Sister Mary Grace

Sister Mary Grace was my third grade teacher. Like all of the other nuns in our school, everything but the front part of her face was hidden by a starched, white wimple and a black habit, layers of robe-like cloth which fell straight from her shoulders to the floor. I remember how her face had a pale, never-in-the-sun look and how the fingers on her left hand were stiff, frozen and twisted. Every Friday afternoon, she made the entire class stand in a line along the front blackboards with a hand extended, palm up. Sister Grace would then go down the line smacking each child's hand with a ruler, once for each wrong committed that week. We all got smacked a number of times because we all had, of course, sinned that week.