Written On Our Hearts

Our entire seventh grade class had been warned about our behavior. Instead of posing for a picture we decided to play a pickup game of basketball in the gym. We were reprimanded for being disobedient and defiant during our opportunity to take the traditional “incoming eighth graders class photo.” Our teacher, Mrs. Cullen was not only angry at our insubordination but also perturbed that the one photo she managed to take she thought we looked like “disheveled hooligans” instead of “nice Catholic school children.” Clearly, our picture was not making it into the St. Patrick’s Easter bulletin. Now that she had managed to gain control of us again, we were about to be walked back to her classroom for more academic enrichment. Many of us, myself included, still had “the naughty giggles” and some left over energy from our unfinished game of basketball. This being evident, she said, “anyone who makes a sound on the way back to class will be punished”, as we started walking. Personally, I ...

It was a warm summer day, before cell phones took over the universe, and my little brother and I were playing a game of home run derby in the backyard of our childhood home in Malvern, PA. I was about 13 years old, he was about 10. He was an athlete (and still is an athlete), I...well I just wandered around on little league fields (I’ve stopped wandering around...well at least on baseball diamonds). But this day there weren’t any scoreboards...or umpires just two brothers having fun pitching tennis balls at a cut off hockey stick trying to hit them into our neighbors pool (over the years we tried to hit lots of items in their pool...but I’ll save the story of “Pete Sampras mad at his neighbors” for another occasion). Home run derby was our favorite summer game - we played it often and we had a dirt spot in my father’s otherwise pristinely manicured lawn to prove it. We would always stand in the same place to hit baseballs. We played it so often that we wore out the grass down to t...

I’ve known since I was in first grade that my stay in purgatory will probably be quite long (and I believe my reservation at the Suffering Suites hotel is getting longer day by day, but never mind that for now). As I remember, the earliest series of serious and repeated offenses that sent me toward the temporal timeout corner was not doing my Monkey Business in first grade. Yes, you read that correctly, Monkey Business. You’d think that any first grader who successfully avoided monkey business would have a golden ticket to heaven, except that my first grade teacher Mrs. Gerwig cleverly used this deceptive term to mean classwork. And who has time for doing Monkey Business when one is already knee deep in…what is the term I am looking for…oh that’s it…monkey business. But no matter how one dressed up doing school work (even hanging a vine across the chalkboard with monkey’s swinging from it holding worksheets) I never liked it, let alone did much of it in first grade. Instead I was c...