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Note: This posting is primarily directed toward those attending Notre Dame High in Batavia, NY between 1964 and 1968. We were mere teenagers during some very exciting times. Not only eye witnesses but participants in the civil rights movement, feminism 2.0, the space race, environmentalism, Viet Nam, the sexual revolution, and of course the Beatles. A lot happened during our formative years. We were the baby boomers. The sky was the limit until Neil Armstrong and others removed that barrier as well.
We shared experiences but may remember them differently. Our perspectives being unique to each one of us. I’m sharing a few of my memories inspired in part by high school football. Attempting to bridge the gap between my past and where I am today. Perhaps bringing a new perspective or clarity along for the ride as well.
If you are not a classmate, I urge you to read on anyway. Doing so may conjure up some long-forgotten memories that may not be that dissimilar. I would love to hear from my classmates or anyone else that wants to comment or critique some of my high school experiences below. Names and places have not been changed. I apologize for any mis-spellings, incorrect dates, or for outing you. By the way, this was not a conscious attempt on my part to act upon a quote attributed to Socrates: “An unexamined life is not worth living”. Unless of course it was and this is my first installment. TJ/Paul T.
Are you sure? My youngest grandson was feeling better and was up to attending Niwot High School’s homecoming game. [Although still a middle schooler, Owen has followed the NFL since he was 3 years old and loves football. He could identify a team by its logo or colors well before he could read.] My wife was merely confirming that I was up to taking him. I nodded and Deborah pushed send. I picked Owen up at 6:30, arriving just before kickoff, for his very first high school football game.
We wandered in along the home team’s sideline, slowly making our way through an electrified crowd. The excitement was contagious and I was enveloped by the anticipation that hung heavy in the air.
It didn’t take long for Owen to spot some of his classmates and politely dismiss himself. “I’ll see you later”, and off he went. Owen’s departure was not unexpected. It reminded me of me growing up in the 1950’s and 60’s when we were afforded much more freedom than kids are today. I didn’t panic. Instead, I felt the rush Owen must now be experiencing of a little needed independence. Being able to spread his wings a bit beyond the watchful eyes of his parents. Ahh. Adventure. We ran into one another several times during the game, thrusting a knowing head nod in each other’s direction. His friends none the wiser. It’s a guy thing.
It was a Saturday morning in 1964 that I boarded a school bus bound for my first high school football game. I was terrified. There were 9 other kids in my 8th grade graduation class, none of whom were on that bus. It was my first semester freshman year at Notre Dame High in Batavia, New York and I didn’t know a soul. Having spent the previous eight years, plus kindergarten at Sacred Heart, a 4-room school house three blocks from my home on the south side of town. Nearly all of its students were Polish. The other south side school being St. Anthony’s, where most of their students were, of course, Italian. Desegregation was a few years away.
Diversity in my part of town, or for that matter the entire city was limited at best. Unless you draw distinctions between white male Catholics and white female Catholics. The same would apply to the other religions represented in the area. Namely, various Protestant denominations and one Jewish Synagogue. I know it sounds like I am fixated on religion, but that was a big part of my life. I was not alone. Approximately, 95% of Americans identified with a religion and 65 % were formal members of a church or synagogue in the 1950’s and 60’s. No wonder Catholicism was a central component of my early days. Today, 65-70% of Americans still say they identify with a religion, but less than 50% report a formal membership in a religious institution.
Fun Fact: Check out the image of my father’s WWII dog tags. Notice the “C” in the bottom right-hand corner. That meant you were a Catholic. Should the need arise, someone in theory would administer your “last rights”. The other available designations at that time were “P” for Protestant and “H” for Hebrew. The “O” on the second line was my dad’s blood type.
I of course was an altar boy. That 3-year experience was significant in several ways. First, it established a routine outside the class room I took very seriously. Secondly, the responsibilities associated with daily mass, weekend services and the like, forced me to discipline myself in ways not familiar to most 10-year-olds. I was also exposed to the less talked about part of life, death. Yes, I was called upon numerous times to attend funerals. In those days, in my neighborhood, the service often began in the home, open casket and wailing relatives. Ending with a ride in a Cadilac to the cemetery. I do not recall anyone preparing me for such an experience. Today, that duty may come with psychotherapy, I don’t know. But it did leave lasting impressions.
While we’re on the topic of diversity, I want to mention two seemingly insignificant occurrences that go a long way in demonstrating just how sheltered I was as a child. Even though I was able to roam virtually anywhere without supervision, I did so within the confines of a homogeneous community. I wonder if that was the case for kids growing up in larger cities? I always believed everyone in my generation grew up with limited parental oversight. The truth is, I really don’t know.
