I think she was telling me, I should have had a V-8. The good news? She hit Pierre, too. That's why he has a rosy puss on his face. (Top row, second from the left).
Why'd she hit us? We were fighting over who'd sit next to Barbara O'Shea, the prettiest girl in our zip code (second row, fourth from the right).
Pierre had me in a full-nelson wrestling hold and I was biting his stomach. We worked our way to the top of the bleachers where we were lining up for our class picture. We thought the bleachers kept going, but after the fourth row, we stepped into thin air. No fifth row. We hugged and fell to the wooden floor. The nun ran around the bleachers and picked us up like a hockey referee breaks up a fight. After wringing us out, she gave us a look of enormous disgust and said, "I'll have none of your shenanigans." She slapped Pierre, then tried to hit me. I ducked. That's when I got the pop off the forehead.
I've always found it oddly exciting to duck and avoid that first shot. After you acquire "getting hit experience," you know the second shot's going to be a harder, more accurate blow, but you can't resist the instinct to duck the first one.
Pierre was banished to the top row, far away from Barbara. To torture me, the Nun put me in the same row as Barbara but three seats away sitting next to Mary Toth. To move the knife around, Sister Adrianne placed the best-looking guy in the class; Jean Paul Piccolo, to Barbara's left. Look at Jean Paul, new to our country from Milan, Italy, right next to Barbara. The dummy isn't even sitting heinie to heinie ~ there's no contact ~ Jean Paul's giving her space! I'd have made sure our apples were nestled together, cheek to cheek.
He was so cute it made me sick. Even Paul McCartney would look ugly sitting next to him. The final twist of the blade, everyone called him "John Paul." Not only named after a Beatle, he was named after two Beatles!
It was April 1964. My marks were up, but things looked grim.
My favorite writing compliment of all time about this tale from the incredibly talented Abbi Crutchfield.
Why'd she hit us? We were fighting over who'd sit next to Barbara O'Shea, the prettiest girl in our zip code (second row, fourth from the right).
Pierre had me in a full-nelson wrestling hold and I was biting his stomach. We worked our way to the top of the bleachers where we were lining up for our class picture. We thought the bleachers kept going, but after the fourth row, we stepped into thin air. No fifth row. We hugged and fell to the wooden floor. The nun ran around the bleachers and picked us up like a hockey referee breaks up a fight. After wringing us out, she gave us a look of enormous disgust and said, "I'll have none of your shenanigans." She slapped Pierre, then tried to hit me. I ducked. That's when I got the pop off the forehead.
I've always found it oddly exciting to duck and avoid that first shot. After you acquire "getting hit experience," you know the second shot's going to be a harder, more accurate blow, but you can't resist the instinct to duck the first one.
Pierre was banished to the top row, far away from Barbara. To torture me, the Nun put me in the same row as Barbara but three seats away sitting next to Mary Toth. To move the knife around, Sister Adrianne placed the best-looking guy in the class; Jean Paul Piccolo, to Barbara's left. Look at Jean Paul, new to our country from Milan, Italy, right next to Barbara. The dummy isn't even sitting heinie to heinie ~ there's no contact ~ Jean Paul's giving her space! I'd have made sure our apples were nestled together, cheek to cheek.
He was so cute it made me sick. Even Paul McCartney would look ugly sitting next to him. The final twist of the blade, everyone called him "John Paul." Not only named after a Beatle, he was named after two Beatles!
It was April 1964. My marks were up, but things looked grim.
"Jean Paul's body language is certainly noticeable. I've decided you are a cross between Dave Sedaris and Frank McCourt. And I can't wait to read the book about your life."
Thank you, Abbi, xo, teepee
Thank you, Abbi, xo, teepee
Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.
The book has 112 Amazon five star reviews out of 112 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.
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