By Eavin Moore
We’ve been busy with retail the last several issues and have drifted away from our true passion; examining unusual private collections. Frankly, the phone has quit ringing. Do you think your Uncle Ted’s fishing lures are not interesting enough? Are you afraid your grandma’s attic filled with cartoon jelly glasses wouldn’t make the cut? Well think again!
As an example of what we are looking for, I have decided to give you a little peek at one of my own private collections, my nun memorabilia.
Let me start by stating for the record, I don’t hate nuns. I won’t go so far as to say some of my best friends are nuns, but there are certainly some I’m quite fond of. The impetus for my collection has nothing to do with them, and actually started in my childhood.
I was raised in a Catholic household and entered parochial school in the first grade, after a year in public school kindergarten. I was assigned to the classroom of …. let’s call her Sister A. (No reason to name someone who could still get me in hot water with the big guy!)
I learned some important lessons quite quickly. Number one was the fact that a ruler across the knuckles hurts like hell. The back of the head wasn’t much better. For some reason, talking to your neighbors, while encouraged at my previous stop, was strongly discouraged here. Good to know!
Second, (this one still confuses me a little), apparently Jesus is quite concerned about the quality of children’s coloring. Outlined drawings of various saints were passed around, to be filled in with various Crayola hues. According to Sister A, Jesus was disappointed with my efforts. I thought I had been pretty clever. I made the grass green. I gave St. Peter a multi-colored robe instead of the monochromatic garb he got from my classmates. I even added a hot-air balloon and a clown to liven things up.
As I tried to explain my rationalization, I learned the repercussions for backtalk; you get beaten with a coat hanger and locked in a dark coat closet to re-do it correctly. Properly chastised I sat in my closet for the rest of the day. Perhaps Sister forgot about me, or maybe she was waiting for me to be divinely inspired. Either way, I wouldn’t dare knock or make any kind of sound that might attract more “instruction”. This is where my mom found me when I didn’t come out to the car after school, hungry (no lunch), wet pants (no restroom break), and squinting at the light after several hours in the dark closet.
That was the day I learned how ferocious my meek little mother could become when someone messed with her kids. I sat on a bench outside the main office while Mom let them have it. The next day I was enrolled in public school and never looked back.
Several years later, when I got to high school, I met several kids who had been in that same first grade class. It was amazing. Just the mention of Sister A’s name, had these soon to be adults were ducking and looking over their shoulders. When we compared stories, I found out that I had been used as a cautionary tale for the other students. They never knew exactly what happened to me. The explanation was always sort of vague. Some thought I had gone to Coloring Purgatory. Others assumed I had been ground up and consumed in the Rectory Dining Room.
So anyway, I went on to have a relatively happy, healthy existence. If there are any remaining emotional scars, they’re buried pretty deep and haven’t prompted any class action law-suits. It’s more of a story that comes out on rare occasions when someone mentions something about their experiences in Catholic school.
The first piece of my collection came early in my married life, when a friend, after hearing the story, sent me Nunzilla, the wind up, fire-breathing nun. What a classic image. I have a sister-in-law who has a sister that’s a sister. She didn’t think it was very funny that I would display such a blasphemous image in my home. I explained that I didn’t manufacture the item, and the fact that someone else marketed them all over the world, might indicate that the characterization, while certainly exaggerated, clearly resonated with a lot of former Catholic School kids.
From there it was on. Soon I had Nun salt and pepper shakers. I continue to receive assorted nun action figures. I have a nun hand puppet with boxing gloves. (She does battle with an Amish hand puppet from the same manufacturer). One of my prized pieces is a nun beer bottle opener from the Vatican Gift Shop. I have an item called the “Nun-Chuck”, which is a catapult type devise that launches tiny nun figurines across the room.
I get a new “Nuns Having Fun” calendar every year. This popular series consists of old black and white photos of nuns in funny non-secular activities like bowling, and waterskiing, always with a witty caption of some kind. One of my favorites shows several nuns huddled together in the alley behind the church, sharing a smoke break.
I should mention that I have never spent one red nickel on any of this stuff. One little off-hand comment at a party turns into a gag gift, and the next thing you know, you’re Nun-Guy, and buying a display case for all the nun stuff people keep giving you.
So there you have it, my dirty little habit. (sorry, but surely you knew that was coming didn’t you?) But what about your stuff? I want to see it. Call, write or email. Fill us in on your collection and tell us, “Come Look At My Stuff!”