My old grade school and church in Waterloo, Iowa is up for demolition. I attended school there for eight years and went to mass almost every day – Saturdays, sick days, summer vacation weekdays excluded. The wedding of our favorite babysitter was there. My grandmother’s and parent’s funerals were there. The thought of its demolition brought back a lot of memories. My favorite one was the annual school bazaar.

This excerpt is from a book I started writing about my childhood in Waterloo. I’ve never finished it but I think about it often.

St. Mary’s Annual School Bazaar

4th grade – 1961

“What did your mother make for the bazaar?” Debra whispers in my direction. She’s one of my classmates. Mass is over and we’re walking back to our classroom.

“She made two cakes for the cakewalk. A chocolate one and a pound cake,” I reply in a voice I hope won’t be overheard.

Debra answers just as softly, “Hmmmm! Sounds yummy. My mom made a few aprons with lace on the edges. They’re really pretty.”

“Girls,” Sister Norberta, who’s leading us, stops and glares in our direction, “talking in the hallway after Mass is forbidden.” How did she hear us? She turns back and continues her stately walk.

Valentine’s Day is tomorrow and today is the annual school bazaar, a one-day event, from around 11:30 to around 3:30 p.m., held to raise money for different school activities. The planning starts months in advance and everyone is expected to participate. A month before the bazaar all the students volunteer their mothers and fathers to make things to sell. Almost any homemade item is welcome – baked goods (the most important because they sell the best), crocheted place mats, lacy aprons, potholders, and other handicrafts.

The bazaar takes place in the gym in the school basement. The same gym is used for basketball games, phys ed classes, the Christmas program, plays, school recitals, 8th grade graduation ceremony, and the science fair. At last year’s Christmas play, Michael was the little drummer boy, playing a real drum and marching in rhythm through the gym and up onto the manger on the stage. This was a natural for him since he drums on every available surface at home.

The stage at the front of the gym is equipped with professional spot lights, black blackout curtains, and two heavy dark red velour stage curtains which close in the middle. Six steps on each side lead up to the stage, and there are two entry doors on either side of the stage at floor level. I’ve performed on that stage many times, either in real recitals or when Vicki on the piano and I on the violin improvise classical duets.

The kids in the older grades, with the help of some of the adults, are responsible for organizing the booths and the games. Besides booths selling all kinds of homemade goods, the bazaar traditionally includes a haunted house, an eighth grade student acting as fortune-teller, a bean-bag throw where you can win prizes, and a cakewalk held in the parish dining room once everybody has eaten lunch.

We file into the classroom and wait for the milk delivery so we can eat our breakfast. Sister Norberta doesn’t let us talk. We’re soon finished with breakfast and classes start.

First Reading, then math, and the time drags by. Sister has a real problem keeping us in control during the morning. I glance at my schoolmates and notice some kids are fidgeting in their seats. The seventh and eighth graders are already in the gym preparing the tables and booths, no classes for them this morning, and we can’t wait to see this year’s bazaar.

Soon I smell the odor of sloppy joes cooking in the parish kitchen which is across from the gym. I’m thinking about lunch rather than listening to my teacher. Last week we all bought our tickets for lunch – only 25 cents. Lunch is served in shifts with the younger grades going first. Some of the mothers, usually the same ones, are cooking for us. In addition to the sloppy joes there’ll be potato chips, a cupcake, and white or chocolate milk.

Only a few more minutes to go, but it seems like an eternity. Sister Norberta looks up from her arithmetic book at the clock on the back wall. “Okay, boys and girls,” she announces and closes her book. “We’ll stop here. There’s no homework for tomorrow. Please put your books and pencils in your desks. As soon as the bell rings we’ll go down to the gym. I remind you our turn for lunch is 12:15. So don’t be late. Does everyone have their ticket?”

Above the noise of books and papers being arranged in the desks is a general mumbling of yeses, and some of the kids stick their hands in their pants or uniform pockets to make sure they have their tickets. Mine is in my blouse pocket along with the $2 Mommy gave me to spend. The school bell rings.

“One more thing,” Sister shouts. The bell stops and she lowers her voice. “School and the bazaar end at 3:30. I’ll be back in the classroom so you can collect your coats.” Sister Norberta smiles, which is rare. “Have a good time. You can go now. See you at lunch.”

Her parting message delivered, we file out of the classroom, in a reasonably orderly manner, and down the red-painted cement steps leading to the gym. Kids are coming down from the other side, too.

This is not my first bazaar so I know more or less what to expect. I especially like the sloppy joes for lunch, the cakewalk and the haunted house. At the gym door, a lady is selling tickets for the different attractions. I’m only going to buy 50 cents worth – that will give me 10 tickets – and if I need more I’ll come back. I remind myself to save some money for popcorn balls and cotton candy.

