I was such an innocent kid. But then aren’t all children until they reach an age of reasoning and ponder some reflections of their youth? Some reflections bring a smile, some a shudder and some just have me shaking my head. Here are a few of my reflections:

My mother: An intelligent woman of style, class and grace. But mothers leave their marks, don’t they? For example, she would tell me to “go take a long walk on a short pier,” or “sing solo, so low I can’t hear you,” or “go play in traffic.” I always wanted to please her but she gave me mixed signals. Therapy, anyone?

My First Confession: I was raised Catholic and in those days nuns wore habits, looked very austere, and they were strict. “No questions. You must accept on blind faith.” Okay.  So they gave us these little books that were about two inches high and two inches wide and fairly thick. It was the “Book of Sins.” It was divided into “mortal sins and venial sins,” all of which scared me spitless. At the age of nine we were told to study these sins. When the time came to make our First Holy Communion, we first had to venture into the Confessional and tell the priest our sins.

Well, I studied the sin book and couldn’t find a sin that I had to confess. I was beginning to sweat with fear. The nuns were expecting SINS and confession. I did put a little check mark beside a couple so the priest would know I was ready to be a good Catholic. To be on the safe side, I took the “Book of Sins” into the confessional in case I forgot what I had checked off. So I got into the confessional and was so nervous that I dropped my sin book. Plus it was dark in there. It smelled of sins and hell and incense, and I could hear the priest breathing.  I thought I would faint. I confessed to everything from adultery, to coveting and murder just so I could get out. I don’t remember what my penance was but I think I’m still paying it.

Nun-Clickers: In those days the nuns, dressed in their habits, always stood very erect and had clickers. You know, those little aluminum things that in a nun’s hands, at least, emitted a sound that echoed like a roar from God through the hallowed sanctuary. When no Mass was going on, the nuns were teaching us when to stand, sit or kneel by clicking. Sometimes I stood when I should have knelt. “Nooo, Missy,” I would hear the nun at the end of my pew say. She pursed her lips while eyeing me, thrust her arm out with God-given authority and clicked the clicker again. I looked to my right and left to see what the others were doing. I wondered if this was a sin. Fainting became my norm.

Well, life went on and I managed to make it to adulthood. But not without some confusion. At times my mother reminded me of the nuns, though she didn’t wear a habit. The nuns reminded me of my mother because they were all strict, and I had bad dreams of clickers. Maybe I should have played in traffic.

—cher