Sister Mary Agatha, the Enforcer

Sister Mary Agatha looked nice enough. Peering into the funnel of her habit we could see an old smiling face. It was hard to tell with nuns but this one was sort of grandmotherish. So she couldn't be too bad.

It was 1954 and I was part of the seventh grade class at St. Albert the Great elementary school.

“The first day of school went just fine,” I told my mom. “We got a nun for a teacher again, not like Miss Allen at all. We have a real nun in a real habit.”

We all ambled in the second day of class, laughing, talking and ignoring the person in black sitting at her desk in the front of the classroom.

She just sat there. She didn't say a thing. She didn't yell at us to be quiet like Miss Allen did every morning last year. She just stared at this class of 30 kids who had made Miss Allen’s life a living hell the previous year.

Well maybe hell is too strong a word but we didn't make it easy. I guess we were pretty mean to Miss Allen. I don't say poor Miss Allen, because I never liked her and worst of all, like the entire class, I didn't respect her.

Was it because she wasn't a nun that she lacked authority? Was it because she was human with real hair that wasn't hidden beneath a medieval wimple? Was it because she looked silly aiming the nun’s traditional clicker at us? We ignored her. Any nun could use one of those clickers to silence an entire class. But not Miss Allen.

We just didn't seem to listen to her. We laughed and passed notes, we didn't line up in perfect rows or stand up simultaneously when she demanded it. She either screamed or pleaded with us to behave. Yes she even whined. She chose Pauline Wagner to use as an  example of the perfect deportment she expected the rest of us to emulate. We hated poor Pauline. It took me years to realize she hated being a teacher’s pet as much we hated her.

So to the sound of whispering and giggling, spit balls were thrown and notes passed. We did imitations of her mannerisms. The boys put icky things in her desk drawers. They attached a string to her chair to make it fall over. We tried our best to make her miserable.

As I realize now, we were bound to pay. No properly run 1950s Catholic grade school called St. Albert the Great and administered by a principal named Sister Melathon was going to let that situation go on forever.

So here we were, it was the second day of school and that sweet grandma thing had disappeared. Yes indeed this was no Miss Allen.

This was Sister Mary Agatha. And there was no raised voice, no pleading, just silence as she sat there staring at us. And each time a kid would look at her face there was one less kid laughing and talking. This lady was going to be a whole different story. Only she wasn't a lady at all. Or a woman. She was what Miss Allen wasn't. She was a nun.

She rose from her seat and slowly walked up and down the rows of desks. We were allowed to feel the full impact of the long black robe, the perfectly white collar and bib and the blue, blue eyes that didn't seem to blink.  And the clicker not quite concealed in her pocket.

Sister Mary Agatha’s long heavy rosary swayed gently from her waist. Her faded hands were folded and it didn't take long for us to realize that she meant business and we were the business she was going to deal with.

As I think about it now she must have been the travelling Enforcer of the Sisters of Charity. A force so formidable that she was called in to clean up errant classes like ours. Classes that had gotten out of control.

There she was quietly looking us over. Taking our measure. Almost inaudibly she enumerated the Rules. No one needed to be told to write them down and remember them. No getting out of your seat without asking permission, no talking without permission, no laughing without permission, no anything without permission. There would be punctuality, quiet and attention. Or else.

It was the ‘Or Else’ that did it. No one wanted to test what ‘Or Else’ meant.

Was there corporal punishment? Caning? A rap on a knuckle? Nope, not once. Just that look, that stare and a voice that could have raised the dead and buried them again all in one long minute.

So I spent the first half of the year unable to eat breakfast because I felt too much like throwing up. I think it was the only year in my life when I handed my homework in on time. I kept a low, low profile in class, skipped my little comments and was the picture of a Good Girl.

We were drilled in grammar, arithmetic, history and catechism. Our penmanship was scrutinized. Essays had to be letter perfect and in ink. No erasures, no gravy spots, no misspelled words.

She knew whether or not you had actually read the book you were reporting on. Nothing seemed to get past her and if she raised her voice, terror, real fear gripped the room. A few tried to cross her: a few spit balls were tossed, a note or two were immediately confiscated and even a real worm was hidden in her desk drawer. She just laughed and tossed it in the wastebasket.

By December we were marching to her drum and she prepared to show us off. She taught us a Gregorian chant and arranged for us to sing at Sunday Mass. We were a real hit.

