Fifty-seven years ago today I was in my home of 18 years. It was the last night to sit in the kitchen, which I thought I’d never see again. Even though there were several inches of snow on the ground, I put on shorts. I knew it would be the last time I’d ever wear shorts again. The thought of black dresses, black nylons and shoes every day for the rest of my life weighed upon me. Vatican II had barely finished, and the renewal of religious life had not begun. It would be a couple decades more before I could wear a pair of shorts or a swimsuit or even another color besides black. Without a crystal ball to inform me my bleak vision was not true, I put on shorts and sat near a radiator with a blanket on my legs. While I thought of a drab, uncomfortable wardrobe, my parents were probably thinking of “losing another daughter,” since my older sister had entered the community of the Sisters of Notre Dame five years before me. (Stay tuned to read about my first day donning all black and going through the doors of the Sisters of Notre Dame building on the corner of Secor and Monroe.)