Many traditions last for centuries, or even millenia, and then, at some point, they fade away. When I was a kid around 1960, our town in south central Louisiana had a downtown whose main street was paved in brick, the local red-orange brick. Cars were becoming more mainstream, pedestrians less so. What came to mind today, though, is the image of nuns. Back then, most convent sisters, young and old, wore habits, a kind of uniform. At that time, the habits were long, to or below the ankles. The fabric tended to be starched. The veils not only covered the head, but came all the way to the face, with extensions that covered part of the forehead and sometimes the sides of the face. A small bit of shining face and twinkling eyes was thus framed in folded fabric. A wooden or metal cross was worn around the neck, or attached to a tie around the waist. Shoes were plain and sturdy.

The habits of some convents were black. Some were black in the winter and white in the summer. I think I recall some sisters who worked in hospitals wearing blue habits.

What is no longer visible when I look at everyday folks in town when visiting Louisiana, or here in Texas, is the sight of an occasional nun in habit. Many nuns now dress conservatively in lay (civilian) clothing, and thus can mingle without notice, which is fine. The old vista of town, though, had an occasional cloud or two or three of black floating among the other residents. A kind of peaceful energy seemed to billow about the fabric of the robes. People near them often spoke a little quieter, more calmly when nuns were evident. The sisters didn't seem particularly conscious of this, that they were like little stones, weighting things down a bit. They didn't preach, and some spoke little at all, but social disturbance rarely arose with nuns nearby. 

The everyday splashes of black in paintings and memories past were peaceful icons of piety.