Back to the bus.
Notre Dame like Sacred Heart was a Catholic school. In addition to nuns, however, there were priests and a sprinkling of lay teachers like Miss Gongol and Paul Weiss. This created a more balanced atmosphere, better equipped to guide teenagers through the exciting, turbulent and dynamic 1960’s. I did not realize that “guidance” came in different forms and could be subtle.
I’ll never forget. Father Scheider or perhaps Father Zeitler, was on board as a chaperone. I believe Sister Bernadine was there as well, along with about 50 of us students. Sister Bernadine was the most beautiful nun I’d ever seen. Rumor had it she was Miss Maryland or Miss Virginia before signing up for the sisterhood. Some of the guys would sort of flirt with her, especially during study hall where less than stellar behavior was often exhibited. Sister Bernadine appeared immune to false flattery and would calmly write detention slips to those deserving young men without uttering a word, maintaining the sweetest smile. During the 1960’s the Catholic church under Pope John the 23rd made significant changes in order to “modernize” and keep pace with a rapidly changing world. Latin was out. English was in. Gregorian Chants were replaced by folk guitars. The Church declared a greater commitment to social justice, human rights, and religious freedom for all. These changes were in part designed to retain 80 million baby boomers as part of their flock. Nuns were now allowed to keep their baptismal names so Sister Bernadine was now Sister Shirley Ann. Someone began singing a song that appeared familiar to everyone but me. I listened to the words closely and was shocked. I could not believe my ears. The song began with: “the count is number one and the fun has just begun” followed by the refrain, “roll me over, lay me down and do it again”. Then “the count is number two and my hand is on her shoe, roll me over”, etc. all the way through ten. I think you get the picture. All this on a Catholic bus, from a Catholic school, full of Catholics with a nun and a priest overseeing the whole thing. Both chaperones remained silent and appeared to have slight smiles on their faces, seemingly condoning this debauchery. My god. Did I mention I was once an altar boy? One thing was for certain, I certainly wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I sort of remember a senior girl putting her hand on my shoulder, reassuring me that everything was all right, and that we weren’t all going straight to hell.
Regardless of the perceived inequities or stricter code of conduct associated with Catholic schools, I would not have traded my years at Sacred Heart and Notre Dame for any other. Uniforms and all. Looking back, I never felt restricted or that I was somehow missing out on a better life. The benefits of my Catholic School experiences played out subtly, mostly unnoticed over the course of my life. It’s part of who I am. If anything, I feel a sense of pride perhaps akin to what a Navy Seal or Army Ranger feels knowing they are part of a special group. Too much? I hope you get my point.
I ended up playing JV football my sophomore year, then varsity as a senior. Had to have that ND letter. I played defensive tackle and wasn’t very good. I was 6’ tall and over 200 lbs. but not a “strapping” 200 pounds. More beefy than muscular.
Slamming into other people hurts. Especially guys like Dave O’Conner. The middle O’Conner brother between Dick and Dan. Three mild mannered, hardworking, tough as nails, farm boys. Dave was the toughest. He was a ripped 200 pound running back. Solid muscle developed not by countless hours of lifting weights but through actual physical labor, on their farm of course. One of my least favorite practice drills was one on one tackling. Going up against Dave O’Conner was the worst. We would line up across from one another about 5 yards apart. Dave had the ball and his mission was to run the ball through me mostly using raw speed and power. Ughh. Repeat.
Dave also ran track. Our track for some reason was made of cinders. Packed somewhat tight but still cinders. Running on them required steel cleats and made a strange sound. I doubt any records were broken. Anyway, I was at the finish line of a 100-yard dash when 8 or so runners came charging toward the tape. A rope held across the track because electronic sensors were years away. It looked like an 8-way tie for the most part from my angle. Dave threw himself at full speed, head, chest and arms…heck his entire body at that rope, somewhat airborne, doing a perfect faceplant onto that cinder track. Ouch. A split second later he bounded to his feet, hoping no one had noticed I suppose. His entire front side embedded with cinders he didn’t make a sound, still breathing only through his nose as was his style. I do not know who won the race.
