The Second and Only Part

The state of Bahia is bigger than Texas. The cobbled streets near our house were steep. There was an elevator, Lacerda, built from the cidade alta to the cidade baixa (upper and lower city). It was like a construction project in progress jutting boldly--streamlined, modern, a rival to Rio's more famous protective Cristo with outstretched arms. I doubt that I rode the elevator or sailed on the bay. I was content to nest and sing in our beautiful house. I was given the name Christine by my father who had seen Greta Garbo in a talkie playing Queen Christina of Sweden. My godmother didn't like it. She had a silver baby cup inscribed for me, "Irene" and wouldn't change it. How did I get a godmother when my parents were agnostics? Leo Wrench, married to Big Bob Wrench, was a friend and influential. Leo didn't like the name Della (my mother's name) so Della was changed arbitrarily to Judy, which stuck for forty years. My parents were also good friends with the British consul, a Catholic. Within a month of my birth, I was christened Christine. The certificate is elaborately embellished. The christening dress could fit a small animal. It's curious that the agnostics branded me with a destiny--follower of Christ. The Hindus say the awaiting soul chooses its parents. I can see it. I can see me also choosing that house in that place. The house was stone and, strangely for a South American house, had a large fireplace. It was a lesson in contrasts. There is a picture of me in front of the wintery fireplace dressed in summery batiste with my favorite object, a flyswatter. No blanket or doll for me. Judy said the bathrooms were like Grand Central station. I laid claim to the garden and my mosquito netted nook where I could hear the birds. I was carried about by the cook and her assistants, Alma and Zsa Zsa. My world consisted of music, rice, my necklace, and my flyswatter. My brother's existence was opposite to mine as he was going to a German school where he tackled his work dervishly and was first in his class by the end of the year.He spoke German and English. I spoke Portuguese in a waterfall sort of way. He was busy and accomplished. Our encounters were friendly but we were already on differing paths. I preferred to sing all day and sew. Except for the times I almost died (of a fishbone stuck in my throat, a tropical fever going too high) my days were pleasant. My observational skills were honed by visiting dignitaries. My mother thought it significant that Walt Disney was one of them. The Magic Kingdom coming to me.  .

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Writing about the past I find brings too many chapters to mind. I like, instead, the daily outing adventures accounts. For instance, here is a message from 2007 in San Francisco:

As I was coming down the stairs, I heard a powerful voice singing, "Bringing in the Sheaves." A huge black man was singing and I was awestruck by the beauty. The noon crowd of San Franciscans and tourists was rushing by, hardly noticing. On a whim, I asked him if he knew, "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms." He was startled by this person barely reaching his elbow in height but said, "Sure!" I said I wanted to sing along. The acoustics were phenomenal and our voices were perfectly matched. Next we sang, "Blessed Assurance," "I Love to Tell the Story," and "Showers of Blessings." At that point, however, he stopped to offer a prayer. He was all teary-eyed thanking Jesus for the "little lady helping me out today." Well, that made my knees wobble so I told him I could only sing one more song. "We finished with "Beulah Land." I don't think I have ever sung so well. No one gave us change; on the other hand, no one pointed out the political incorrectness. I was grateful for free speech and assembly! When I walked on to put my Fast Pass in the machine a few feet further, the regular ticket taker stared at me as though I were the 10th wonder of the world. For those of you of different faiths or no faith at all, read this as an account of a moment (for me, unforgettable) of community & happiness in "The City by the Bay." 

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So. You have a little flavor here of what my life has been. The rest can be gleaned by piecing together the messages and quotes. Thus has begun and ended the memoir of long ago days and foreign fields. 

The Makings of a Memoir

People have often told me I should write a book about my life. Here, in two installments, is as far as I have gone. Perhaps, it's far enough.

DEDICATION 

to the Keeper of the Universe,

who like a gentle breeze sets the

merry-go-round in motion.

CHAPTER ONE
 

Hoisted onto the Horse with the Tossing Head
 

Scheherazade was some storyteller. She went on for 1,001 nights of exciting episodes falling all over each other, none of them to my knowledge being about her. As I recall, those tall tales were chock full of magic fish, one-eyed men, vipers as big as palm trees, and a stone-blind giant. A+ for Imagination! Not me. No. I am going to spin out my life before your very eyes at a leisurely pace and without modern day counterparts such as UFO abductions, bogdwelling monsters, presidential conspiracies, or celebrity spottings. Take a deep breath, though, because, of course, I am going to have to bring in...the U., the ever present U. which leads me here and there and causes me suddenly to say, "We have to do this NOW! Up on the ridge this minute!" The right place. The right time. But I guess you can handle it or you wouldn't have chosen this book by its cover. Sigh. I suppose you are going to quit reading at this juncture. You think I am going to preach. Keep your shirt on. I'm not the only one in this book.

