The Trade

The Trade

I was in fourth grade at St. John the Baptist grade school and life hadn’t scarred me, yet. There were two classes in every grade, 1st thru 8th and I drew 4A and my teacher was Sister Peters, or as we kids knew her, Sister Pickle Face, she always had a sour look plastered on her mug. At mid semester break my parents were informed I was being transferred, traded outright, to 4B, why, well there was no explanation, but back then you just did as told. I had a straight A report card except for conduct and that wasn’t good. My parents figured I was too much in class, but I had just turned nine, how much trouble could I be? And was the worst part was Sister Pickle got a student to be named later, it was humiliating.

I made it through my new teachers Mrs. Mulherns’ class with no problems and as she moved up to fifth grade the following year I was grandfathered into her class. Other teachers had put me in the back of the room and some in the desk right in front of them, I was a bit of a class clown, but it took me years to perfect my act. Mrs. Mulhern did the most unexpected of all, by taking my desk and abutting it to the chalkboard, I couldn’t see anyone in class, my desk was even in front of hers.

It was fall and one day after recess I was bored and Mrs. Mulhern was droning on and on about something or the other, trying to pry answers out of kids that didn’t have it, so I took out my notebook and cut up twenty two pieces of paper of equal size. I folded them in sections to have them stand like little tents on my desk. Then I took out a pen and put jersey numbers on them all. Hell no one could see what I was doing, but it was football season so I decided I’d have a full game right there in class.

I heard the teacher still droning on, so I was well into the second quarter before a few giggles and mostly silence alerted me something was wrong. Apparently I was announcing my game aloud, enough that during this awkward silence even the kids in the back of the room could hear my play by play. I looked behind me and the entire class exploded in laughter, I turned a deep purple in my cheeks and Mrs. Mulhern had handed me my most embarrassing moment up until then.

Flash forward almost thirty years and I was teaching Physical Education and Health to kids at St. Bonaventure Elementary, about ten miles from my old elementary school and we were required to attend a seminar in neighboring Orange, California. I didn’t want to go, but the principal and vice principal insisted so off I went. The presentation was by a Sister Greta and I figured what could she teach me that I didn’t already know. I headed to the back of the venue but my sister principals insisted I sit between them and pay attention, and I was good for one or the other, but both, please.

This nun started spinning stories of kids she had taught and what she had learned from him and a few started sounding familiar, very familiar. Now I was paying attention and at our first break I excused myself from my body guards, slash prison guards, and headed towards the podium. I waited as there were three or four doofus teachers asking questions to Sister Greta, but mine was important.

When I got my turn there was a flint of recognition, her eyes looked familiar, but not in that get up, I couldn’t place her, and I’m pretty good with faces. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself and now Sister Greta turned the same shade of purple I did as a fifth grade student. She stuck out her hand and said “you don’t recognize me do you?”

“No sister” I retorted.

“When you knew me way back when, I wasn’t a nun, but things change. I always wondered if our paths would cross again. Now the principals were freaking, what had I done this time. “You knew me as Mrs. Mulhern, but after my husband passed about ten years ago I took my oath. I chose to become what I was meant to be”. I was stunned, she had five boys, how could she be a nun.

“I hope you don’t mind me telling stories about you, but you were an inspiration to me as a teacher “, I was proud and hoped she meant it as a compliment, one never knew. I introduced my guards to her and she asked if we could have a minute alone, the guards backed up out of earshot and she asked if she could introduce me, and sure I agreed.

As the exercises begat again she proudly put her arm around me and faced me towards the crowd, there was close to three hundred Catholic School teachers there and I have to say I was a little more than anxious. She began again with the microphone “excuse me everyone but we have a bit of royalty amongst us, this young man is Greg Dies, and thirty years ago he was not only in my class, but he’s the one I’ve been telling these stories about”, the crowd gasped, then awkwardly applauded.

All eyes were on me as she whispered out of microphone reach, may I go on? “Absolutely Mrs. Mulhern, I mean Sister Greta”, and so she did, including the story of my sportscasting day. I was well known after that day and even my guards backed off a little. I haven’t seen her since, but I offer this up because she was the best and most memorable teacher I ever had.

Crack Egg Out