Reflections: Nun-sense

What we come to expect of those who hold important positions or whose professions by their very nature carry a high degree of trust by others are often measured against our experiences when young. Our teachers often frame and define those events, but not always in the way we perceive of them at the time.

My year in the fifth grade with Sister Agnes Louise was one of those experiences.

By the time I arrived in her class she was worn out and pretty short of patience.

It is difficult to fault her. She was long past retirement, but dwindling numbers in her religious order kept her in the field. She had taught my parents at the same school three decades earlier.

When you misbehaved, she made you phone home. My mother was the only person home during the day. By the time she answered, I was usually crying. I doubt she understood much of what I said, but when I arrived home that afternoon I was punished just the same.

I called home a lot that year despite the consequences.

Sister Agnes Louise even gave me a quarterly grade of F--in penmanship. I've always wondered what would have happened if I had not averaged a D for the semester--held back for a repeat semester in handwriting? What an academic blemish that would have been.

Admittedly, my handwriting was terrible then--and is still. Even I can't read much of what I write in longhand.

I took an interest in history and began reading a series of biographies of great Americans. The books were in our home library. I first read the ones on Thomas Alva Edison and John Paul Jones.

I was well into The Story of George Washington when Sister Agnes Louise caught me reading the book during class. I had nestled it in one of my larger text books. Fortunately, this was not a "call-home" offense, but I did have to take home a note explaining she would return the book only if I promised in writing not to bring it back to school.

My mother wrote the note (mine would not have been readable), and my book was returned.

Most teachers would not have been offended at my reading effort or book selection, but, as I said earlier, Sister Agnes Louise was out of patience.

One day, during a rainy recess, I was chasing around a girl classmate in the hall just outside our room. She had an open container of chocolate milk and I caused her to spill it on the tile floor. We got some paper hand towels from the restroom and cleaned it up. When recess ended we returned to our desks.

Across the hall was the class room for seventh and eighth grades taught by the school principal Sister Mary Arnold. She was a rather large person. Not long after recess ended, she began walking across the hall to our room when she stepped on the tiles still slick from the milk spill

She screamed just before she hit the floor. The building shook.

The other nuns, including Sister Agnes Louise, rushed to her aid. We could hear Sister Mary Arnold crying from the hall way. She had broken her jaw in the fall.

We could also hear the discussion of why she had fallen and the discovery of the spilt chocolate milk.

At their discovery of each new piece of evidence--the milk carton and paper towels in the trash can--their voices rose. Soon, Sister Agnes Louise and another nun stormed through our door demanding to know who had spilled the milk and caused sister to fall.

Clearly, at least to me, this was my fault. Also, just as clearly, I was about to be summarily executed in the clear view of my classmates if I owned up to it.

I sat silent, and no one ratted me out--not just then anyway. Getting no satisfaction on their inquisition, the pair returned to the hall to attend to the injured sister.

I explained the circumstances to the parish priest on the playground at lunch, and he told me not to worry about it. What a relief for me, but I did feel bad about Sister Mary Arnold and her broken jaw. Surprisingly, Sister Agnes Louise never mentioned the matter to me.

Sister Mary Arnold soon left our school, and I forgot about it until . . .

Thirteen years later.

In 1976, I was a first year law student at the University of Missouri in Columbia and met another "firsty" from Ozark, Missouri, at a class social: Tim McCormick.

When Tim asked me where I was from, I told him, "New Madrid."

He paused, and then said, "I've heard of New Madrid. In fact, I had a teacher, Sister Mary Arnold, who had come from there. She told us that the kids in New Madrid were so mean and unruly they had broken her jaw."

"She told you that," I asked?

"Yes."

"Well, I'm the guy who broke her jaw." I then proceeded to tell him all about my year in the fifth grade with Sister Agnes Louise, my frequent calls home, the F in penmanship, the banned book and the chocolate milk.

We both had a laugh over the nun's distorted account of how her jaw was broken and the circumstances of our meeting in law school with such a common event we had shared 13 years earlier on opposite sides of the state.

I don't guess there was any harm in embellishing her "war story" about how her jaw came to be broken, but I would consider a nun to be in a class of people, like TV news anchors, you would expect not to be doing that--one of those folks you just trust because of their profession.

In case you are wondering, I did make it out of the fifth grade, thanks in great part to the efforts and wisdom of Sister Agnes Louise.