After Christmas she began sort of smiling from time to time. Then there were actual jokes. She said nice things to us. Praised a good job. Spoke words of encouragement. I could eat breakfast again.

She decided we should put on play for the rest of the school.

I don't remember much about the performance but I know all the lyrics to June is Bustin’ Out All Over to this day. We practiced and practiced and on the appointed day pranced and performed and sang and danced and had a great time. In fact I think I can speak for the entire seventh grade class of St. Albert the Great school: we began to love Sister Mary Agatha.

The school year ended and she said goodbye. We were sorry to see her leave.

The next fall we were given Sister Henrietta, a nun so mild and sweet only a perfectly behaved class like us could be assigned to her.

And Sister Mary Agatha? We never saw her again. I guess she went on to next bad class in the next school. After all she was the Enforcer.

Twinkies on the Nile

It’s before dawn and very dark. Jim and I follow a fast walking guide who isn’t groping his way down seemingly ancient stone steps or stumbling over rutted flagstones. Finally we join 10 other tourists aboard a tiny ferry draped in fringed cloths. We are crossing the Nile River. It’s a wow moment, one of those you won’t need pictures to remember.

We travel in an early morning fog and as the sun rises we hear the call to prayer echoing in the distance. It's a bit chilly and we are offered tea in tiny cups and a plate of pastries is passed around. I’ll be darned if they aren’t Twinkies. So this is where they disappeared to.

It is Egypt in April 2012 after all. The spell was broken for the moment but there was still enough of the ancient and awesome around us. This was the Valley of the Kings and we were on our way to a hot air balloon ride.

As I look back on this wonderful trip, I realize that the entire nation of Egyptians was on a hot air balloon ride of its own. It’s just that no one knew how soon the nation would be forced down to earth.

There was such an air of hope and confidence among the people we talked to. Just a year before, in 2011, The Arab Spring had felled a dictatorship. The people had gotten rid of Mubarak and were jubilant. They talked about the truly democratic elections coming up.

Our Cairo guide proudly pointed out Tahrir Square.  “ See, there are still tents, the whole square was covered with them. I was there. The people spoke and now we are free.”

“We have shown them,” our next guide, Aladdin, smiled. “They know we are watching and will rise again if they wrong us.”

I liked the Egyptians I met and observed.

I think of those happy, hopeful faces. I think of the years of subjugation these people had endured only to find themselves once again, under a new dictatorship.

We had signed up and paid for a tour of Egypt in 2011when the uprisings of the Arab Spring caused the State Department to cancel all travel to Egypt.

By 2012, and even though the situation had quieted down, we believed that we had lost our chance to visit there. Some friends of ours traveled to Cairo and assured us it was safe. They had lived in Egypt for years and felt it would be a great time to visit. They told us that, especially as tourists, we would be gratefully welcomed.

By this time the State Department lifted its travel ban. We found an agency offering guided tours to Egypt and signed up.

When we arrived at the Cairo airport, we found that our tour consisted of a party of two: us.

The tourist industry had definitely shriveled. We encountered very few Americans during our 10 days of travel but there were a number of groups of French and German tourists.

Vendors besieged us. We felt we needed to tip much more than we would normally give on a tour. It seemed we were supporting families single handedly.

If getting individual treatment is a sign of a good tour, we got that aplenty. We were given our own guide at each stopping point. We were treated to private vans and exceptional hotels.

Egypt seemed to me to be a rather benign place. Driving through Cairo and Alexandria’s snarled traffic, the thing that struck me was that there were almost no horns honking, no screams of frustration as we had seen in Delhi, Istanbul or for that matter New York City. These people just seemed to cope with the situation. Maybe everyone was in a good mood, or it was a good couple of days but it was noticable.

Besides feeling a bit lonely, I loved every minute of our tour. The pyramids were actually right across the street from our hotel in Giza. The brand new Library of Alexandria was a marvel. Sailing the Nile on a felucca manned by two very young teenagers was exhilarating. Seeing the Sahara and walking through the splendor of the massive Temple of Karnak at night were all unforgettable.

The country is now under a new more repressive dictatorship. The tourist industry must be all but totally closed down.

What a pity for the world to be denied these ancient splendors.

Not to mention Twinkies.

Grandma Proof

One of the advantages of youth is the ability to open childproof containers.

I have never met a kid who couldn’t. I just spent five minutes trying to open a simple plastic card of AAA batteries. It even had an ‘open here’ place. But I knew better. 

