It was almost June of 1962, which meant school would soon be out for the summer. I loved June for this reason, but I didn’t want May to be over since it meant the end of the beloved ritual to the Blessed Mother.  Any decent Catholic girl not only knew of the “May Altar” but was highly invested in its tradition.  In my case, this involved a 16-inch ceramic statue of Jesus’s Mother with her hands outstretched as if to welcome the world’s problems. She resided on an old crocheted doily adorned with daily fresh flowers.  That shrine sat on my tiny French Provincial nightstand every day of May.

I heard the midday bell, which startled me. The loud beckoning rang at Saint Paul’s Elementary School in Cranston, Rhode Island, precisely at 1145 am. The shrill noise was to alert the walkers, like me. Those were the students lucky enough to live close by and go home for lunch, thereby escaping the soggy mess that most brown bags became after four hours in the cloakroom.

The elderly nun bustled by, and I heard the clinking of rosary beads acting as a belt, traversing her rotund belly.  As she passed my small wooden desk, the slight aroma of musty and old permeated her personal space.  Not necessarily a foul odor, but not one that Chanel or even Jean Nate would have ever wanted to bottle.  Sister Benevedes beckoned her entourage of blue shirts and plaid skirts, alphabetically, of course, and led us out of the classroom and headed home to lunch. She reminded the rest of the class to remain silent until she returned. We entered the hallway, walking toward the enormous double doors, which emptied us at the feet of the crossing guard.

After we crossed the street, I met up with friends and walked home approximately five blocks, and stole lilacs and forsythia from unsuspecting neighbors along the way.  I believed it was okay because, every Saturday afternoon, I would don my white mantilla and head to the Church, where I sat in one of the back pews awaiting my turn for Confession. No matter what you were doing, when three o’clock rolled around, you got cleaned up and headed to the church for this Holy Sacrament of Reconciliation. While I waited in silence amongst a sea of sinners in the pew, I wondered if anyone had transgressed worse than I. I never murdered anyone, nor did I covet my neighbor’s wife, whatever that meant. When it became my turn, I entered the massive closet of forgiveness. The heavy dark maroon curtain sheltered me and my sins from others as I nervously knelt in the darkness and blessed myself, ready to admit my dastardly deeds to the priest awaiting me. I made the sign of the cross as I said,

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

My thinking was, that stolen flowers, that venial sin, a lesser infraction, shouldn’t cost me more than three Hail Marys.  That was the only thing I could think of that I did wrong the past week. But just in case, I always threw in, “I lied once.”

Once in the house, I proceeded upstairs to my room after a quick, “Hi Mom, what ‘s for lunch?”  Stupid question because it could be only one of three things:

1. A slice of Bologna on Wonder Bread
2. Hot dog on a bun
3. Grilled Cheese and tomato soup( served only if it is cold and or rainy day)

When I got to my room, I kneeled in front of the statue, blessed myself, and solemnly said a quick Hail Mary. I then jumped up and took yesterday’s wilted flowers out of the vase and headed to the pink-tiled bathroom, and refreshed the murky water. Once the vessel was invigorated with the stolen flowers, I had a few minutes to myself before my brothers piled in for lunch. I sat on my new bed.  I was only ten, so my feet did not touch the floor as I tried to enjoy some semblance of momentary solitude on the second floor of our crowded Dutch Colonial. As the only girl,  I got my own room, while across the hall, my three brothers shared two sets of trundle beds.  The baby soon to be born would inhabit the nursery (actually a closet) at the corridor’s end. It was a tiny space but had a  large window painted a light beige. The benign color was to accommodate either a boy or a girl, but I already knew the outcome.   I had long lost the hope of ever having a sister. Quiet ruminating time was over because I heard the boisterous entry of three male siblings running up the front steps. I knew it was time for lunch.

One might wonder why the Blessed Mother was so loved and played such a pivotal role in our home.  Dad and mom followed a strict Catholic doctrine. They fervently believed that  “God would provide “and” we will take what comes,” which in our house meant an endless stream of male offspring. My Mom always had rosary beads in the pocket of her house dress, and if something went remotely wrong, she would shout, “Oh dear Mother of God!” The Virgin Mary would be called on frequently throughout the years. She was not just Jesus’s Mother, but in our house, she was the Patron Saint of “a good pregnancy,” “safe childbirth,” “a healthy baby,” and ” freedom from postpartum depression.”  I guess in my mind. She was the overseer of all things gynecological. So it made perfect sense that in a few years, I would be on my knees again in my room, begging her, to ask God to send me boobs since I was the only one in the eighth grade without the stirring of even ONE hormone. But I have gotten ahead of myself…

The other reason for the Blessed Mother’s position of importance was based on our being quintessentially Irish.  This meant you never spoke of anything unpleasant, but more importantly, you never spoke directly to anyone if it could be avoided through the intervention of another.   For example, my mom would say,

“Tell your brother I’m not happy with what he is doing.” Or, ” if my sister calls and you answer the phone, let her know I’m not happy she hasn’t called in a week and a half.” And the best one…” When your Grandfather comes over, you tell him I don’t like how he gets the boys all riled up and then leaves.”

Herein lies the role of the Blessed Mother. If you needed something from God, we believed she automatically intervened for us, no questions asked.

The blustery nosiness continued downstairs, and I realized I was hungry, and it was time to join my brothers for lunch.

The same routine transpired every day in May until the year I went “downtown” to the Catholic girls’ high school.  Not going home for lunch ended my “May Tradition,” but not my affinity for the Blessed Virgin Mary.  With a wonderful family, many friends, and this relentless fastidious devotion and adoration of Jesus’s Mother and an assumed direct pipeline to God himself, what could possibly go awry in the life of this little girl?