The black-white television sported an Indian-head test pattern for the black-and-white broadcasting company.  We sat on our small den floor impatiently waiting for cartoons to appear on the screen.

We’d tear ourselves away from one of our favorite shows, and race up that familiar school hill to catechism, returning in an hour to continue the morning ritual. When we arrived at class, Nike, another girl, Maris, her sister and I were nearly the only ones who answered any questions. The teachers must have loved having us in class. 

The Catholic catechism or religious instruction was sheer rote answers. Maris and I had often studied together at recess.  I was puzzled as to why in junior high, when Stella entered the scene, Maris treated me differently.

Stella must have had a negative influential pressure on Maris regarding who she could hang out with. I slowed my downtrodden pace as we headed across the parking lot to Home Economics class. Maris followed Stella's coaching and ran to get away from me. 

Mother found it amusing when I began making cookies using the specific and exact measuring techniques I learned in the cooking class.  She tried to teach her method of a pinch of this and a drop of that, but I, for some reason, put more stock in what I was taught in class. My mother would snicker to herself as we probably would now we don't measure as perfectly as we were taught.  

Some of that faux teacher loyalty went out the window when sewing sessions took place. The teacher made such a mess of the stitching under the arms of the blouse I was working on, Mother had to rip it out and resew it.  After that, I knew who the best teacher was.  I never learned to sew very well.   I've heard if your mother sews, you probably won't. My saying was, “As I sew, so shall I rip.”

But just like Mother, I love to cook and do a great job with a pinch of this, and a dash of that. I was even asked to cook for some of the Sisters who were on retreat.  It was a little weird as it was at the former Novitiate in the same kitchen Shelly. 

I spent many months kneeling and cooking, cooking, and kneeling.  Usually what I did was ride my bike down the three-mile trek, cook the meal, and leave.  If there were any problems with the previous meal someone would notify me.  

One of the meals I made was a favorite of mine to eat, I don't remember ever making it. Therein lay the problem. I was invited to stay and graciously accepted.  Everyone was welcoming, I couldn’t be embarrassed.

I was thankful I accepted their invitation.  I would have died if I’d later discovered they had had to eat the carrots with their fingers and couldn’t cut into the potatoes.  I didn't know I needed to precook the vegetables before putting them in to cook with the chuck steak.      

One of the Sisters helping to make that situation comfortable was Sister Ruth who was the second nurturing person in my life.  She was my catechism teacher for 7th and 8th grade.  Then she was my religion teacher in 11th grade in high school. I often stopped in to see her after school.  It was nice to have someone familiar in an unfamiliar setting.  This was the first time in my school experience I felt accepted. 

Our sophomore class was characterized as more “cliquey” than others, though no one picked on me, there were many who seemed to be into their own group and didn’t take time to speak to me. I often felt they were doing me a favor when they did acknowledge me.   

I was out in front of my house shoveling deep snow dumped on us. The culmination of the street plowing had resulted in a solidly-packed mass of snow two and one half feet deep and seven feet wide. I saw Wendy, drive by waving.

She was one of the people who hadn’t paid much attention to me in high school, With some serious clearing to do I gave it no more thought.  Quite to my pleasant surprise, Wendy returned with a shovel and informed me I was not going to be shoveling all that by myself. 

This was shortly after I told a friend walking by I was hoping and praying for a miracle. When Wendy realized how impossible the feat was for even two strong healthy 54 year olds, the miracle I had prayed for, began to take shape. Wendy was one of the more popular kids in school, which was why I was touched to have her offer to help. 

I noticed she seemed to know just about everyone driving by. She said, "I'll just flag down a truck with a plow and we'll be set." and she did.  With two swipes, hours of back-breaking work was saved. In about another half an hour we had the remainder cleared and Wendy was on her way. Maybe people can change after all.   

I have heard others say by their junior or senior year they finally began to feel accepted.  It wasn’t as important to be approved of by the hotshots.  By my senior year, I was known and well-liked by many of the kids.

For a spot in the yearbook, I was voted class taxidriver, and beneath my senior picture was the phrase, “Oh what a laugh”.  I had developed a great personality, with an emphasis on humor, so it was a surprise to all when I announced I was planning on entering the Convent.  

It was only then that my father gave his permission for me to get my license.  Being a lawyer he had had too many cases involving automobile accidents and didn’t want to have such a thing happen to his daughter. 

What he didn’t know was I had been driving with Mother for about five years. I began by getting permission to start up the car in the driveway.   This progressed to backing the car in and out then backing a few feet farther each time. It's funny because I am not good at backing up now.