If possible I don't step up to the opening of any container without a kid within pleading range. Frequently grandchildren will look up from Minecraft to respond to grandparently distress signals. Especially if accompanied by their favorite brownies.

Without them I have to use scissors or screwdrivers. I don't dare put what’s left of my teeth in peril just to open a parcel. USPS delivers only packages bound with that tape that has steel threads running through it. Sometimes even a pair of scissors isn’t strong enough.

Soup cans have only one end that accepts a simple can opener. The other one is rounded and impenetrable. Or has an easy to use pop-top thing. Sure.

Opening seltzer bottles requires herculean strength in my opinion and by the time I do get one opened, I have forgotten that seltzer fizzes all over the place while I am yelling “I got you open you wretched excuse for a bottle…” by that time I am soaked.

I could go on with a litany of impossible jars, medicine containers, tea packets and even ketchup bottles, which have been made impervious to blood, sweat and tears. Is this in the name of safety? I wonder if those manufacturers are all childless. Don't they know how marvelously clever and nimble young fingers are?

Are they so afraid of hearing that “Oh grandma, here let me do it” that they have never tried these gizmos out on a panel of expert ten year olds?

On the other hand, if these things really were childproof, everyone would be starving, unmedicated and thirsty. Better they don't know.

So far I have not dealt with the importance of grandchildren in the electronic age. This need for assistance with one’s computer has come to outrank the need for help in opening things.

There is a commercial running on TV now, showing a pair of grandchildren being greeted not by grandparently kisses, but by a pile of dead electronics. In my opinion, the grandparents aren’t properly grateful. I mean we don't want to alienate our little saviors.

Computers are getting more and more complicated in the name of identity theft. Soon even children won’t be able to open them.

Electronics will be so hacker proof that only the hackers will be able to get into them. I wonder how old those guys are? And if they like chocolate chip cookies.

Death in the Tiergarten

“If Death starts coming toward us, let’s get the hell outta here,” Jim whispered to his sister, Mary, and me.

We were in Germany, taking a break in the Tiergarten after a long walk across Berlin. A short distance from us, one of those living statues was performing for a small crowd.

Performing might not be the exact word as the tall gray and silver draped figure glared at the passersby who dropped coins into a silver basket. Death’s face was obscured by a dark cloak and a silvery cowl-like hood.  The figure held a very long, very heavy looking broadsword, which it occasionally arced menacingly through the air.

Mary and I were in total agreement with Jim: one step in our direction and goodbye bench, goodbye Tiergarten and especially goodbye Death.

We didn't have to flee because exactly at 6:00 PM church bells began ringing and Death descended from its height.

The silvery cloak and cowl were removed, carefully folded and stowed in the pedestal, which proved to be just a milk crate. The sword collapsed nicely and disappeared. Death washed its face and revealed an attractive young girl who attached the box to a bike and pedaled away.

Death was outta there.

And with a collective sigh of relief, so were we.

Me and the Umlaut

The umlaut and I have never gotten along.

I don't seem to be able to wrap my tongue around the particular sound of a long “o” and along “a”, pronounced simultaneously with my lips pursed. It just doesn't come out right.

 This problem began with a college course in the Romantic period of literature.

After sighing sadly over the losses of Keats to tuberculosis and Shelley to the Mediterranean, we moved on to the German Romantics.

I was intrigued. They were appealingly healthy and robust and not inclined to die easily.

I read the sorrows of Young Werther and Faust, written by the supreme German Romantic writer. His name was G-o-e-t-h-e.

I suppose you noticed that I spelled rather than pronounced his name. I happened to be dating a fellow who was studying German. I proudly told him about my reading. I named the author.

He winced. “ Whoa. That's not even close to the way you pronounce his name. The vowel sound is like an umlaut – a simple diphthong – and you have to purse your lips and say the “o” and the “a” together at the same time. Let me show you.”

Needless to say, this small achievement eluded me. And continued to every time I attempted to pronounce a German word with an “o”, “u” or “a” followed by an “e” or with an umlaut over it.

My date, who I was seeing quite a bit of, just couldn't believe that I couldn't master such a simple concept.

So I did what any pronunciation challenged person would do: if I couldn't skip those umlauted words I just spelled them out.

It’s 50 years later and that same guy is sitting across from me muttering at a newscaster who is mispronouncing the German chancellor’s name.

That's fine with me. After all, I can say her name pretty well. There’s no umlaut in Angela Merkel.