I was the seventh of nine children: three brothers and six sisters, all born in the same house and with the same midwife Dona Suzana. Looking back on the early years of my life, I remember when in a room lit only by the shadows of a dim light, my mother, year after year, patiently waited for the time when we would all be born. On a straw sofa, our first little clothes, lovingly prepared by herself, were carefully perfumed by an aroma coming from a vase, where my mother burned seeds of fragrant herbs. The atmosphere in this dimly lit room was fresh and pleasant and ready to welcome your new baby. With all the love and affection, after we were born, our mother always warmed us with her breasts swollen with milk, prepared to satisfy our hunger and make us happy and comfortable in our first moments of life.

Many years passed when I visited her on a cold rainy afternoon. She was weak and sickly, eighty years old, with her eyes darkened and her forehead bruised after a fall she had taken. Alone, while my mother slept, I thought about our lives, our days in the past… about this story.

I was born in a beautiful little beach town, the nicest place to live as a kid. I remember one day, after we had made a long journey with my parents, arriving in the city, an old bridge and a small church on top of the hill were the first signs to let us know that we were arriving home and thus end the long journey of back to our home. As we crossed the bridge, in front of us we saw a large canal with green trees along its banks, giving us a pleasant feeling, as if we were entering an enchanted world. A fresh wind from the sea touched our faces, making us feel welcome in the city. As we crossed the main street, the old and imposing Cathedral impressed us, as well as everyone else when they arrived from travel. Before arriving home, we always liked to stop in front of the beach, feeling homesick after the long days away. White sands covered the beach for miles and miles on end. The color of the sea, changing from light to dark blue with shades of green, made a beautiful combination with the sky on sunny days. The scenery was truly beautiful! In the distance, an old fort and a lighthouse on top of the hill blocked part of our view. This was the part of the beach that scared us the most, a world unknown to us and which we always feared. This corner was called “Praia do Diabo” and it was a contrast with the beauty of the sea. How happy we felt, returning to our beloved homeland…

In this fishing town, I spent an important part of my life. My family was traditional in the city and most of its inhabitants had the same last name, my last name… Azevedo. This last name came from many past generations. My grandfather was a Portuguese immigrant, poet and wrote chronicles for the city newspaper. Many members of my family were excellent musicians. I was always proud of her, as almost all of them were important people in the city.

My father was a great industrialist linked to the salt industry and for many years mayor of the city. As mayor, he tried as hard as he could, promoting the city’s growth, making it flourish from its lethargy. During this period, he made important contributions to the city, such as paving streets, putting the first engine on light, helping the local church as well as a convent of Franciscan nuns. He started the first high school course, started a sports club and donated land big enough to build the first football stadium which today bears his name… “Aracy Machado”. He also started the first bus line connecting our city with neighboring cities reaching Niterói and introduced the first brass band, as well as samba schools during Carnival. I still remember, when on special occasions or parties, the musicians would stop in front of our house to greet my father and the baianas would come in to dance on our porch. My father owned farms and his cattle periodically went to exhibitions outside the city. My father always helped the poor, as well as those who knocked on our door asking for help. He was a great man, he had a big heart and throughout his life he was respected by all his children.

In the past, in this small town, all the traditional ceremonies were celebrated with great feasting. I remember when on Easter Sunday, dressed like an angel, in a blue satin nightgown, white wings were held by my mother. In my hair, previously curled with pieces of newspaper so that they were full of curls, garlands of small roses were placed. It was dawn when, barefoot on the icy asphalt, I was part of the Resurrection Procession. Walking without shoes before sunrise was a very special moment for me. I felt pleasure when my feet touched the cold ground, although small pebbles hurt them sometimes. The celebrations continued throughout the month, with all the townspeople happily participating in the festivities.

Another memory of my childhood was when the first plane landed in our city and especially when a German zeppelin was seen in the sky. It was on a cold rainy day when we all heard a strange, inexplicable, intermittent sound. We quickly opened the windows to see what was happening and, like a terrible monster, a huge zeppelin crossed the sky right in front of our window. We were all ecstatic with this big surprise, especially us children, who lived in this small town. Stunned and scared, we looked at that object that slowly disappeared from our eyes. It was an unforgettable moment, especially for me who lived far from the modern world that already existed at that time. To our surprise, moments later, we heard over the radio that the aircraft had crashed into the sand dunes on the beach. People in a hurry ran to see the damage caused by the zeppelin, but luckily there weren’t many, as it fell right on the dunes. What impressed me most about this sad event, in my childhood imagination, was a long, black, shiny raincoat that someone from the zeppelin had donated to an elderly man who lived in our neighborhood. When I heard someone say that the man in the black raincoat was coming home, I would run quickly to the gate in front of our house, waiting for him to pass. Even hidden behind the bars, I could see that he was very fat, very ruddy in the face, and always walked around with an air of importance, wearing his raincoat shining like a patent leather shoe. The day the zeppelin crashed became unforgettable for me, because shortly after the zeppelin crashed, my older sister’s first child was born and in the same room where my mother had her nine children. The heavy rain and the accident on the dunes, along with the birth of my nephew, were extremely intense emotions for a seven-year-old girl.

