Perhaps it was the presence of Sister Edith in that black habit, big white bib and covered forehead that made me forget the trauma I had undergone minutes before, when my mother dropped her crying, 6-year-old boy at the classroom door of St. Mary's School on Pittsburgh's North Side.

Mom had said other kids would be there and not to be afraid, but having been in her constant presence during my entire existence, I feared the worst; maybe I'd never see her again.

I couldn't turn to Dad for help. He died at 36 when I was 1 1/2 and wasn't even a memory in my abbreviated life. Where would I go if Mom didn't return when this scary ordeal ended?

I could go to Aunt Aggie's house or upstairs to the neighbor's. I ruled the latter out, since I knew the man up there was always smashed and shouting when he wasn't holding his 5-year-old daughter out of the third-story window, threatening to drop her to the pavement below.

I considered my best friend Jimmy's house next door to my aunt's, but his parents were usually drunk, too, and they didn't let him out to play as often as I liked. Yes, I was convinced: Aggie's was my backup plan, albeit a three-block run from our two-room, 10-bucks-a-month shack on Voskamp Street.

On the positive side, I was excited getting dressed that fateful morning. I wore purple pants and was proud of my gold and purple Dick Tracy suspenders. Maybe he and his magic two-way wrist radio would help me through this unknown thing called the first day of school.

Alas, the moment of truth arrived, and Mom and I started that long 20-minute death walk. There were other screaming boys and girls in class, but that evoked little solace considering the dire circumstances we were all in: a whole morning without our moms, and alone with this strange person in black-and-white garb!

I recall little else about that September day, except all of the wailing eventually subsided -- most likely, because we all concluded we were in the same boat or, conceivably, Sister waved her magic pointer, or calmed us down with kind words or treats. I seriously doubt it was treats, though, since the good nuns always said eating in class was a sin.

I don't recollect if Sister Edith taught us anything about miracles, but God performed one that day when the bell rang, and Mom was waiting outside. I stopped worrying about running to Mom's sister's abode, but the bad news was that I'd have to do this again tomorrow and the following day. However, after serious deliberation, I determined it wasn't so bad and quickly forgot about my anguishing mental experience.

Thinking back so many years ago, St. Mary's should have been the least of my frights. I thought my life was normal. I didn't know that other kids didn't have to bathe in a basin because both sink spigots ran ice-cold water, or didn't have to hike up two lengthy flights to enter a freezing outhouse and feel icy water spray their behinds while sitting on a cracked seat behind a big, brown, squeaky door with only the glow of a flashlight.

Unlike me, other kids had TVs, bicycles and telephones. Nevertheless, not having these finer things in life didn't disappoint me.

Listening to the radio with Mom suited me fine, although I did wonder why Jimmy had a big white thing in his kitchen called a Frigidaire. In comparison, we had an ugly orange contraption called an icebox, and a man came inside twice a week carrying big blocks of ice on his shoulders, held by large, black scissors.

That enjoyable first grade flew by quickly. I couldn't wait for summer to end so I could go on to my second year of trauma.

Little did I know, but it turned out to be just that, because we were faced with the scourge of Sally, the paddle with a large, round hole delivered by old, scowl-faced Sister Victoria. In addition, she occasionally bounced our heads off the hard blackboard and rapped our knuckles with her incredibly convenient little, round, wooden pointer.

Yes, my childhood memories will last a lifetime!

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