It (meaning my life) started in Brazil. Well, I know. I don't sound Brazil but we're not talking ancient history here. People got around in 1938 and my folks happened to get around to Brazil. It was pretty nice for me. First of all, I wasn't the firstborn so I didn't have to deal with being smart. There was no way I could catch up to my brother, Bobby, six years ahead of me and first in his class at the German school. Secondly, I was a girl in a country where girls put ornaments in their hair as I am wont to do; and thirdly, I had good-looking pets. There were three sloths, five monkeys, six rabbits, a crowd of parrots, and two dogs. I tried to teach one of the parrots to sing Cara Nome but she was tunefully challenged. The army ant parades over the stone wall were worth pulling up a chair to, and rounding up the scorpions beat Concentration any night, especially when we had to have blackouts. Fortunately, I was born in the late evening on the eve of the summer solstice, south of the Equator (12 degrees, 58 minutes) where summer is winter during the time of the Festa da Sao Jao, a harvest festival. Throughout June, there are fireworks. I arrived to the sound of forro bands (accordians, hand-drums, triangle) and starbursts in the city by the Bay of All Saints of the Savior. In short form Portuguese, we called it Bahia. .


Change of tone. It's my book. I can do it.


The faded photo shows a family, "Before." Mother is dressed in soft cotton, with sprigs of mignonette entertwined in the dainty pleats. Father has a white, long-sleeved shirt which will never be crisp. The older brother peeks over the head of the baby. He looks to be part of the group, although in later years he will seldom be seen by them. The girl, since it is a summer scene, is possibly six months old. She is held by her mother. Her brother's skinny right hand holds her right arm gently. Father is standing, proudly gazing at the little child. Mother is seated in a rattan chair. Brother crouches. Behind them are fat columns on which bougainvilla vines lean heavily. There is a wrought iron fence connecting the columns.  Checkerboard tiles complete the decor of a terrace. This is the girl's first house. It is provided by the government of the United States of America. Foreigners and Americans of all sorts come to this house continually. The smile on the face of the nearly bald baby is worthy of a painting by Botticelli. It is angelic, infectious, hopeful. Born on a stormy night, surrounded by the hymn singing of a Methodist missionary and the agonizing cries of her mother, this child will carry with her a mix of faith, resiliency, and danger and will think of these people as her Helpers. "Who will come and go with me? I am bound for the Promised Land." Her first baby gift is a necklace, an ebony fist, a powerful symbol of a voodoo religion which she will add to her Christian beliefs. She will never be too far from darkness. 

That's one side of the story, darkness. It's what happens late at night when the merry-go-round is stilled and the music stopped but in Bahia, darkness is disguised by dazzle. Salvador overlooks a bay. There are 38 islands in that bay. I probably never went to one but the view shaped my outlook. I am an islander at heart--enriched by an enclosed environment requiring a different kind of transportation so visitors would have to intentionally want to go there. It's not a loner existence; it is a special, set apart one. 

~~~to be continued...~~~

FAMOUS ROANOKERS

 The way ideas work with me is that they come in a rush from an unknown, but kindly, source. Usually, it's batches: two or three in a delightful collision with a title following soon. The Famous Roanokers started on June 17th, a lucky day, of I can't recall which year, when Rudi on Roanoke's City Market made a cane with the date of the peace vigil I had just attended. This was a silent standing vigil for one hour during which time I would look up at the Mill Mountain star and reflect on the past events of my life that were so important to only moi. When Susan asked me to make some tags for her store, the idea came to me of quoting people I knew at the City Market as to what they thought Love was. I labelled the tags with the brand, "Famous Roanokers" because to me they were stars. What they said was as important as any great writer or celebrity philosopher I had encountered. Then along came the idea of making a little book on the order of  a children's book with some simple drawings and those quotes. Like many of my book ideas (remember Hi Ann about a woman's letters to Ann Landers--that one still makes me laugh! and the one about the friendship between a racehorse and a chicken or the tender story of the walrus who loved yoga?) these projects always stayed in the Draft stage. Famous Roanokers never found its way to print. However, in subsequent years, my e-mail friends would find anecdotes about one of the FR's in the Inbox. I have a great nostalgia for these luminaries on my journey. They light up the night sky in constellation patterns I wish you could see. There's Gypsy Woman! Look, the Mermaid! the Cane Maker's Wife! the Wool Spinner! the Ladybug Sports a Goddess Necklace! the Dog with Coconut Breath! My wish for you, Gentle Readers, is that you always have such Famous Ones on your journeys, too!