of seventeen.
But that first one in particular I don't recall. I recall rather the shadowy aisle of the church and the immensity of the confessional, and the utter seriousness of this confrontation with the reality of sin.
On the day of my First Communion, the only thing I really cared about was my white dress, my paper wreath of white flowers, and those I'd visit afterwards as the special little girl who'd just made her First Communion.
Someone at some point told us that Napoleon Bonaparte had once said that the happiest day of his life was that of his First Communion. I felt dreadfully inadequate after hearing that. There was no doubt in my mind that I lacked that kind of depth. And years later when I discovered Napoleon had been about twelve when he made his First Communion, I was distinctly relieved. After all, I'd been only six.
Now this is the memory I hold sacred from that day.
After the ceremony I was taken to old Mercy Hospital on the riverfront to visit the nuns. My aunt Anna Mae of the beautiful name was there, no doubt, though I don't recall her.
I do remember being in the garden with the sisters, another one of those lovely places with which my childhood is filled.
I suppose you couldn't have a Catholic institution without a lush and beautiful garden. You couldn't have a hospital, an old folks' home, a boarding school or a grammar school without that mysterious place set apart for blossoms, within brick walls.
And I recall an ancient nun, a kitchen sister, all in white with an apron, coming into the hospital garden and telling me with a radiant face that this was a wonderful day because my soul was so pure. She was thin, almost wraithlike, and she made me think of driftwood; but the look of joy on her face and the enthusiasm with which she said these words were breathtaking to me. She seemed utterly and completely sincere and in the presence of a magnificent concept that went beyond anyone or anything present.
She is the memory of my First Communion, and I never knew her name - a woman who came out of the kitchen in her white apron to tell me gently and with immense conviction what it meant that my immortal soul was pure.
After First Communion I went all the time to Mass and Communion, and in those days this involved a total fast from midnight. One could not drink a drop of water. One could eat not a crumb. But it didn't matter. This was part of the way things were, and Mass was the way to begin every single day.
Even in summer, when we did not have the sisters to herd us into the church, my mother roused us. "He's three blocks away," she would say. "He's on that altar. Now get up and go." She'd have breakfast ready when we came home.
By second grade, we were reading "Bible history," and this was our beginning of understanding the Bible as a collection of tales. It is true that Catholics of this period did not learn the Bible. And I don't ever recall seeing a Bible in our house.
We weren't forbidden to study it; we simply didn't do it. The Gospel on Sunday was a reading by the priest from the New Testament; the Epistle on Sunday was a reading from the letters of St. Paul. I don't think I ever really understood who St.
Paul really was, except that he had written the Epistles read to us on Sunday, but why or when I did not know.
I never understood the Epistles. They struck me as vague and abstract.
Our study of "Bible history" told us the tales of both Old and New Testaments, which we learned from little books with delicate pen illustrations in which the biblical figures were appealingly drawn.
Recently I've examined several editions of the Illustrated Bible History by Dr. I. Schuster. And I'm fairly certain we used a version of this material, though precisely which edition I don't know. What strikes me as I look at the books now is that the stories of the Bible are detached from the voice or name of any particular book of the Bible, and though much biblical language is used, there are also sections of teaching which do not come directly from Scripture. For example, right after the words of God condemning Adam - "for dust thou art, and into dust thou shalt return" - there comes