Sister Alberta

Sister Alberta was included in the 2003 I Remember book, a collection of short stories by the Alvarado Writers Guild.

NOTE: The book is no longer in print, but I can share the stories Helene Hadsell contributed.

The Poem

The Seventh Grade and Sister Alberta

by Helene Hadsell

Growing up in the 1930’s and raised by Catholic parents my education was entrusted to the nuns that were dedicated to not only teaching us the three R’s, they Ruled us with discipline, demanded Respect, and as our Reward we were presented with Religious cards of the saints.

The first six grades I slide through comfortably, it was the seventh grade and Sister Alberta I dreaded. She taught at St. Mary’s for the past fifteen years. Her no nonsense strict manner made all of us cringe in her presence. I pleaded with my parents to let me attend the public school that was actually closer to where we lived. My words fell on deaf ears. “You are Catholic and the nuns are doing God’s work,” I was reminded when I complained.

Sister was a mere 5’2″ tall. Her small round face was almost childlike. Until you looked into her eyes were more observant than today’s electronic cameras. I just knew she had ESP and eyes in the back of her head under that black habit the nuns wore at that time.

“Take out your notebooks and copy the poem written on the blackboard.” Was how we were greeted on our first day of class. “I expect you to memorize it beginning next week you all should know of it by memory. Every morning when class begins I will randomly chose one of you to recite the poem and if you fail, you will be punished in front of the class.”, she emphasized.

A 15″ x 1 1/4″ stick ruler was the weapon she used to whack us across our open palms. We were punished for not knowing our assignments or when we were disrupting her class. I learned fast. One ruler chastising was all it took to remember the poem.

Today, 67 years later I can still recite it verbatim.

There was a noble Roman in Rome’s imperilled days,
Who heard a coward croaker before the castle say,
“They are safe in such a fortress; there is no way to shake it.”
“On, on,” exclaimed one hero, “Let’s find a way or make it.”

One Friday our assignment was to write an original poem. Sister was specific. It had to be from four to twelve lines. It had to rhyme, and we were to have it written by Monday. The student whose poem was voted best by the class would be awarded the prize which was one of her favorite books of poetry.

Sister had a thing about poetry. She constantly read us her favorites when the weather was too cold for us to go out at recess. I guess that’s why it took me so long to come up with a poem she would consider a literary classic.

All weekend I wracked my brains to try and come up with something. Monday morning came all too soon and I was still drawing a blank. I faked having a stomachache, hoping I could stay home and buy some more time, but my mother, who also had ESP, didn’t buy it. “Think of something sweet that you can say about her. It will get you in her good graces, and four lines should not be that difficult,” Mother encouraged.

While I was leaving the house to go to school that morning a poem finally came to me out of nowhere. Perhaps I was divinely inspired, for I pictured sister in a cloud of pink cotton spun sugar. The kind that’s wrapped around a piece of parchment usually sold at a carnival. I didn’t even have to write it down. It flowed so freely. I memorized it immediately. Today, it still wafts in my memory.

I know my classmates to, were in awe of my profound poem because when they met me in the hallway or on the school grounds after hearing the poem, they would raise their eyebrows and repeat the last two lines and smirk.

When it became my turn to get in front of the class that Monday, Sister was sitting at her desk. I recited my poem with gusto.

Roses are red.
Violets are blue
Sister is sweet
Tweet, Tweet.

I don’t know if I made any points with her, but for some reason I got the feeling she was trying to figure me out. If I was sincere or just plain stupid.

FOOTNOTE: Today 65 years later, I realized she had a purpose for demanding that we memorize that particular poem. When my children were growing up I told them this story and explained what an impression it had on my life. Find a way or make it, gave me the determination to accomplish everything I deemed important.

Enjoy this audio of Helene regaling us with her rendition of this story.