Saturdays and Sundays 50 Years Ago

Linda was raised Catholic and my folks took me to the Baptist Church just west of town. It didn't bother either of us that we went to different churches. Our parents had made the decisions regarding where our families went to worship the Lord and we went wherever they went; when you're eight years old, it's that simple.

I would listen with rapt fascination as Linda told me about going to Catechism classes on Saturday, the nuns in their black and white habits — how strict they were, and how one Sister in particular would rap your knuckles with a wooden ruler if you did something she didn't like. Hearing that made me afraid of the Sisters and glad I was a Baptist. Baptists didn't go to Catechism and we always had a great potluck supper after the Sunday morning services. I wasn't even sure what Catechism was and secretly wondered what my friend did on Saturday mornings. 

Then the inevitable happened. Linda invited me to her house for a sleepover on a Friday night and let me know that I'd be going to Catechism with her the next morning. She didn't realize that because of her stories I was afraid of the nuns in their starched black and white habits. The habits looked like costumes to me and I would try to guess if the nuns had hair under their white whimples and black veils whenever I saw one of them in town. As we walked the four or five blocks to the parochial school downtown I peppered Linda with questions.

"What will they do to me if they find out I'm not Catholic?" "How long do we have to be there?" "What if the sister asks me a question and I don't know the answer? Then she'll know I'm not Catholic and I'll get kicked out!"

At that point I may as well have been sporting a scarlet letter. I felt sure I'd stand out as the only NON-CATHOLIC to ever enter the sanctum of the church's parochial school.

When we arrived I asked Linda if we could sit in the back and she told me not to worry, she'd planned to sit at the back anyway so we could leave quickly after class. Linda didn't really like going to catechism and was happy I'd come with her. I was terrified and yet fascinated that I was in the same room with a Catholic nun that could possibly smack the back of my hand (heaven forbid) for discovering I wasn't a Catholic. I even wondered if it was a mortal sin just being there.

Thinking back, I was so quiet that morning that the Sister from St. Joseph's church probably didn't even know I was there. Not only did she not ask my name, she didn't even take a roll call. She taught her class that morning, only scolded one boy who was late to class, and never brandished the dreaded wooden ruler. I was safe and lived to tell the tale, so worried that I'd be found out that I have no recollection of that day's lesson. Linda finally came to Sunday school with me once and she loved that potluck supper.