What I Discovered When 10 Nuns Came Over for Dinner| National Catholic Register

My mother and father regarded priests and nuns as individuals who sacrificed much in their lives, and secular Catholics like us should show our gratitude to them in a tangible way.

Since we had invited our beloved pastor, Father John Dronzek, for several dinners, my parents announced that they would invite the 10 Polish American Franciscan nuns who taught at St. Michael’s Elementary and Junior High School in West Lynn, Massachusetts.

We lived during the last years of World War II in a rambling Victorian home in Swampscott, Massachusetts, that accommodated my extended family. It consisted of my parents, two older siblings, an eccentric bachelor uncle, my aunt, two cousins, and a part-time housekeeper, who spoke with a raspy voice, the result of a saber slash from a Russian soldier that damaged her vocal cords.

It was a magnificent home perched on a rocky escarpment overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Thanks to my father, who cultivated a beautiful garden with an assortment of flowers dominated by roses, and a small orchard of apple and cherry trees, the backyard offered both beauty and privacy, an ideal locale to fill the space between words.

My parents, whose strong character and integrity guided them, didn’t care what our anti-Catholic neighbors thought about seeing 10 Franciscan nuns strolling through the fairy-tale garden and orchard my father had lovingly created. My parents ignored the extreme prejudice of the descendants of Puritan John Humphrey, deputy governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, many of whom lived in the area. Ironically, the Puritans were immigrants but did not accept the non-Puritans who came after them — especially Catholics, Jews and immigrants from eastern and southern Europe.

The problem in planning for “Nuns’ Day,” a phrase I had coined, was not gastronomical; my mother and aunt were known for their culinary skills. The issue was logistical: My father drove a LaSalle, an upscale car made by Cadillac, and he could transport only five nuns. My mother asked my older brother, Jerry, who went to high school and had a driver’s license, to borrow Uncle Mack’s car. It was a roomy 1940 Chrysler and could easily transport the remaining nuns to our home.

Uncle Mack was the only non-Catholic in our family. He and my Aunt Nellie lived in Lynn. Since Uncle Mack was Russian by birth, he was brought up in the Russian Orthodox Church but had a profound respect for the Catholic Church. He was well over 6 feet in height, lean and dark-skinned with jet black strands of black hair dancing in different directions on his head. He looked like an angry Cossack returning from a campaign of war and pillage. But, in reality, he never displayed anything but unfailing kindness to me and my family.

As the day approached for my brother to drive Uncle Mack’s car to the convent at the same time my father drove the LaSalle, Jerry became increasingly nervous and his face turned red as a ripe tomato. Finally, he opened up to my parents. The conversation went something like this:

“Mom, I don’t want to drive the nuns,” he said, sitting at the kitchen table.

“Why not?” she asked, turning from the stove with a spatula in her hand. Her tone was one of irritation, bordering on anger.

“Because they are nuns.”

That comment angered my mother so much, I thought she was going to throw the spatula at him. “Did you forget that they taught you through the eighth grade at St. Michael’s? And gave you tutorial help in one of your classes?”

“No, it’s not that. … I just feel funny around them. They are pious women who make me feel like a sinner. It’s sort of like when a police car followed me one day. I immediately felt as though I’d done something wrong even though I didn’t.”

Mom lost it. “So, you are comparing nuns to the police? Act like yourself! The matter is closed!” Mom was not one for deep conversations about psychology.

I listened intently to the exchange between my brother and mother. I understood some of my brother’s concerns. It was one thing to have nuns as teachers, but to have them as guests in your home was quite another matter. From the standpoint of a 7-year-old boy, what do I talk about with them in my home? Do you talk only about God, the saints, sin, guilt and other related topics?

Nuns’ Day arrived. My father instructed the entire family to stand in a receiving line and individually greet our guests. Jerry’s face was still red. Uncle Tony’s pale face was equally red due to the fact that he didn’t attend Mass as regularly as the rest of the family. Guilt was written all over his face. I, too, felt flushed with embarrassment, deeply concerned about what I would talk about to the nuns. My father, mother, aunt, sister and two cousins warmly greeted the nuns. My mother and father proudly showed the nuns our home and escorted them to our living room at the end of the tour.

While my brother and uncle disappeared, I sat quietly with my family and the nuns, listening to the animated conversation about a variety of topics, ranging from the war to the magnificent neighborhood in which we lived. One nun expressed her interest in playing chess. Another loved sports. One nun enjoyed radio programs like The Jack Benny Program and Fibber McGee and Molly. I became keenly aware that although nuns had dedicated their lives to God, they were also women who were very much interested in the world around them. The topic of religion never came into the conversation.

I was especially struck when my sister giddily blurted out that Marion Hutton, the famous singer and sister of actress Betty Hutton, lived diagonally across the street from us. Surely Franciscan nuns wouldn’t know or particularly care about Marion or Betty Hutton, I thought.

The younger nuns not only heard about the Hutton sisters but also expounded on the swing music of the day. The older nuns listened attentively and even asked questions about the Hutton family.

I learned a great deal that day, not only about nuns but also about myself. It was absurd to feel guilt around women who were members of a religious order.

After a sumptuous luncheon, my father escorted the nuns to the garden and orchard. A few of the older nuns, who had retired from teaching, sat on the rocking chairs on the veranda, enjoying the view from there. The others strolled for a long time, pausing, admiring and commenting on the beauty of the area, especially the magnificent view of the Atlantic Ocean.

On my own initiative, I thanked all of the nuns for being our guests and joined my friend, Johnny, who waited for me to go down to the beach where we engaged in our favorite activity — beachcombing. We often picked up war-related debris washed up on the beach. We found part of an American cargo ship sunk by a German U-boat, an assortment of life preservers, several German Lugers, and shreds of American and German naval uniforms and flags — all dark reminders of the naval warfare off the coast of the United States during World War II.

On the way back home, Johnny and I had a brief conversation that went something like this:

“I saw penguins walking around your yard,” he said.

“They were nuns, you idiot!” I answered sharply.

“That’s right, you’re Catholic,” he said, as if that were a bad thing.

“So what?”

“Nothing. But my family call you by another name — papists.”

“Why do they call us that?” I asked. I had never heard the word before.

“Don’t know,” he replied. I later learned that papist was a derogatory word used by anti-Catholics.

Ever since the visit of the nuns to our home, my beachcombing adventures with Johnny netted me far more war souvenirs than he had acquired. He complained that he didn’t understand the reason for it.

“The reason is I’m a Catholic and you’re a Protestant,” I teased. “Perhaps you should convert.”

He shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

That was the last time I saw my friend. He and his family moved to another city during the next few weeks.

Twenty years later, when I was married, had earned my doctorate and taught history at a university in Tennessee, I found out from a relative that my boyhood friend, Johnny, fell in love with an Irish Catholic lady, married, and converted to Catholicism.

I was struck less by the irony of Johnny’s conversion to Catholicism than by the friendship and good times we shared as boyhood friends. Maybe Nuns’ Day planted more seeds than I realized — in both of us.