It has obviously been a long time since I walked the halls of a Catholic school. While I am sure that things are probably very similar, even Catholic schools could not ignore the importance of the Internet. But one thing I am certain of: They don’t have the nuns that we did. No way.

My parents have always told me stories of some of the nuns they encountered in their days as Catholic school students. Some were Draconian at best, and I can only imagine the incredible lawsuit that would ensue in 2008 if, for example, a teacher in any school anywhere hit a kid with a 4-foot wooden pointer because he or she did not know what “helping verbs” were.

My generation had the last of those nuns. And by then, they were a lot older and a lot stricter.

When I began my days at St. Raymond School it was around 1974, I guess. By then, there were some young nuns coming into the fold. All these years later, my first principal, Sister Mary Dawson and her friend who was my first grade teacher, Sister Therese O’Rourke, are close to my family. At the time, they were the young, hip, idealistic newbies.

But the old guard was not to be denied. And while they did employ some tactics that I think have been outlawed by the Geneva Convention, all were capable of great kindness.

I guess it must have been fourth grade or so when Sister “L” was one of my teachers. She had a shrill voice and a stern face that always put me in mind of the Wicked Witch. Her eyes said anger most of the time, and she also pulled some hair here and there. She may have been the one who grabbed one of my classmate’s ties and pulled it up so tight that he was having trouble breathing. We had to wrestle it open.

In fifth grade, Sister Marie Imelda had a sort of peer-through-your soul act that was far more psychological torture than anything else. She was fair skinned, and her voice always had a little bit of shame in it. My most enduring memory of her-besides using guilt to somehow teach us prepositions and such-was the day she told the story of Saint Maria Goretti. It is the truly tragic tale of a 12-year-old Italian girl who was stabbed to death after fighting off a rape by her neighbor. She forgave him on her deathbed. Sister Marie Imelda wept as she recounted the horror, emphasizing that Saint Maria had died fighting for her chastity. I’m sure it stuck with a lot of the girls in class.

Sister Constantine had a right index finger like a drill punch, and she used it. It had a nail on it that would have been a perfect egg-shape were it not for the point that punctuated the tip. Her move was a sneak up behind you and poke-poke-poke on the back of your head. By the third poke, the nail started to do damage.

Poor Sister Madeline was totally outmatched by the time we arrived in her classroom. She was definitely too old for the gig by then, and we were also too unruly and jaded to care. Once she found out that her tough-guy tactics were useless, she resorted to begging. Of course, she got eaten alive.

But one that did not fold in the long run was Sister Francine. We had a nickname for her which was mean-but really accurate. It was that of a well-known and wise character from Star Wars. I think she was about 4-foot-11 with a round face and big, huge glasses.

Actually, all of these older nuns had the same glasses.

When Sister Francine was angry she simply did not hold back. She would scream until she felt the situation was under control. But she did have a big smile when things went her way. She faced down grade after grade, unflappable in her love of both discipline and education.

Because no matter what, somewhere the both did meet.

E-mail Michael Martino at mmartino@longislandpress.com.