The march of time may cloud the incidents recounted here. After all, they transpired over fifty years ago. Memory plays tricks as time and intervening occurrences color what the mind recalls of people, places and events. I remember my kindergarten class and my teacher at that time was a kindly old woman named Miss McGilicuddy. I recall her as old not only because she appeared antediluvian to my kindergarten-age eyes but also because she taught all my older siblings as well as my mother’s kindergarten class.

I entered kindergarten at the tender age of four. In those days if a child’s birth date would result in the child turning five before the following April, that child was allowed to enroll at an earlier age. Later on, the school board changed the date of this criterion to the September prior to enrollment in order to eliminate early graduates like me but I never found my younger age to be a hindrance either in a social context or in any other way.

I recollect I stood outside the building on the first day and a teacher instructed us to form a line in pairs. A little girl approached and asked whether she could join me and hold my hand. Not seeing this as untoward, I acquiesced and we sauntered into the class, her smiling munificently and me, in turn, smiling under the impression that I had made a new friend, one of the female persuasion.

To my everlasting chagrin, I did not bother to find out the child’s name, a failing that would follow me later in life and foil potential romantic relationships. As my record with members of the fairer sex attests to other less than admirable qualities, this flaw is probably for the best. My two divorces are testimony to the fact that other unassuming innocents avoided inevitable ignominy. Beyond my nascent societal shortcomings, my other recollections of kindergarten involve playing with building blocks as well as other toys and bedding down on little rugs deployed for taking naps, not exactly the best environment for structured learning.

For my part, I had already begun rudimentary reading so kindergarten was somewhat of a disappointment. In one of my first memories, I recall walking hand in hand with my mother on one side and my Aunt Ursula on the other, reading aloud the signs posted above and along a carnival midway . After several minutes of this, my aunt requested that I desist as I was annoying her. Not wanting to dissuade my precocious display of erudition, my mother suggested I continue reading to myself in silence.

Another early childhood memory involves a church organization for underprivileged children named Nazareth. During my mother’s pregnancy with my youngest brother Gary, she fractured her arm. As she had given birth to eight children already, this circumstance handicapped her considerably to the point that she was unable to care for the rest of her brood. Consequently, my parents made the decision to ship up us off to the previously mentioned school. As a child, I attended a Catholic school run by the Sisters of Saint Joseph. Those nuns wore an all-black serge habit with a black headpiece sporting a white triangle insert above the forehead.

The nuns at Nazareth, on the other hand, wore a black habit as well but also wore a large white headdress a la the Flying Nun. They whisked about the grounds seeming to float on an uplift propelled by these white wings. The mind of a child affords a problematic platform on which to construct later adult reminiscence consequently a childlike ingenuousness may infuse these memories. Suffice to say, these “flying nuns” proffered a distinct fascination for me for the duration of my stay at Nazareth.

I was in second grade at the time but due to my age, the nuns placed me in a grade level that consisted of rudimentary reading drills, flash cards and the like. When I protested, the nun informed me that I was apparently well ahead of the others so she gave me a drawing pad and encouraged me to work on my art skills. I felt I had revisited that kindergarten class but because I enjoyed art, I resolved to enjoy myself. My siblings found themselves distributed among various different levels with the older brothers attending higher classes and the youngest at that time, Philip ending up in a quandary of his own.

Philip had an abundance of copper-colored curls that my mom adamantly refused to cut from the time of his birth. The resultant tangle of blazing tresses fell to his shoulders and garnered the approbation of every female to have the pleasure of gazing upon them. It seems the nuns of Nazareth were not immune in this regard. When my father came to collect us, the nuns were unable to locate Philip. In answer to his inquiries as to his whereabouts, the nuns revealed their ignorance of his gender, proclaiming the little girl had such lovely red hair.

“Your lovely little girl is my Philip,” my dad responded indignantly. Philip was eventually located and returned to the fold but not before, we all wondered how a male child could have been sheltered for some weeks without these nuns ascertaining his true gender. Their obliviousness seemed to point up the inability of persons of the cloth, at least in those days, to deal with issues involving sex and gender. This may well be an unfair generalization but it is of a piece with my experience.