Crikey!

It was bizarre to hear on the car radio that the Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin, had died. The report was brief, so I called my daughter to see if she had heard the news. She had and filled in some of the details. It would, of course, have been ironic if he had been killed by a croc, but that wasn't the case. It was a freak thing in that people don't usually die from stings from a sting ray, but in the wild anything is possible. The barb apparently pierced his chest and his heart. I wonder if he knew he was dying as it happened? Aside from his adventures with wildlife, particularly crocs and snakes, he was a dedicated conservationist, so he lived the life he portrayed. Only 44, he certainly had a lot of life left in him and a lot more to contribute to the world. In that sense, his death is tragic. It certainly is for his wife and small children. His partner was quoted as saying that at least he died doing what he loved. I'm not sure how I feel every time I hear that. Given the choice, he would probably have chosen to continue living doing what he loves. If the oft-stated saying is true, I guess I'll drop over at McDonald's with a quarter pounder with cheese in my hand.

I read the Buffalo News online every day. One of my rituals is to check the death notices. I did that even when I was young, so it's not just a product of my advancing years. There was a death of note in there today related to my life. Sister Marie Canice, my sixth grade teacher at Our Lady Help of Christians, died. Ironically, I was just telling someone the other day about my exploits in sixth grade and about Sister Marie. Sister was a very new, and very young nun in 1959. It was, as I recollect, her first year of teaching. God must have decided to test her early by putting me in her class. Without going over every detail and incident, many of which are chronicled in my short story, "Geepers Creepers," it is fair to say that I presented a challenge to any teacher but especially a new one. From exploding pens to water pistol days to filling a girl's desk with crumpled-up paper, which she had to use smoothed out for the rest of the year, we had a blast in sixth grade. Well, I had a blast. Sister couldn't always prove I did everything, but there wasn't much doubt. She finally took to putting me and my desk out in the hallway. That stopped when the assistant principal came by and found me out there, totally clueless as to why sister was picking on me, and yes I wanted to be part of the class, sister. Sister Marie was told to be more patient. I wonder if that nervous tick she developed stayed with her all these years? At the end of sixth grade, she told me that she could at least say that she had me for a year.

I always wondered if she stayed in teaching and the sisterhood. I did meet her one more time in 1968 at my grandfather's funeral. Someone brought her as a friend of a family friend. When I reminded her of who I was and what she had said to me at the end of sixth grade, I thought I saw her twitching again. I guess it's heartening to know that she stayed with her vocation. It's hard to believe that so many years have passed (until I look in the mirror). Could 47 years pass by that quickly? Sister Marie had to be around 70 when she died. I hope her order didn't still wear that terribly confining habit all these years. Too bad she never knew how I turned out. I certainly wouldn't put a feel-good spin on this and say I am the teacher and person I am today because of her, but maybe I am because of what I put her through. It was never personal. My issues were on a much larger scale in those days, but I have learned to not take them out on other people. I owed her that.

If there is a heaven, that year in sixth grade with me should have earned Sister Marie a place. Requiescet in Pacem.