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St. Rita's Grammar School, Boston, MA
Wow! It is great to have a group like this. Good memories and bad, we usually look back at our experience with some fondness. My nuns were Sisters of St. Joseph and they commuted from their convent in Brighton where the Archdiocese had its offices. I had a few traumatizing events. There was the time in 3rd grade that I raised my hand to let the nun know that I didn't fully grasp the math lesson she had just spent 20 minutes teaching. She walked down the aisle, grabbed me by my left braid and dragged me to the blackboard where she yelled a condensed version of the lesson at me for 5 minutes. At the end of her tirade, she asked me if I finally understood. I told her I did even though I didn't. I went home and asked my older sister about it and she explained it to me in a way that I understood. Then there was the story about the end of the world when all of the stars and the sun would fall to Earth and burn us all up. I had nightmares into adulthood over that! At 10 years old, when my nephew was circumcised, I looked for the bandage on his tiny wrist to see where the piece of skin had been removed. Seeing none, I asked my mother, who explained the procedure to me. The nuns MADE me drink the milk every day even though I tried to tell them that it made me feel sick, especially on Friday when my mom sent a tuna (in oil)sandwich made with mayo. Every Friday for years I was violently ill until my mom started to make egg salad sandwiches because the nuns told her the tuna made me sick. As an adult I was finally diagnosed as lactose intolerant. I could go on and on. There are good things that came out of my catholic school experience. When we moved to Salem,MA as I was going into the 7th grade, I begged to go to public school and my parents allowed it on a trial basis, they said. I was labeled as "one of the brightest students they had seen in years" which meant nothing to them because I was usually on the honor roll at St. Rita's. The homework for public school was a breeze compared to the 2-3 hours of homework from catholic school. Even the "Palmer Method" lower case "r" makes it immediately apparent that I am a former catholic school student. That somehow makes me proud. Did anyone else have to sell "Holy Childhood" stamps to raise money for their school/parish? Both my school and St. Philip's Church have been torn down, but I point out the sites to my grandchildren and tell them that my school used to be there, and I was baptized, received my First Communion and Confirmation at the church that used to be over there. I'd love to hear from others that went to St. Rita's.
A Wonderful Story
The Sandpiper
by Robert Peterson
She was six years old when I first met her on
the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a
distance of three or four miles,whenever the world
begins to close in on me. She was building a sand
castle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as
the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood
to bother with a small child..
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really
caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes.
A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach.
Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself, hello pain, and turned
to walk on. I was depressed, my life seemed
completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and
walked on.. Her musical giggle followed me
.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called.
"We'll have another happy day."
The next few days consisted of a group of
unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother.
The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of
the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-changing balm of the seashore
awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying
to recapture the serenityI needed.
"Hello, Mr.. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know. You say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that
is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate
fairness of her face.. "Where do you live?" I
asked. "Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation"
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled
up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I
left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling
surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a
state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet
Wendy.. I thought I saw her motheron the porch and
felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I
said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd
rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my
mother died!" and thought, My God, why was I saying
this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday
and the day before and -- oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped,
misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to
the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty,
ashamed, and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to
the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A
drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair
opened the door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm
Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and
wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come
in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I
allowed her to bother you. If she was a
nuisance, please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all --! she's a delightful
child." I said, suddenly realizing that I meantwhat I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mr.
Peterson.. She had leukemia Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. Ihad to catch my breath.
"She loved this beach, so when she asked
to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better
here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But
the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice
faltered, "She left something for you, if only I can
find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for
something to say to this lovely young woman. She
handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P" printed
in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing
in bright crayon hues -- a yellow beach, a blue sea,
and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully
printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that
had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took
Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry,
I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I uttered
over and over, and we wept together. The precious
little picture is framed now and hangs in my study.
Six words -- one for each year of her life -- that
speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love.
A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and
hair the color of sand -- who taught me the gift of
love.
NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert
Peterson. It happened over 20 years ago and the
incident changed his life forever. It serves as a
reminder to all of us that we need to take time to
enjoy living and life and each other. The price of
hating other human beings is loving oneself less.
Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle
of everyday traumas can make us lose focus about what
is truly important or what is only a momentary setback or
crisis.
This week, be sure to give your loved ones an
extra hug, and by all means, take a moment.... even if
it is only ten seconds, to stop and smell the roses.
by Robert Peterson
She was six years old when I first met her on
the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a
distance of three or four miles,whenever the world
begins to close in on me. She was building a sand
castle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as
the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood
to bother with a small child..
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really
caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes.
A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach.
Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself, hello pain, and turned
to walk on. I was depressed, my life seemed
completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and
walked on.. Her musical giggle followed me
.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called.
"We'll have another happy day."
The next few days consisted of a group of
unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother.
