ABSTRACT
My family lived in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains in the shadow of the little Catholic Church in town. Walking to mass and the masses themselves are among my earliest memories. I was a good Catholic girl and I knew God was watching. I was told regularly that He was watching. I walked quietly to church knowing that any diversion from me on Sunday was bad. Once, when I was four, when we got home and my Sunday dress, tights, and shoes were safely away, I asked my mother something that had been puzzling me. “Who is Leda Snott?” My mother didn’t know and wanted to know where I heard that name anyway. “In church. We all say her name every time, ‘. . . and Leda Snott into temptation . . .’” I trailed off and learned what I had been hearing and saying in unison all that time, was wrong. I was wrong. It was a first for me. I was four, the first child, the first grandchild, and unaccustomed to being wrong. I didn’t like it. I tried harder, determined it would not happen again.
