Class of 1966 . . .

This is the cover of the 1966 LaSalette Seminary High School Year Book.  Where most schools had an actual book, we mostly had a magazine . . . although our class, the Class of 1966 did have enough hard bound copies printed so that we each got one, all fourteen of us.  Somewhere over the last 46 years, I lost mine.  But I still have the magazine copy I used for autographs . . .

"Our Day."  The little things on the cross are a hammer on the right, and a pincers on the left.  LaSalette is based on an appearance of Mary, mother of Jesus, to two shepherd children on a mountain outside of Grenoble, France, near the village of LaSalette.  It is said that she wore the hammer and pincers on her dress, next to the crucifix. 

The hammer represents sin.  When we sin, we are, in effect, driving the nails into Jesus' hands.  When we repent, we are using the pincers (representing repentance) to remove the nails.

I learned this from Fr James P. O'Reilly my freshman year in "History of LaSalette."  Always one to push an analogy to its limits, my proclivity for hell-consigning behavior was even then such that my life looked to me about to become a never ending cycle of push the nails in, pull them out, push them in, pull them out . . .

There was so much that I failed to understand . . . and my ability to phrase the questions in a manner that wouldn't be dismissed as disrespectful or downright rude was far from fully developed.  For instance, when the Catholic church decided that it was no longer a sin to eat meat on Friday, I wanted to know if it was retroactive-- did the people who had gone to hell for that now get out?

This is a picture of the nuns at LaSalette my senior year . . . and three of the priests.  Fr. McPartland was

the Director- in charge of all the students.  I remember him as being really tough.  He grew up in Brooklyn.  Along with a first name of Aloysius (pronounced Al-o-wish-us!), his middle name was Matthias, and his confirmation name was Casmir.  Yeah, he was tough.  Imagine your mom shouting that name out from the fire-escape in Brooklyn!  We called him "Twish," but never to his face . . .

The other two priests I didn't know.  I think they got their pictures in the yearbook just because they were there that day.  And then, there's our nuns.  They were from Spain, and they didn't speak English.  Don't they look happy?  They were the only really happy looking nuns that I'd ever seen.  All the others seemed somber and morose by comparison, as if atonement for the sins of the world lay personlly on their shoulders.  Our nuns at LaSalette didn't seem to feel that responsibility.   Or if they did, they didn't let it affect their day-to-day demeanor.  One of the nuns died during my senior year.  The funeral was in our chapel, and when it was over, all of us went to the cemetary for the burial.  There was the hearse, and one limo, I think.  And then two or three cars, and bringing up the rear, two giant yellow and black school buses.  Six of the seniors were pall-bearers.  Ed O'Brien almost fell into the hole.

And then, there's me.  Bottom left.  Sharp, huh?  Not the Valedictorian (Norman Butler, or maybe George Brennan).  Not the Salutatorian (George Brennan, or maybe Norman Butler).  Third in the class.  Which always sounded more impressive than I knew it actually was . . .

There were only 14 of us that graduated.  From LaSalette, I mean.  I imagine a large number of the 48 originals did graduate from other places, but one always has a tendency to see the universe in terms of oneself . . .

The picture in the upper right corner is me and Doug Rousseau and Ed O'Brien doing some kind of theatrical production.  I seem to remember that it had something to do with us being prisoners of war.  But given that it was the three of us in it, it must have been hilariously funny.  I mean, they were both hilariously funny, and I did end up being Bruce the Clown . . .