The noise coming from inside is deafening. Over two hundred people standing at booths or walking around, students and assorted parents, talking and laughing, and the noise echoes off the gym’s concrete walls. Both sides of the gym are lined with tables covered with baked goods and handicrafts. We should raise a lot of money this year.

Once inside I look through the crowd searching for my siblings. Eventually I spot Jeanann standing behind the Ladies of the Altar booth looking quite official. She’s in 6th grade and joined the Ladies of the Altar this year. Since girls can’t serve Mass they let us clean the church and lay out the priest’s vestments for Mass. Not fair. I’d rather serve Mass than do some more housework at church. Plus you have to take a test to join the group.

I walk over to their table and start fingering a doily.

Jeanann slaps my hand. “Don’t touch anything unless you’re gonna buy it!”

“I don’t want that thing. I can make one myself. Anyway. I’m going to the haunted house.”

“What time are you supposed to eat lunch?”

“At 12:15.”

“Don’t be late. They won’t serve you.”

“I know.” With that typical big sister warning, which I ignore, I turn and walk toward the stage. Pinned on the closed curtains is a “Haunted House” sign decorated with drawings of skeletons, skulls and bats. I know this stage well and am looking forward to see how it’s been transformed this year.

There are several kids in line and I take my place behind them preparing two of my 5-cent tickets. The sound of screams and giggles pour out from behind the curtain.

Finally it’s my turn. I push back the curtain, poke my head in first to get used to the darkness, and walk inside. There are fake spider webs draped on the blackout curtains. Eerie music is playing in the background. I start my walk through the haunted house maze.

Suddenly, a grotesque figure, a seventh or eighth grader disguised in a King Kong costume, jumps into my path and just as quickly disappears. I scream and then laugh, knowing the scare was worth the 10 cent entrance fee. Moving on through the maze I make note of the decorations. They are the same ones we use at home for Halloween – black cats hanging from the ceiling, a witch or two on a broomstick, huge orange jack-o-lanterns, some plastic and some real ones made from pumpkins, lit up with candles. I wonder where they found pumpkins in February.

I finish my stroll through the not-so-scary haunted house. As I reach the exit, a ghost with his arms flapping up and down under a white sheet with holes cut out for the eyes and nose crosses my path. It lets out a mournful, pitiful screech which sounds more like a pig being stuck than a real ghost. I pretend to be afraid and jerk back away from this fake phantom. It disappears behind the curtain.

The afternoon is almost finished and I still haven’t been to the cakewalk. I only have two tickets left – just enough. I never win anything, but I’m going to try anyway. Music is drifting out from the dining room. As I approach the door the music stops, and is replaced by screams of delight come and chairs scrapping the floor as the kids try to claim their chair to win a prize. I hope Mommy’s cakes are gone. I don’t think she’d like me to bring them back home.

“That’ll be two tickets, please,” the girl at the door says to me. I recognize her as one of the eighth grade students. I hand her my tickets. She mumbles a thank you and asks me to wait until this round is over.

Accompanied by “Row, row, row your boat,” there are only two kids circling the only chair standing in the middle of the room. The music stops, and the taller boy falls into the seat first.

“I won, I won,” he yells. The shorter boy frowns, but he shakes the other boy’s hand and leaves the room. The taller boy, a kid from sixth grade, I think, goes over to the table to choose his cake.

Now my turn to play. There are eight of us and seven chairs. This might take a while. The music starts. I survive the first round, then the second, then the third and fourth. Now there are three of us and two chairs. Surprise! Now only me and another girl – a fifth grader, I think are in competition. The music starts up again, and even bigger surprise – I win!

“Yeah! I won!” There are only two cakes left sitting on the table, not one of which is Mommy’s. I choose a spice cake with white, glistening frosting, and which is in better condition than the orangish cake sitting next to it. First time I’ve ever won anything. My sisters and brothers are going to be happy.

I sit up in bed, start to feel woozy and my stomach hurts. Daddy is humming in the bathroom. Maybe if I don’t move for a few seconds the feeling will go away. Must have been something I ate at the bazaar. The sloppy joes or popcorn balls or cotton candy. The feeling doesn’t go away. I get out of bed and walk into the bathroom.

“Daddy, I don’t feel good,” I moan. He quickly turns his head to look at me and I throw up all over the bathroom floor.

“Oh, Theresa! Why didn’t you do that in the toilet?”

I feel really awful. “Cuz there wasn’t enough time!” I start crying.

“Stop crying. Let’s clean up this mess and you. I’ll give you something to stop the nausea. Then you go back to bed.”

I continue crying and help clean up my mess. No school for me this morning.