I've always been a very reflective person. Though I enjoy looking ahead, I admit I often spend just as much time looking back. I don't know if that's always the best way to be, but at 41, I don't think I'm about to change. And, when I really think about it, I know I've been this way most of my life. Even during the 10 years when I worked as a features writer for the Times Leader, some of my favorite stories involved covering local history and examining the past.

This past weekend, I was feeling particularly nostalgic, as my old grade school, St. Aloysius in Wilkes-Barre, prepared to close its doors for the last time. There was a celebratory Mass at the church on Sunday, which recognized the many years the school had been an important part of the community, and afterwards, alumni of the school were invited to stroll its hallways one last time.

I attended St. Al's from kindergarten through third grade, and though, until Sunday, I hadn't walked those hallways since 1976, I have extremely fond memories of the school. My grandparents lived on Division Street in Lee Park, only about two blocks away, and it seemed that little neighborhood was the center of my young universe. Many of my favorite childhood memories are from St. Aloysius, and I can still remember the names and faces of so many of my teachers and classmates. ...

Ms. Martin in kindergarten. Sister Rene in first grade. Sister Shaun in second grade. Sister Eustace and Sister Carmina in third grade. Our principal, Sister Magdalena. I remember them all, and how we prepared and practiced for our sacraments, and how we sang in the schoolyard for what seemed like weeks, preparing for our annual "May Crowning." I remember watching in wonder as the eighth grade students performed the annual "Living Stations" during Lent, and I recall with humor how an old friend and classmate of mine, who was standing right next to me, fell off the podium as we were singing Christmas carols during the annual holiday play. He was unhurt, of course, or it wouldn't have been funny. But, man ... that was funny.

I have lots of fun memories of St. Al's. I remember, as we rehearsed for our First Holy Communion, we did a walk-through in the church a day or two before the ceremony. Our instructors gave us a wafer, just like Communion, though not yet blessed by the priest, so that we'd get a sense of what it was like before the actual ceremony. Later, while still seated in the church pew, my teacher noticed that I wasn't talking, singing, or moving my mouth at all, and that the wafer was still in my mouth. "It's OK," she said. "You're supposed to swallow it." But I was afraid to bite it, or swallow it.

"Sister," I said. "I don't want to hurt God."

In 1976, we presented a big play to celebrate the country's bicentennial. My role was to represent a Northern soldier in a segment on the Civil War. The scene simply called for me to shake hands with a fellow student representing the South, which would signify the end of the war and the preservation of the Union. I recall dressing the part just fine, but when the teachers told us it was OK to carry a toy gun to better look the part, I brought my toy M-16. Now ... if the North actually had those type of machine guns back in the 1860s, that war might not have lasted nearly as long. Surprisingly, they let me keep the historically inappropriate prop.

Lots of nice memories. I recall how Mr. McDermott, a teacher at the school, had a wonderful singing voice and would often lead the school in song during the Mass. I recall how we all looked up to Monsignor Padden, the pastor of the church, who seemed so larger-than-life yet also kind and caring. I recall how we younger students really looked up to the older kids who played on the school basketball team, and how my Mom would always take me to all of the Royals games. And I recall simple little things that mark a childhood, such as how, around 1975, it seemed we all became obsessed with a show called "Happy Days" and a character named "The Fonz," and how one classmate would playfully entertain us with his rendition of "Put One Foot In Front of The Other," from the "Santa Claus is Coming To Town" TV special, whenever he'd get a chance. We all loved watching him sing as he marched across the classroom.

Perhaps most of all, I recall how my grandfather would come to the schoolyard during recess and stand outside the fence to watch me play, and how whenever I'd see him, I'd excuse myself from my friends to run over and say hello. I loved the playground swing set, which went high into the air and had swings shaped like horses, but I guess I loved grandpa even more.

My mother, also an alumni of St. Aloysius, attended the special Mass with me this past Sunday, as did my wife. We walked the hallways of the school, took a few photographs, and shared some stories together. And I must say, the place still looks fabulous and the hallways felt just as warm and welcoming as they did for my Mom in the '50s and myself in the '70s.

Though I now live on the West Side,  I recently rejoined St. Aloysius Church. And on Sunday, my newborn son, Alan Joseph, will be baptized there. And though he and my two-year-old daughter, Mary Ann, will never have the chance to attend St. Aloysius School, I hope that, should the church remain open, they both somehow feel a connection to it that goes back in my family for five generations. But if the church should close, which it may, I know I can simply move on to nearby St. Casimir. Father J. Duane Gavitt, who oversees both parishes, has made us feel welcome, and that's what matters most. As he likes to say, walls and buildings do not define your faith. Hopefully, it goes a bit deeper. And of course, he is right.

For now, however, I'm happy to be back at St. Aloysius, where I first learned that very lesson. I'm grateful to have so many fond memories there, and, rather than a family funeral, I'm happy about celebrating something happy and special there this Sunday.

When my wife and I recently met with Father Gavitt to discuss our son's baptism, we ended our meeting with a hug, and he said something that reminded me a bit of the Prodigal Son, and also exemplified exactly how I'm feeling these days.
 
"Welcome home."
 

About the Author

Alan K. Stout is the music columnist at The Weekender and has been covering rock and pop music in NEPA for more than 15 years. His column, "Music on The Menu" appears every week in The Weekender.

Alan has won a Keystone Press Award for Excellence in Journalism for his music coverage and has been voted Northeast Pennsylvania's "Favorite Newspaper Columnist" seven times.

Alan's interviews include conversations with Billy Joel, Steven Tyler, Eddie Van Halen, David Bowie and Ray Charles. He also wrote the liner-notes to the entire Motley Crue catalog, he is the host of the monthly "Weekender/Mountaingrown Original Music Series" and is the founder of NEPA's annual "Concert For A Cause." He also hosts a weekly radio show, "Music On The Menu Live," which can be heard every Sunday night at 8 p.m. on 102.3-FM, The Mountain.

In addition to his work with The Weekender, Alan also serves as the Newspapers In Education Manager at The Times Leader.

Archives

• September 2011
• August 2011
• February 2011
• January 2011
• November 2010
• August 2010
• June 2010
• March 2010
• February 2010
• December 2009
• October 2009
• August 2009
• July 2009
• June 2009
• April 2009
• February 2009
• January 2009
• December 2008
• November 2008
• October 2008
• September 2008