Second Grade

In second grade I had an elderly nun as my teacher. She didn't like us and we didn't like her. She spit when she talked and squeezed our arms when we talked. One afternoon another child and I managed to follow her around. We stayed close enough behind her that we could see up her veil and that she couldn't see us. She didn't even seem to miss us for those couple of hours. And for this I am sure I will experience hellfire. Purgatory won' t even be part of the discussion. Me inside of the pearly gates will be a good joke series St. Peter will tell when Jesus is down about the state of the world.

When I was in Nebraska last week I found a picture of her standing up next to our first communion class. We looked like angels with our hands folded and our baby teeth smiles. She, even though her hands were also folded, was glaring sideways with a drill sergeant pucker of the lips. I'm not sure of what she was waiting for. Maybe for one of us to grow up and write about her on our blog.

It's weird. Sometimes when I'm sitting in the office trying to write or get work done I instead play with this wind-up toy nun and watch her march across my desk shooting sparks out of her mouth. But I must admit I always get back to work when I think back to my huge second grade pencil and my thick pad of lined paper that would inevitably be smacked with an old hand and splat with saliva circles when I dilly dallied.