students, wear uniforms, and many ride a school bus. Singing “School’s out, school’s out…” on a bus just isn’t the same. As soon as uniforms became mandatory, nuns started dressing like civilians. Many schools have no nuns at all. Just goes to show that some habits are hard to keep. On the other hand, Twinkies are once more allowed in school. School officials figure the way education is going today, they want to give every child a chance to at least pass something!

School’s out for the summer! Enjoy.