Around 1925, Mother and Dad entered us into St. Matthias School in Huntington Park, with the Sisters of Notre Dame. One of the first things I learned about the sisters was how to pronounce Notre Dame. I made the error of saying they were Sisters of Norton Damn. Needless to say, I was quickly corrected and did a little after-school homework on the subject.

They were a wonderful group of sisters. As I recall, there was Sister Isabelle, Sister Hildegard, Sister Mary Ellen and the Sister Superior, Sister Mary Bernard (pronounced Ber-nerd), who I believe did more for me than any other teacher or professor I ever encountered in all my schooling.

The sisters were a revelation to me. They seemed so demure and pious, they seemed absolutely beyond any violence, but I soon came to realize that when Sister said “jump” you had better be three feet in the air before the sound of her voice faded. I remember during an examination period, Sister Mary Bernard would patrol the aisles with a load of lumber reduced to an 18 inch ruler of rather heavy proportions which she carried in her right hand while she gently slapped the palm of her left hand, and woe be unto anyone caught glancing at someone else’s paper or using any unlawful aids during the test. The ruler was used for various forms of correction. Under her instruction, I happened to be on the receiving end of a few applications. It could never be said that she was unjust in her punishment. She wasn’t, but the resounding slap of that ruler across the palm of your hand would cause you to think twice before repeating the error.

Going to school with the sisters seemed like having a home away from home. They treated us more like sons and daughters than just pupils. They were concerned that we were all eating properly, that our playground cuts and bruises were taken care of, and our state of health was satisfactory. If a child was found crying because of some upset or injury, you could be sure that one of the sisters would notice it and address herself to putting things right. They were surprisingly rugged, too, and in spite of their flowing habits, they could pitch a ball or bat one as good as the next player. And they played volleyball like they had done it all their lives.

I had some remarkable teachers. I never heard of any of them going crazy, but Lord knows I gave them provocation. For instance, one of my favorite pastimes was drawing. I would sketch and draw everything in sight. Sister Mary Bernard had observed this mania of mine, and while she was correcting class papers, she would call out, “Lawrence, stop drawing and study your lesson.” And you know, she was right about 99% of the time.

By the time I hit the fifth grade, I began to shoot up in height, and this gave me an advantage in the schoolyard. We had an equally big fellow who never brought a lunch. He simply went down the row of boys eating their lunches and would ask for a sandwich or a piece of fruit, candy, or a bunch of grapes. Anything he wanted, he would ask for and always from the boys smaller than him. This had prevailed for some time till he grew so sure of himself and his ability to cage food that one day he moved his racket to the older boys. Well, that was a mistake because he decided to start with me.

Now, when Mom made a lunch, it was a work of art, love, and goodies. This mother’s son was never known to throw away any of Mom’s lunches. She made them much too good. When I tossed away a chicken bone or a chop bone, it got what it deserved. A dog, after chewing for three days on one of my discards, would promptly lie down and died of malnutrition.

Well, on the day in question, this local heavy made his way down to me, and his eyes locked onto a leg of fried chicken and he promptly put the bite on me, at the same time rubbing the knuckles of one fist with the palm of his other hand. No doubt he was trying to add a little terror to the request.

Well, I was impressed. Lumps were not pleasant to receive. Now, if that chicken leg was still attached to the chicken and was completely covered with feathers, he might have gotten it. But this chicken leg was fried, salted, and peppered; it smelled real good and was going to taste even better.

Suddenly a change came over me and I realized that I had quite a few lumps of my own to give away, at no charge. So I told him to come back later and he could chew on the bones. I realized as I looked at him that our friendship, however infinitesimal, was rapidly dissolving into thin air. Suddenly he balled up a fist and lashed out at me. I had time to duck and came up off the bench raring to go. I lit into that kid like a punching bag. He swung a few times and I realized he hadn’t heard about Queensbury Rules—and at the same time I realized why Queensbury wrote the book. This guy was the total summation of what not to do to your opponent. So I went in as fast and as hard as I could hit. He landed on the ground and came back up. I pasted him again and he fell backwards…right into Sister Mary Bernard’s arms. He looked like a truck had rolled over him. Sister was furious and stopped the fight. I went back to finish my chicken. Sure, there was bound to be a stern accounting when I got home, but I had earned my classmates’ respect. And if you have never sat at a desk after lunch with a stinging nose and a brand new lump going thump, thump, thump, you don’t know what you have been missing.

