a special day

Today my rascal friend made his first communion.

I remember the first communions in the MaruMaru Memorial Hall when I was young. I didn't make my communion then; I didn't think I could keep the promises we were being asked to make, and my mother let me opt out when others took communion. My grandfather was a church elder. I suspect that was a strong move by my mother, defending my right to hold a different opinion, to step outside the norm.

Church was in the village hall. It was our job to go early if there had been an "occasion" in the hall during the week, or more particularly on the Saturday night. We had to air the building so it didn't smell of beer, and give it an extra clean. As I write I remember sitting on a step one Saturday night looking skyward into the darkness with a boyfriend, talking about the first landing on the moon.

Presbyterians and Methodists attended one another's monthly services, thus making church once a fortnight. Anglicans and Catholics had to go to town to worship, 11 miles on a winding shingle road. We sat on wooden, folding chairs that we pulled into the centre of the hall, neatly placed in 3 slightly curving rows before the minister arrived. The "organ" was a folding, portable, bellows type organ. Occasionally I played the piano when the organist was away, and when she retired. My mother stood where I could see her and closed her hymn book part way through the last verse so I knew when to play the "Amen".

Today's ceremony was in a beautiful, marble lined chiesa, in the main street of the historic village. There was not so much singing, but somehow my voice seems to know where to go even though I know few of the words. Music is important to me, it fills my soul.

Once again I am grateful for being made welcome here, being included in family occasions, knowing that this place is home.

Once again I promise myself that I will write less in English, and study Italian more.

Buonanotte...