At that time the city still did not have its own airport. An immense field not far from our house was where an airplane sometimes landed. So, for us children, always playing, as soon as we heard a strange noise like an airplane engine coming from the sky, we started running as fast as we could, to reach the field before him. At that moment, what made us most happy was feeling the strong wind that came from the blades of its propellers on our face and on our hair that flew with the wind. We children lived in our own world, made of inseparable and unforgettable moments, playing, laughing… and happy. Progress at that time had not yet affected the beauty of our world created by a child’s imagination.

Christmas Eve always brings me good memories of the past as a family. I feel happy remembering this night that was very different from what we live today. I still remember all the emotions I felt. How many sleepless nights, how many days spent in preparation for the Christmas party. Months before, many eggs were carefully used, to save their shells that would be transformed into little clowns with happy faces, made by each one of us. Every night, as soon as we finished dinner, the long wooden table with benches beside it was prepared by my mother. On it, colored tissue papers, scissors, ribbons and a glue made of wheat flour, it was ready so that we could start our work and make the decorations. Everyone in the family worked together giving each one a personal touch. So we all looked forward to December 24th, when in the morning, a truck pulled up to our front door carrying a huge natural pine tree. It was the tallest we’d ever seen it, tall enough to reach the ceiling of our living room. All of us were frightened by this intruder being dragged and carried by strong men across our veranda and then found himself in one of the corners of our living room as if he were a very important person. We children were only allowed to touch the tree affectionately or play games, trying to fix little pieces of the pine branches scattered on the ground. The tree was usually decorated the day before by the oldest members of the family and before the night ended, on the 24th, it had to be ready. How beautiful she looked!… That night, the children went to bed early, tired and anxious for the night to pass quickly. The next day in the morning, as soon as we woke up, we looked under the beds to make sure that Santa Claus had brought the toys we asked for. Quickly and full of curiosity, we ran to the living room to see the tree decorated with its decorations and colored lights. Each child tried to identify the ornaments they had prepared with so much care and affection. Christmas Day was joyous, full of celebration and excitement for the whole family. Love and affection were in our hearts as we celebrated together as a family once again… Christmas Eve.

I still have other memories in my memory: good times to highlight from my past. I remember the time when trains ran on steam and burned coal. It often required a long drive to get somewhere from the city where we lived. The trains moved as fast as their age allowed… and most of them were really, really old. I distinctly remember when certain trips lasted all day and we didn’t arrive until sunset. After this tiring journey, we felt dirty, dusty and hungry. We felt in our clothes, on our faces and in the air we breathed, how unpleasant the journey had been. But for us children, all this inconvenience was compensated with good memories when we arrived in the comfort of our home. What a contrast to the trains that exist today, as they have become much more pleasant. In these modern trains we can travel reading, looking through the windows at the green of the fields, farms full of animals, as well as enjoying the wild flowers that are scattered along the way. How I now appreciate train travel… They are so different from the old ones!…

This was the world I lived in as a child. I had a happy life, because I always lived beside my parents, my mother… and my brothers. They were the best moments of my life, which I will always keep alive in my memory and especially in my heart.

Time suddenly woke me up from this enchanted world I had been living in for a few hours, a world of fantasy, a world of imagination… A world of dreams. Next to me, my calm mother continued to sleep and who knows like me, having the same dreams, the same thoughts and the same anxieties for her future. Calm and peaceful, she continued to sleep. At that moment, in honor of her, I wrote this poem

MY DEAR MOTHER

One day we will leave this life,
Each in their own way and at their own time.
True and cruel reality,
That will touch us all one day.

Poor Mother…
Who doesn’t look at her without suffering?
Like a beautiful bird,
Trampled, crushed in the asphalt, it looked like.

Always cheerful and smooth,
Her voice just like the birds matched.
clear and soft voice
That with all the affection we packed.

in the way of birds
who take care of the nests,
Likewise
Our mother always served us.

Oh! Sweet Mother.
So small and fragile…
looked like a bird
Moulting feathers.

Hours pass… time passes… your life has passed.
Life of fear, life locked up.
Just like that of some birds…
It was her life.

MEMORIES OF THE PAST MAKE US SEEM THAT LIFE ALWAYS GOES ON… AND WILL NEVER END.

MARIA LUCIA COSTA