In 1962, John Glenn was rocketed into orbit, while we all wondered about our own futures here on earth as the Cuban missile crisis threatened our very existence.

Meanwhile, Saint Bernard’s School, Church and Rectory were continuing to be a powerful force in Chelsea. Hardworking families sacrificed to support the parish and their families.

Father James Gorman, the youngest priest many people had ever seen up until then, was having an impact on the streets, where he could be seen wearing a straw hat, evoking memories of Father O’Malley in the "The Bells of Saint Mary.”

Saturdays sometimes found him headed to Budd Lake, Rockaway or to Nathan’s in Coney Island with a carload of ‘good and faithful altar boys,’ who deserved a reward for their memorization of Latin and devotion to duties ─ like serving the 6 a.m. mass on Sunday or having the 8 o’clock mass for a week.  No matter what the time or what the weather, the Brassils, Napulis, Crowleys, Espadas, McGirrs, Mulveys, Mullins, Matthews and others were always there.      

In 1962, the seventh and eight grades, with their raging hormones, were already separated by the good Sisters of Charity and the Christian Brothers who taught us so well.

And, the Vatican Council, convened by Pope John XXIII, would soon change not only the way we looked at the mass, but also the words we used to pray. No more mumbling Latin responses while gazing at the priest’s back.  Now we would pray in the ‘vernacular’, a word now forever in our vocabulary.

Our graduation dances included songs that Cousin Brucie was spinning on 45s.  The lyrics told how Paul wanted to marry Paula, while the 4 Seasons advised that ‘Big Girls Don’t Cry’ and the Marvelettes gave out their telephone number ─ ‘Beachwood 4-5789’.  But really, they all revolved around unrequited love.

We danced, we rocked, we tuned into ‘American Bandstand’ to learn how to dance and ate at the pizza parlor on 17^th Street, where we could meet our friends and schmooze over slices that cost 15 cents.