After many years of penning this blog I have come to know many of you and if you have been following me and reading the comments you probably know each other too.
During Christmas many of you shared your home’s Christmas decor which gave us another glimpse of you. I enjoyed that so much that I want to continue putting forth ways for us to connect. If you have a personal story that you would want to share please send it to me at
coreyamaro@aol.com
Shared Story Number 2
Photo Hansel Mieth
Although I have been following you forever, religiously, I limit my participation to occasional comments. I do search you daily for a dosage of soothing balm which I can count on, whether transmitted through a photo or words that touch my spirit. Because of this, I will put myself in a somewhat uncomfortable position and share with you a personal experience that after sixty two years since it happened, I feel it is the one that best describes me.
The year was 1959 and once again my father had been transferred to a new town, Barcelos, something that happened frequently since he had stopped a truck carrying contraband while on duty as a GNR, a branch of Portuguese police. He was offered a bribe that could have set him for life and upon refusal was guaranteed that his transfer would come within weeks. And it did.
We moved around a lot because my father's character and unwillingness to follow the unwritten orders of his superiors, such as the wealthy citizens who were not to be fined regardless of transgressions while no mercy was to be shown to poor peasants for minor infractions. My father would not compromise his integrity and paid dearly for it. But I'm getting off track.
One very late night, while I dreamed awake about life, I overheard my parents arguing across the wall shared by our bedrooms in our tiny rental. The argument was over the fact that there was no money to rent a first communion dress for me. Buying one of your own was almost unheard of, but now I realized this problem was caused by me and my upcoming first communion. I found a solution before my parents stopped arguing.
It had been my job since I was six years old to go to the bakery for the daily bread. I would leave the house at dawn, walk into town with my little cloth bag and hate the rainy winter days when the wind would turn my umbrella inside out ….
Going to church was something we did almost daily. The doors were always open and the priest available for confession inside those magnificent carved little "houses" which gave absolute privacy once you crossed over the heavy burgundy velvet drapes. Yes, I took myself to confession and the following morning without any fanfare, I went to the first Mass. It was still dark; I placed myself in line among the adults and received my first communion. My heart jumped with joy with the innocence of a just turned eight year old girl who had just received Jesus! I skipped happily all the way home, so proud of myself for having just made my first communion and solving my parents problem.
My joy soon came crashing down when my mother demanded to know what took me so long…needless to say, I got an historical whopping.
My attempt at alleviating my mother's worries only caused her shame because I could not partake in the formal first communion ceremony.
To this day I salute the brave little girl. I would do it all over again! "No regerts"
Melly
Leave a Reply