At school, my favorite subjects were history, geography, drawing, and reading. As for English—I hated it. And math? Well, it took me a while to warm up to it. Reading, to me, was never a subject, but a hobby which I still enjoy to this day. I love books. To me they represent the great history of all things human and otherwise.

My teachers wished that I would have liked English, spelling, and math, but I stimulated the growth of many a gray hair on their ever-loving heads, God bless them. I remember one time when I did a math problem for homework, and I got the right answer. Well, Sister Mary Bernard was elated.

“Oh wonderful” she exclaimed, no doubt reveling in her success with the instruction of the resident dummy. Then she exceeded the bounds of good judgment and asked if I would put the problem on the blackboard.

I was full of confidence, if not good sense. I can still hear the tap, tap, tap of the chalk as I laid out my unreasonable line of reasoning on the board. When I had finished, I turned toward her and smiled, quite pleased with my mathematical horror. After all, it wasn’t often that I found myself with the right answer at the right time and the right place. I should have known better, this time.

I studied Sister Mary Bernard’ face. I had never seen such an amazed look on a teacher before. She examined the mess on the board, then she looked at me, then back at the board, trying desperately to find one single shred of mathematical reason in the vast collage that confronted her. Two things were evident immediately. First, that I hadn’t cheated; and second, that I must have been deranged.

Now she turned to me and asked me to explain the problem. This was ridiculous. I knew the answer. I wanted her to explain how it came out that way. Well, she couldn’t, and neither could I. And in that moment hope spread inside me. I had actually stumped a teacher, and that was progress. Maybe there was a chance, a slim chance that I might not grow up to be the local idiot for the rest of my life.

But I never did like English grammar. We were then and have remained, lo these many years, arch-enemies. When you get into verbs, nouns, pronouns, prepositions, adjectives, sentence parsing and all the rest—well I’m not with you and you need not wait for me to catch up. I’d rather go fishing or hunting. My thing was, and is, to say what you must in plain language without labeling any part of it. Now, if they don’t understand you, they must be foreigners and that’s not my fault.

  Several years later, when I was in high school and was writing a daily column for the school paper, I gathered up about 30 or so issues and decided to call on Sister Mary Bernard. I arrived at the convent and was seated. In a few minutes I could hear her coming to the reception room. When she saw me, she got all excited. She greeted me like a long-lost friend. She was full of questions about Mother and Dad, the kids, and of course me. She wanted to know everything that had happened since she saw me last. I filled her in on the years and then showed her the papers. As she paged through them, it was easy to see that she was well-pleased.

“Now I can rest easier,” she exclaimed, putting her hand on my arm. “You know it, and I know it, but they don’t have to know it.” She was speaking of a long time ago and my dislike of spelling and grammar. “So we’ll keep our secret,” she said.

Sister Mary Bernard made a friend for life. God rest her soul, she has gone from us, but not from the thousands of students she taught in her lifelong service to education. I wasn’t as bad as I had pictured, and she was far, far greater than any of us had realized.

I remember attending a dinner in her honor. She was retiring from teaching because of her age and eyesight. When I arrived, I entered the hall and was stunned by the number of people paying their respects to this Sister of Notre Dame.  She was seated like a queen in one end of the hall, and a long line of her old students patiently shuffled along as one by one they approached her for a word or a nod. She was still the same quick-witted teacher we knew. At least 500 people came to say goodbye to Sister Mary Bernard. The line never seemed to end. There were judges, police officers, firemen, teachers, nuns, priests; members of the Army, Air Force, and Navy; businessmen, corporation lawyers, shopkeepers, scientists, and many more.

It was no secret that she enjoyed herself that day, and her recall of her students was remarkable. After 43 years I thought I’d have to introduce myself, but to my surprise her face lit up with a smile and she extended her hands. “It’s Lawrence, isn’t it?” I felt wonderful just seeing and talking with her after all those years.

I’ll never forget Sister Mary Bernard, erect with ruler in her left hand and a piece of chalk in her right hand as she took tours up and down the aisle while she glanced at our work, stopping here and there to quietly ask a question or answer one, then going to the blackboard to write our homework and classroom subject for the next day.