The Lark: Vol 5, Issue 18, May 2026

The Long Walk Home

A Memoir

by Jeanne Medeiros

I didn’t start crying until I got to the top of Summerfield Street, five houses away from home. It had been a long, scary walk from St. Michael’s church. But it wasn’t until I saw my Aunt Natalie standing in the street looking worried, crying out my name when she saw me, that the tears I had been holding in for almost two miles burst out.

It was April 1963 and I was 7 years old, preparing for my First Communion in May. We had to attend special classes to prepare and the classes were held once a week after school at St. Michael’s. I went to Sacred Hearts school across town, and my parents both worked, so the mother of one of my Sacred Hearts friends drove me to the class every week. When the class ended, the nuns who taught at St. Michael’s would give me a ride home to Summerfield Street, because their convent was just a few blocks away.

My uncle Bert was the pastor of St. Michael’s then, and there were two assistant priests, Father Sobrogio and Father Simoes. Father Sobrogio was from Brazil which meant both his English and his Portuguese were incomprehensible to me. Father Simoes was young and handsome, and would have fallen into the “Father What-a-waste” category if it were not for his hot temper. He was known for red-faced explosions when children couldn’t answer his questions or sang off-key. We all feared him, but, as we later discovered, it was the altar boys who really had the most to fear.

The nuns usually taught our communion class, but on this particular day, Father Simoes was there. We didn’t know it, but there was apparently some nun convention out of town. So we all sat dutifully through the class, praying not to be noticed or asked a question. I remember Father S standing in the aisle of the church and holding a Communion host up for all of us to see, then ripping it to shreds in front of our horrified second-grade eyes, and asking us if he had just committed a mortal sin. Nobody was brave enough to venture an answer, so he yelled at us that it was not a sin because it hadn’t been consecrated yet. If it had been consecrated, it would have been the body and blood of Christ, and he would go to hell for tearing it up, because this was a mortal sin. I have the feeling that priests at that time were not well versed in child psychology or pedagogy.

After we survived the “mortal sin” grilling, we had to practice the songs we would sing in Portuguese at the Communion service. A perennial favorite was this bombastic march entitled, “Queremos Deus”. It was probably a good thing that most of us weren’t fluent in Portuguese, since the words translate as, “Love God, you ungrateful humans, He is your Supreme Father and Redeemer. Only fools mock the faith and rise up against our Lord”.  A cheery little tune for us to chirp out in our white dresses and veils under the proud eyes of our families!

When the class mercifully came to an end, I realized that I had no ride home. The nun convention had left me stranded. Apparently, I didn’t have great problem-solving skills, or maybe my brain was so rattled by Father Simoes, but it never occurred to me to go to the rectory next door, where my uncle Bert lived, and ask him for help. The only thing I could think to do was to walk home.

I knew the way well, since we drove back and forth to St. Michael’s a few times every week, so I wasn’t worried about getting lost. I probably should have worried about the fact that I’d be crossing major streets with a lot of traffic, and that I was a vulnerable little girl whose whereabouts would be unknown to her family, but all I worried about were dogs. Back in the early 60s, nobody had the kinds of sweet, member-of-the-family, sleeps-on-the-bed-with-us dogs that everyone seems to have now. Most of the dogs I knew were “outside dogs”, snarling behind chain-link fences and ready to bite.

But I couldn’t think of any other option, so off I went, down Essex Street, then right onto North Main Street. It was 7/10 of a mile to President Avenue, and I knew all the landmarks, – St. Joseph’s church, the North End Cemetery, Rogers Funeral Home, the creepy dentist we went to who didn’t use Novocain, Morton Junior High School, which I’d always heard was full of “tough kids”. So many terrors, but I was on the lookout for nasty dogs.

I had to cross North Main Street, one of the busiest streets in Fall River, to get to President Avenue. President Avenue was always fun to drive up or down because it was seven steep hills, and if the car was going a little too fast, our stomachs would get a little queasy. It was like riding the roller coaster without going to the amusement park. Up I went, past June Street, Rock Street, Belmont Street, Underwood Street, High Street, past North Park, and arriving finally at the top – Highland Avenue. Now I was getting close to home. Right at Hanover Street near Holy Name Church, then flat ground past more familiar houses, past Pearce Street, New Boston Road, Bigelow Street, and finally, Summerfield.

The late afternoon sky was starting to darken when I got to the corner of Hanover and Summerfield and saw my Aunt Natalie. My epic journey was over. It entered family lore. It was sometimes recounted as “Remember when brave little Jeannie walked home from Saint Michael’s when she was only 7 years old?” Or, if my brother was telling it, “Remember when Jeannie was too stupid to go to the rectory and ask Uncle Bert for a ride home?”