Notre Dame High had pretty good football teams in both 1964 and 1965. In ’65 we won the Bishop Smith League Championship, beating St. Francis of Athol Springs. The year prior, 1964 we lost the championship to Cardinal O’Hara. That is the game I remember most. Many of the same players were on both teams. Ron Francis at Quarterback, his brother John a star running back. He did try out for the Buffalo Bills at some point I heard. Jim Murphy, Dan Callahan, Joe Chilano, Brian Glor and of course “Sudsy” are a few others that come to mind. Oh yeah. How could I forget Mike McGinnis. Everyone called him “tank” and for good reason. He moved like one, leveling everything in his path. I still have a vivid memory of him venting his frustration after falling ever so short of winning the 1964 championship game. He and the entire team had played their hearts out. Losing hurt bad. I could see the visiting team cheering across the way but was focused more on “tank” who, spread eagle on the ground was pounding his fists into the turf.
Back to Sister Shirley Ann
I know what you’re thinking. But I’m not one of those Nouveau-early 21st Century, Colorado nun-stalkers. I swear. Well, I guess it depends on how you define stalker. I heard that Sister Shirley had quit. Resigned from the sisterhood. (I didn’t know you could) sometime in the early 1970’s. I wasn’t that surprised, given how young and pretty she was, and then there’s the vows of chastity, poverty and all. I was quite surprised however, one Sunday morning, to see Sister Shirley on the cover of Parade Magazine. It was 1977 and she had just married Clarence Kelley, the then head of the FBI. Wowzah. Until Kelley, our country had only known one FBI Director, J. Edgar Hoover. He was in that position for nearly 50 years. Sister Shirley was now Shirley Dykes Kelley.
This was exciting news and I told anyone who would listen. Which was a limited audience, given I had only recently moved to Santa Barbara. No cell phones either, remember. Fast forward 47 years. It was last week and I had begun writing this blog post, Friday Night Lights. I did not have a clear goal, or even a pathway for that matter. Imagine that. As I began to think about the various people and events that dominated my life at Notre Dame, Sister Shirley was front and center. I wanted to know more and hopefully separate the rumors from the facts. To date, most of my information was hearsay.
Using Google search and ChatGPT 4.o, I began looking for anything I could find, given what I had, which wasn’t much. My trail ended in 1977 with Shirley’s marriage. I was more than pleased with my discoveries.
Sister Shirley remained married to Clarence Kelley until his death in 1997. She wrote an autobiography of her life in 1978 titled: “Love is Not for Cowards: The Autobiography of Shirley Dyckes Kelley”. I found a used, autographed copy on eBay, and it should arrive soon. In the meantime, I can also tell you that Shirley was born in 1933 and raised in the Miami area. She became a nun at the tender age of 19. That was about it. I did the math and could see Shirley would be 91, if she were still alive. Oh well.
As I was about to close my browser, I saw an address and phone number claiming to be Shirley Kelley’s. No way. Can’t be. They’re either fake or a phishing scam. That was Saturday afternoon. Sunday arrived and I decided to take a chance and call that number. My heart was racing. No way it’s going to be her. I was expecting that weird dial tone you get when calling a bogus number: “The # you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again or ask your operator for assistance”.
It rang. Gulp.
On the 2nd ring a woman answered…Hello!
Me: Is this Shirley Kelley?
Yes, it is. Who is this?
Me: Were you once Sister Bernadine?
Yes, I was. Who’s calling?
WOW!
I told her my name, including my nickname, TJ. That I attended ND from 1964-1968. She said she remembered my name but could not place my face. That’s ok I said, it has been 6 decades since we saw one another. I was shocked, thrilled, excited and relieved- simultaneously. We chatter briefly, as she was getting dressed for an IMPACT 1000 function. One of 6 charities she belongs to in what appears to be a very active life back in South Florida. As I write this, it looks as though Hurricane Milton will not impact Shirley’s area the way it could others.
I told her I bought her book. She laughed. Then suggested we meet for lunch when I am in the area. She said she loves having lunch with old friends. I told her my sister has a second home in Florida and that it’s high time I visited, selecting 5 months as a time line. I will call you when I’m there. Wonderful, I will see you in 5 months. We then said our goodbyes.
So, why this trip down memory lane? Well, first off, our memories seem to have a mind of their own. Manifesting themselves when triggered by someone or something for some reason. In this instance, taking my grandson to his first high school football game last Friday evening was the catalyst. Reopening a door to my own past. I thoroughly enjoyed every moment.
Some claim to never look back. The past is over and there is nothing we can do or change about it. I am not one of them. What is life if not a collection of our experiences. The sum total of all we have said and done and “felt about each other”. What we have learned, accomplished, and hope to leave behind as our legacy. I believe all of that is recorded and stored somewhere, in some way, within our memory banks. Even if imperfect and only partly accessible, it is the only complete record of our existence.
