Memories Of Cardigans, Catechism

It’s back to school time again and my skin itches. Somewhere, in the back of the closet of my childhood, waits a blue wool cardigan. Standard parochial school issue. It was worn on the first day of school, always the hottest day of the year, along with the rest of the uniform.

The weave of the sweater was so tight that the wearer was hermetically sealed in its formaldehyde-scented embrace. Only a winter’s worth of snowball fights could change that odor and not for the better. The aroma of wet cardigans and dirty socks drying on old radiators produced the memorable school fragrance, eau de scorched wool.

The Spanish Inquisition wool should have been our first clue. We were about to do nine months of hard time in the world’s toughest joint: Catholic school. On the first day we met our nemesis, the nuns.

Allegedly, they were women. But it was hard to tell. The only visible flesh was their hands and faces that jutted out from their wimples like harvest moons. The rest of their bodies were covered from head to toe in black habits cinched at the waist by an enormous rosary that doubled as a whip for crowd control. Most of them needed a shave.

Their mission was to get us to heaven. We were hoping to make it to high school. They greeted us with that special Catholic blend of affection and accusation. Our first lesson was guilt.

The lesson went something like this: Whatever it is, it’s bad and you did it, or will do it, or you’ll think about doing it and that’s just as bad as having done it. Kid’s translation: Might as well do it.

Of course, we paid the price: corporal punishment, also known as getting the living bejeebers knocked out of you. Rulers snapped across the knuckles, chalk board erasers hit upside the head, hacks with a solid oak paddle, solitary confinement in the cloak room and scrubbing the convent floors with toothbrushes were just some of our punishments.

No sweat. We knew we were redeemable. We had the ace card, our second lesson, confession. The lesson went something like this: Sin. Confess. Repent. Repeat once a week.

The priest heard the confessions in a tiny, dark closet in the church known as the confessional. The ideal number of sins to confess was three. You were humble enough to know your faults, but good enough not to have many. More than three was trouble. Less than three was impossible. My brother was nearly expelled once for confessing that he had no sins to confess.

One of the highlights of our education was studying for our confirmation into the Church. We pored over the Baltimore catechism, memorizing hundreds of questions and answers of faith. All of this was in preparation for the day when the bishop would visit the school and ask each of us a mind-bendingly difficult question. The futures of our souls, to say nothing of our backsides, depended upon the right answer.

Finally, the big day came. We assembled in the lunch room. The bishop, dressed to the nines, faced us. The questions began. I watched my classmates stutter, blubber and flub their way through hundreds of years of dogma. Finally, it was my turn. The bishop turned his gaze to me and asked, “Who is the mother of Jesus?” Trick question, I thought. Had to be. Think, think, think. Obvious answer is “Mary” so that’s not it. Maybe Martha or Magdalene or Ruth? Was this in the book?

The bishop repeated the question. I answered in a voice full of fierce faith, “Mary?”

“Correct” bellowed the bishop.

Thank God.

In our years at parochial school we learned that pagan babies could be saved by stamp drives, a good soul resembled a bottle of milk and that, for true believers, scapulars could stop a bullet. We also learned arithmetic.

And yes, God was merciful. By spring, our scorched cardigans were well beyond wear. Summer was on its way and all, until the next September, was right with the world.

The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Kathleen Corkery Spencer The Spokesman-Review