The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of
the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-changing balm of the seashore
awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying
to recapture the serenityI needed.
"Hello, Mr.. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know. You say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that
is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate
fairness of her face.. "Where do you live?" I
asked. "Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation"
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled
up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I
left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling
surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a
state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet
Wendy.. I thought I saw her motheron the porch and
felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I
said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd
rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my
mother died!" and thought, My God, why was I saying
this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday
and the day before and -- oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped,
misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to
the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty,
ashamed, and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to
the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A
drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair
opened the door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm
Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and
wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come
in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I
allowed her to bother you. If she was a
nuisance, please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all --! she's a delightful
child." I said, suddenly realizing that I meantwhat I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mr.
Peterson.. She had leukemia Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. Ihad to catch my breath.
"She loved this beach, so when she asked
to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better
here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But
the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice
faltered, "She left something for you, if only I can
find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for
something to say to this lovely young woman. She
handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P" printed
in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing
in bright crayon hues -- a yellow beach, a blue sea,
and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully
printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that
had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took
Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry,
I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I uttered
over and over, and we wept together. The precious
little picture is framed now and hangs in my study.
Six words -- one for each year of her life -- that
speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love.
A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and
hair the color of sand -- who taught me the gift of
love.
NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert
Peterson. It happened over 20 years ago and the
incident changed his life forever. It serves as a
reminder to all of us that we need to take time to
enjoy living and life and each other. The price of
hating other human beings is loving oneself less.
Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle
of everyday traumas can make us lose focus about what
is truly important or what is only a momentary setback or
crisis.
This week, be sure to give your loved ones an
extra hug, and by all means, take a moment.... even if
it is only ten seconds, to stop and smell the roses.
Children's Mass
At our parish, school extended to Sundays in that the pupils of the school were strongly encouraged to attend the nine o'clock Mass. The nuns required us to sit with our respective classes. First grade in front, eighth grade at the back. We pretty much took up one side of the center aisle. The Sisters kept note of our presence, whether or not we received Holy Communion and naturally of our deportment.
On Monday morning, we were asked to raise our hands if we attended the nine o'clock Mass. Those who did not had to inform all which Mass they had attended. Sometimes students said they were traveling out of town with their family, altar boys told which Mass they had served, thus discharging our obligation. Sometimes, for some reason, we attended a different Mass than the nine o'clock. That was tacitly accepted.
If any students were ferreted out as missing Mass, I recall one nun who made the offender(s) write 100 times on the board: "I am sorry dear Jesus.".
This sort of thing made such a deep impression on all of us. Even now, over sixty years later, a classmate of mine reminded me of attendance at the Children's Mass. He had not forgotten either.
On Monday morning, we were asked to raise our hands if we attended the nine o'clock Mass. Those who did not had to inform all which Mass they had attended. Sometimes students said they were traveling out of town with their family, altar boys told which Mass they had served, thus discharging our obligation. Sometimes, for some reason, we attended a different Mass than the nine o'clock. That was tacitly accepted.
If any students were ferreted out as missing Mass, I recall one nun who made the offender(s) write 100 times on the board: "I am sorry dear Jesus.".
This sort of thing made such a deep impression on all of us. Even now, over sixty years later, a classmate of mine reminded me of attendance at the Children's Mass. He had not forgotten either.
Litany of the Saints
I am posting them in the first response, since it is so long. I don't want it to take up the entire opening page. Which indeed it would! I forgot it was so long.
Holy Days of Obligation
As students in Catholic schools, we had an interesting benifit. Three days off from school not enjoyed by our counterparts in public school.
Ascension Thursday (forty days after Easter)
All Saints Day (November 1st)
Feast of the Immaculate Conception (December 8)
The other three, Christ's Circumsion (New Years Day)and Christmas are holidays for all Christians and The Feast of the Assumption (August 15th) summer time did not have an effect.
Explaining the Immaculate Conception to my 11 and 12 year old non-Catholic friends was impossible. I'm also grateful I never had to try to explain what being "assumed" into Heaven meant. That would have segued into a discussion of Faith.
We also received a holiday from school on St. Patrick's Day to celebrate the patron saint of our parish.
Ascension Thursday (forty days after Easter)
All Saints Day (November 1st)
Feast of the Immaculate Conception (December 8)
The other three, Christ's Circumsion (New Years Day)and Christmas are holidays for all Christians and The Feast of the Assumption (August 15th) summer time did not have an effect.
Explaining the Immaculate Conception to my 11 and 12 year old non-Catholic friends was impossible. I'm also grateful I never had to try to explain what being "assumed" into Heaven meant. That would have segued into a discussion of Faith.
We also received a holiday from school on St. Patrick's Day to celebrate the patron saint of our parish.
When was the last time....
You attended the Stations of the Cross. Do the churches even have them any more?
