Habits, Hosts and The Holy Ghost

1963 D-DAY
The dreaded day arrived and I had to face my fear.
On one unusually hot and humid August morning my mother drove to St. Timothy’s to register me for first grade. During the ride my entire body felt clammy, not just from the weather, but from the anxiety building inside of me. As I thought about the nuns I would be meeting I could feel my heart thumping in my chest and my mouth became very dry. Despite the breeze coming in through the open car windows there was no escaping the humidity and I could feel my red hair curl with every passing minute.
I gazed out the window and thought about the friends from kindergarten who I wouldn’t see again because they would be entering first grade at the public elementary school. And I wondered if they were scared or if any of them would grow up to be hoodlums.
My mother’s Catholic school mantra played in my head as we drove down Main St. I knew it was extremely important to my parents, especially my devout mother, that I attend a parochial school. She believed blending religion with our education was the best way to raise her children, perhaps propelling us to our own religious vocation.
During the drive my mother nervously chatted on and on. She told me everything she knew about Sister Mary Xavier and Sister Mary such- and -such. My mind began to spin. Why did they all have names that started with Sister Mary? I could only hope that they should be as beautiful and sweet as Mary, the Blessed Virgin Mother.
We parked beside the church and walked down the driveway to the school’s front entrance, located on Church St. I clenched a tiny wad of my mother’s yellow flowered dress and struggled to keep up with her fast pace. Her pumps click- clacked on the pavement and I had to skip now and again to stay beside her. My clammy fist held tight to the cotton fabric as we climbed the steep granite steps of the school.
I wasn’t about to let go.
One of the wide double doors was propped open and we stepped inside finding the principal’s office just to the right of the foyer. Four classrooms lined either side of the long hallway, all of the doors were open and I could hear the murmuring of voices. When my eyes adjusted to the dark corridor, I took a double-take at the life - sized statue of Jesus that greeted us from the far end of the hall. The display was so real, as though He would come alive and begin speaking at any moment.
My mother squeezed my hand as she smoothed my curls then scooted me in front of her as we entered the office.
“Good morning, Sister.”
She spoke softly to the nun who was seated at an enormous wood desk.
We took another tiny step just inside the door. The dismal room was full of stuff. Books and papers were stacked everywhere. Boxes covered student desks that were scattered about the room in no particular order. The office smelled musty, like old wet newspapers. Three large paned windows along the outside wall faced Messer St and were streaked and cloudy and needed a good washing. In the muted sunlight that filtered in I watched tiny dust particles float in the air. Sister Mary Xavier’s desk sat in the corner of the room. It was completely covered with manila file folders, pencils and papers.
The place was a mess. It made me nervous and uneasy and I began to fidget as I looked around the office.
A three foot crucifix hung on the wall opposite the windows. I wondered what Jesus thought as he looked down upon the cluttered room. To the right of Him was a large round clock and I listened to the ticking of each second that went by.
My mother tightened her grip on my hand, cleared her throat and spoke once again.
“Excuse me, Sister.”
I looked sheepishly over at Principal Xavier who appeared deep in thought. Her head was bowed to her chest. She might have been dozing, I couldn’t tell.
A pen in her hand rested on a sheet of paper. Suddenly she cleared her throat and glanced over at us.
She was a very fat nun who completely filled the oak desk chair. Her face was squished by the white casing surrounding it and the wimple on her forehead pressed down causing horizontal wrinkles in her pale skin. A long black veil covered the white fabric on top of her head and continued down her back.
“Yesssss, yesssss. How can I help you?”
When she spoke her breath whistled through her teeth and she sounded like a hissing snake. She flung the pen down in agitation and turned in her chair to face us.
Her presence was intimidating.
The nun’s gold cross glistened in the sun as it lay against the round white bib that covered her chest and shoulders. The sunlight reflected lots of peach fuzz on the sides of her chubby face and when she looked over her wire rimmed glasses I saw that her eyes were the brightest blue. But that was the only thing about her that was bright. Long gray straggly eyebrow hairs hung down touching the frame of her glasses. The sides of her mouth turned down as she scowled at us.
My mother pressed on.
“I’m here to register my daughter, Maureen, Maureen Mulldoon. She’ll be entering first grade in September.”
I had the feeling my mother felt intimidated by the nun. Her hands shook and she bit her lower lip as she released my hand and began to fumble with her shiny vinyl pocketbook. She nervously pulled out several crumpled tissues before finding the paper forms and gently set them on the corner of Sister’s desk. Sister Xavier snatched the papers and began to review them. Sensing my mother’s own anxiety, I became a little more nervous as I stood silently, watching and waiting.