That summer, during a backyard get-together after kindergarten, George and I showed off our completion certificates to our older relatives who and listened to older cousins talk about the grueling routine of full-session school days awaiting us in first grade. 

 

            “You’re gonna have to learn spelling, cursive writing, and arithmetic...” Cousin Jo-Jo seemed to delight in frightening us, but I was more intrigued than scared—especially with the arithmetic stuff!

 

            “…and geography!” she continued. 

 

            “Geography’s not until third grade!” Cousin Louise corrected. 

 

            My father was an avid travel buff and had told me all about, geography, countries, and maps and stuff. I even had a world map on my wall along with a United States map and a map of New Jersey!  I was so ready for first grade.

 

            That summer was memorable. George incurred one of his bizarre head injuries. When we were playing war at the freight yard with neighborhood kids, George was struck in the back of his head by a railroad spike that we had been tossing as hand grenades. 

 

            That same summer, George's old brother Eugene – “Genie,” for short - was spiked in a baseball game, which resulted in a broken leg. It was a hoot to watch him whack a Whiffle ball with his crutch and hobble around the bases looking like a Duncan yo-yo in "the swing" posture. Genie received much attention and was the neighborhood celebrity that summer. 

 

            “C’mon! Run it in, Genie!” we yelled, as he rounded the old paint can lid (third base) and headed back to the roof shingle (home plate).

 

            One of the summer highlights for my sisters and me was the ice cream man. Every day after dinner we would hear the bells a block away and somehow come up with the necessary coinage to get an ice cream. Mostly, we bought Popsicles which were only a nickel, and when we had the where-with-all, a toasted almond or torpedo was the prize. At some point the ice cream man retired his "Cholly Chimes" freezer truck and arrived in a brand new "Mr. Softee" soft ice cream truck! 

 

            As summer waned the new school year loomed before us like a giant, scary shadow in a haunted forest. We got new book bags and lunch boxes. Both came from Woolworth's or Kressge's - the competing five-and-ten cent stores in town. Book bags were great smelling brown leather affairs with two belts and plastic handles. My lunch box was a rectangular steel box sporting a "Wild Bill Hickock" theme with a matching Thermos bottle. For me, mom always bought new things. My sisters also got new school supplies, but our older girl cousins who went to our school were the source of their hand-me-down uniforms, shoes and coats. 

 

            In first grade we wore neckties. For the rest of my life I thought I would probably wear ties. I was already learning. We wrote our first words with fat lead pencils on yellow paper with blue lines on it. Sister Rosaire had a mean streak in her and a sharp eye for all non-performers. 

 

            She had a particular dislike for one of the boys, Michael, and subjected him to beatings with a wooden hairbrush in the coatroom for infractions that to this day I do not understand. I met with her wrath only once when I was daydreaming during our oral reading exercise. I had lost my place in the book and read from the wrong page. Before I could look up, her heavy wooden ruler came crashing down on the open pages of my book. While never experiencing the physical abuse that was inflicted on poor Michael, I nevertheless was duly terrified and never crossed any teacher for the rest of my academic career at Assumption school. 

 

            My best friend in first grade was Thomas, the kid who used to pee himself in kindergarten. We enjoyed playing ‘Zorro’ games in the courtyard at recess. He had a knack for acting the part and could speak with a respectable Spanish accent. It was good to have someone like Tom taking the lead in our games. 

 

            My desk partner was a fragile girl name Frances who was always sick and frequently absent. The last time that I saw her, she had a bandage over one eye. One morning, Sister Rosaire announced that Francis had died. I was a scared because I never knew a kid who died and sad because I liked her. The empty desk next to me was a continual reminder of that. George expressed sympathy that my partner was gone, and I believe that was my first feeling of loss.  

 

            Sometime that spring, we moved to our spanking-new school. Classroom by classroom, with our arms laden with everything from our old desks plus our lunchboxes and book bags, we marched the short but icy block across Maple Avenue to the new building. Along the way, many of us either fell or dropped stuff. The nuns helped the smallest by carrying some of their stuff. I was one of the people who dropped their stuff but wasn’t little enough to merit any aid. Like the others, I was berated and encouraged to continue under the threat of being hit. The journey seemed to take forever.

 

            The new classrooms were beautiful! Our flip-seated, bolted-down, ancient desks were replaced with perfectly smooth blonde-veneered finished desks and separate matching chairs. And, the blackboards were green! We still clapped erasers outside, but special a chemical was needed to clean these green chalkboards at the end of each week. 

 

            Light colored tile covered the floors and everything smelled like floor wax.  That spring, we marched from our classroom to the Assumption church to receive our First Holy Communion. The girls wore white dresses and veils and the boys matched in white suits and ties. My suit was a hand-me-down from Gregory Lieber, an older boy from the neighborhood, while George’s was handed down from an older cousin.   

 

            Second grade followed first grade after a remarkable summer when we were given a swing set, replete with three swings and a tandem rocker (we called it a teeter-totter). Mrs. McFadden was our new teacher and the class size had swollen to over sixty. The parish did not have the funds for the additional teachers, so we crowded into a single classroom by abutting the desks into pairs and keeping them in tight rows. Thomas  began to find new friends and John - everyone called him Kim – became my new best friend. He was an intelligent boy with a passion for science. We shared games involving space travel and robots. Second grade brought us a lot of new subjects to learn – like geography – with really nice textbooks, and arithmetic!

 

            Sometime that year, my grandmother died. My mother had a genuine love for her and was her caregiver during the years when her health began to fail. The hearse from Doyle’s funeral home was picking her up as my dad pulled up the driveway. We saw her at the wake and there was a big gathering at the house after the funeral. Aunt Lizzie, my grandmother’s sister, along with her dozen-or-so cats, remained the sole occupant of the downstairs apartment for several more years.

 

            Third grade delivered us into the hands of another nun. Sister Francis wasn’t as moody or as physical as Sister Rosaire, but like most nuns, she had her ways of instilling the fear of God into the children. The school lessons seemed to make sense now. I enjoyed all of them and did well. Already, along with Kim, Patrick , and a couple of others, I was among the “smart kids.” We were given special projects, usually science-related, to work on. 

            

            I was also beginning to bloom as an artist and found a new friend with similar talents in Michael. He showed me how to draw monsters and I showed him how to draw airplanes. We later shared an interest in comic books, plastic models, HO-scale trains, monster movies, magazines, and exploring. The alleys and back fences of Morristown became our thoroughfares. From squashing pennies on the railroad tracks to floating paper boats in puddles, we explored the great mysterious adventure that was childhood.