Our memories were created in the moment but perfected over time. Like us, they evolve. Emotions felt at the time may soften or harden over the years. As we age, our perspectives change. We may come to remember things differently. New information may encourage us to adjust our point of view. Our minds may fill in any missing gaps. In the end, our memories are uniquely our own. Ain’t it grand.
Perhaps this past week I have been experiencing some of that “good dementia” we talked about when last we met. Who knows? What I do know is that bus trip I took back in 1964 was an epiphany of sorts. A transition from my simple, sheltered youth to a more worldly existence. I was in good hands and I would be ok.
Thank you for allowing me to share a few of my Notre Dame High School memories. If you were there and were even remotely connected to the events I mentioned, please let me know what you think or what you remember. Your perspective would be most welcomed.
Paul Tolejko (TJ)
-END BLOG POST-
I left my home in the small Western New York city of Batavia in March 1977 vowing never to shovel snow again. Never say never. Settling for 38 years in what was for me the "promised land" of Santa Barbara, California. I married, helped raise a family, started a business, traveled and live a wonderful life. We spent the last 10 years of our west coast journey in the small, quiet, picturesque town of Ojai. My oldest friends call me TJ.
My wife Deborah and I moved to Colorado in 2015 to be near our daughter, her husband and 2 growing grand-boys. Add 2 bulldogs (French & English) to the mix and our hands and hearts are full. We all reside in Niwot, a small quaint town 15 minutes north of Boulder. The mighty Rocky Mountains are at our doorstep.
I am a man, son, brother, cousin, friend, husband, father, uncle, grand father, in-law and mostly retired Coloradan. You can read more about me on the About Page. If you are curious about my professional life you can visit my Career at Venture Horizon.
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Hi Frannie,
I apologize for not getting back to you sooner. The Comments App is supposed to send me a notification when someone leaves a comment. It is not working and I am working on that as we speak.
Thank you for your comments. Yep, we spent our teens on opposite sides of the country. The difference was I was always trying to get over to your side. Had I succeeded earlier I may not have had the full complement of Catholic experiences to help guide me during the tough times spent with minimal parental involvement. I survived. We survived. Part of me is hesitant to share some of the things I did as a kid. Scary stuff I have not yet shared.
We’ll see. Thanks for reading. Enjoy the rest of the fall as winter is coming.
Paul
This is priceless on so many levels, Paul. Your growing up is world away from mine even though it was the same era. You really paint a vivid picture of your youth as a Catholic kid. Such a strong, all-consuming culture! I loved reading it and of course I chuckled a lot too. I hope your grandsons will read this and find it fascinating!
I remain amazed that a few years of high school become so strongly imprinted in our memories. The good and bad we experienced at that time seem more recognizable than other periods. I guess that’s why facebook continues to be so popular. Owen will always remember Dziadz with football. Go Bills!
Hi Mike,
I am amazed as well but not totally surprised. These were our formative years. Facing the “real world” for the first time. In addition to the uncertainty, we were in the middle of puberty. Raging hormones and zits. To top it off our frontal lobes were not fully formed. No wonder we were a mess. But our brains, thank God, were hard at work recording all our exploits. Perhaps not a good idea after all.
Paul
Oh TJ, you triggered so many memories with this article. Of course Ralph and I had the similar catholic school experiences until 8th grade (mine urban and his suburban) when we opted for more diverse high school experiences. (Again Urban vs suburban)
Mynun/postulant (mercy nun in training) hero was my 4th grade teacher, Sr.Grace Miller. We likened her to “the flying nun”. She was funny, care free and played a mean game of kickball.
Many years later when I was worked at an urban mental health clinic in Rochester, Sr. Grace entered my office with a client to assist him in traversing his healthcare issues. She ran a homeless shelter called “The House of Mercy”. She’s been arrested several times protesting the city’s handling of the homeless crisis.
Still alive, in her eighties, she continues to fight for the forgotten poor. I always knew she was a rebel for change.
Thanks for your trip down memory lane that ran adjacent to mine until they intersected around 1970!
Peace brother.
Sandy
Hi Sandy,
I apologize for not getting back to you sooner. The Comments App is supposed to send me a notification when someone leaves a comment. It is not working and I am working on that as we speak.
I remember exchanging some of my Catholic experiences with you and Ralph. Although, by the time we met all of us were trying to put some distance between our somewhat sheltered past and what lay ahead…everything it seemed.
Great times and many memories. It seems like all of us can still remember some of them. There are many more to come and feel free to share to your hearts delight. Oh, your Sister Grace sounds like a wonderful woman. Say hello to Ralph.
TJ
Really cool info.All this about Sister Shirley Ann…