Hell found me in 1962, inside a first grade classroom.

I was a six year old "mama's girl", yet to experience preschool, or kindergarten.

The Wizard of Oz movie aired on television for the first time in 1956 and was an annual viewing favorite for my older siblings on our grainy black and white TV.

I would soon meet my very own wicked witch of the west one September morning.

Mom was Glinda the good witch in my story. One hot September morning we walked to a school where I colored, matched pictures with a fat pencil and had fun along with forty other little kids my age.

I had never played with this many kids at once, ever! Everything was great until the moment I looked up from the wooden desk to discover my Glinda had disappeared without so much as a goodbye or a wave. Terror set in as I awaited the flying monkeys.

It was also about this time the rest of the six year old's clutching fat pencils came to realize they, too, had been dumped by their Glinda's.

Standing before us, in a frightening white hat, dark flowing gown, and holding a wooden ruler was what one of us called a 'sister'. I had one of those at home and she looked nothing like this. We would soon learn this "sister" would become our nine month Hell.

Sr. Baptista, a Daughter of Charity and our keeper and warden, was draped in clothing childhood night terrors are made of. The accessory on her head only added to the horror. It had wings and appeared structurally similar to the paper airplanes my older brother was continually launching across the room at me, although much larger, and wired to the top of this nun's seemingly hairless head. Sr. Baptista was a sight to behold. I wanted to run and never look back. At the tender age of scared shitless, I sensed God was telling me this was not going to go well. I had no reason not to believe him. The squalls inside my belly began building and cresting.

Every child sat silent with eyes fixed on the nun as they wrestled with fear and confusion as to what happened to their missing Glinda's. Our coordinated gulps were audible. We were certain the witch before us was responsible for the MIA status of our Glinda's, and had come to the terrifying realization we were screwed and on our own. Our Emerald City had no wizard, or savior.

I overheard whispered conversations among my parents and their friends by this age involving a president named Kennedy, a bay of pigs (not the counting kind) and a place called Cuba. I wasn't sure what one looked like at age six, but I wondered if Sr. Baptista was a Cuban spy and had a cache of fire spitting missiles stored in the stiff white launcher. I sensed within her the will and capability to launch a strike against any one of us with exacting precision. I also sensed at the age of six, I didn't want to be on the receiving end of either one; a Cuban or a Sr. Baptista missile.

As the keeper and controller of our tender souls paced the aisles repeatedly slapping her open palm with the ruler while delivering the 'Rules of the Roman Catholics according to Sr. 'Bitchtista', we understood instinctively the ruler would play a part in the dealing of her Acts of Contrition upon any wee sinner. It wasn't long before she directed her aim on a small dark haired boy named Jimmy, while announcing to the rest of us, he was a trouble maker and she had permission from his 'Glinda' to bring him to the front of the classroom, pull his pants down, and paddle his backside. I was horrified along with Jimmy and every other child steeped in fear while praying our Glinda's would hurry back and "deliver us from this evil."

It was also about this time, the class fly flew up my nose. I was too frightened to do anything but exhale forcefully, which did the trick. Otherwise, I would have been fine with it setting up camp inside my left nostril; a fate better than being publically flogged by this dark hearted sister for unnecessary flapping or squealing.

This ungodly woman over the course of a school year terrorized my group of classmates. We did not share the joy or learning environment the other class of first graders experienced with the Irish Glinda, who wore pretty clothes and didn't have a rocket launcher affixed to her head. Every one of us wished fate had placed us on her roster. Our first year of school was laden with fear, panic, and tears...lots of tears. We cried, often. Some of us even wet ourselves, being too terrified to ask to go to the bathroom. Our yellow brick road often required a mopping.

I did learn unusual curriculum in 1962: Brain surgery techniques on windy days when I nearly lobotomized myself with a pearl endowed hat pin to secure the white lace chapel veil to my head as we walked silently in single file from class to mass. Flying doilies held severe infraction points and were followed by an outburst from the sister for unauthorized tat launchings.

I learned organization skills in never being without my "fat" pencil; another trigger that won pencil-less tykes a public reaming as they were dragged by the walking rocket launcher to the principal's office.

I learned observation skills and 'reading' people each time a trigger was engaged, as well as follow up skills when I braced for the mayhem that always ensued. The nun's eruptions sent us clamoring for cover under our desks. Not a single Cuban missile was launched during the Bay of Pigs era, but there were a motherlode of dynamite pins that ignited our tempest in room 301.

Not many six year olds learn chemistry in the first grade. I did. Did you know that by hiding a penny under one's tongue, the copper element in the coin sent the mercury in oral thermometers of the day to sick and contagious status? I faithfully counted on pennies from Heaven to score a few days reprieve from school before Hell found me again.

I also learned team loyalty from a classmate named Patty. A girl with big brown eyes, long blonde hair and who stood taller than most. Patty lived just across the street from our 'girl's only' side of the playground. Hell found Patty's limit one day and she snapped following a flogging as she sat at her desk. As the nun returned to her sentry post at the front of the classroom, the tallest and bravest girl in my class stood up and screamed "I HATE YOU" before running for freedom and her home through the door nearest her desk.

Patty was halfway across the vast playground and running like a gazelle trying to elude a hungry leopard. She was almost home as the ash trees gracing her front lawn seemed to beckon her back to a safe harbor. If trees had feelings, I imagined every leaf in those trees trembled at the sight that would soon play out before them...

The nun turned tail in hot pursuit of the young escapee, her dark robe lapping her ugly black shoes and rosary beads flying as if chasing the demon. Jesus was bouncing on the end of her beads as if trying to stop the crazy nun, or at least slow her pace giving the running gazelle a chance at escape. Patty had a pretty good lead in her red and white uniform (no stripes), as the rest of us sat horrified at what had just taken place. We scrambled to the arcadia window to watch as the beast gained on Patty midfield before grabbing her by the hair. We ran back to our assigned seats, hearts pounding, as Patty was pulled by her ponytail back to our little room of terror. I learned the importance of team loyalty that day. Not one of us was rooting for the sister to win that race. Not even the bouncing Jesus. I also learned compassion and empathy as I whimpered in silence for Patty.

I learned friendship in that classroom. My first grade bestie, Kayla, is still my bestie and if it were not for the horror of this nun, we likely wouldn't still know each other as we approach our sixth decade of friendship. Those who experience fear together are somehow welded in strength. We will always share that time and that thread; a silver lining and the gift of a lifetime golden friend.

Last March, fifty three years and half as many miles from the classroom where Hell found us in 1962, many of us gathered for a reunion of sorts. Even "Irish Glinda", the first grade teacher who taught the other half of us and now nearing her ninth decade was present.

I have often pondered in the years since, what made Sr. Baptista so cruel and miserable to such young and impressionable children who at the age of six, could not have done anything to deserve the wrath she dealt on a daily basis. As I look back on our class photo, she was a fairly young woman. Then I reflected on the many kind nuns in dark robes and rosary beads in the years that followed our first. Those nuns earned my respect, loyalty and a claim to my successes. Another silver lining that followed when Hell Found me in 1962.