From left: José, Isaura, Julia, Deja.
After my grandmother Julia Wagner de Barros Faria died in 2006, her belongings were gathered by my aunt and godmother Aldinha, the youngest child and a loving caregiver. Little did we know that my aunt would herself depart prematurely in 2018. Her bedroom is still kept the way it was the last night she spent there. It took me a bit to muster the courage to ask my grieving cousins, two of Aldinha’s daughters, to let me see what was inside the boxes. They were happy to oblige. So, during one of my travels to Brazil last year, we got together to look at snapshots of my grandparents’ life.
None of us had many recollections of our maternal grandfather José Nunes Faria (the grandson of my subject in last week’s post). He passed away when I was six; one of my cousins was three and the other was born after his death, although his memory was, and still is, very present. All of us grew up very close to our grandmother, who had a large family, as did grandpa. Our hometown was not theirs, though: my grandfather hailed from the state of Minas Gerais, whereas grandma was from a town in the northern part of Rio de Janeiro. Grandpa José’s work brought the family to where I, and my cousins, were born. Over the years, we got to meet many of each side’s relatives, but we never had a big family reunion with everybody. Not that we were isolated, our local group by itself was a large one, but most of my great-uncles and great-aunts, and their families, lived far. In grandma’s boxes, I found photos of parties where people came from other states, but those had happened decades prior. Many of those in the pictures were already gone by the time I was a small child, including all of my grandmother’s siblings.
On my grandfather’s side, I remember traveling to meet two of his youngest sisters, Djanira, nicknamed Deja, and Isaura. My mother and grandmother always spoke fondly of them. Even if they went years without seeing each other, their names were always mentioned, and we knew what was going on with the Minas relatives. Deja died in 1986. She was the family historian and left a treasure trove of notes, the foundation for my research on that side of the tree. I owe so much to her. Isaura passed away much later, four years before my grandmother, and thus the book was closed on a whole generation of the Barros and Faria families. The mementos I found among my grandmother’s belongings offered me a glimpse of their lives decades before I came around. The picture above caught my eye and my heart immediately.
On the back, I saw my grandmother’s handwriting. There is no date, but it reads “On a stroll, with the Church of Floresta in the background, where the famed choir is comprised of, and directed by the Faria family”. It wasn’t difficult to find the church, Our Lady of Sorrows, located in the Floresta neighborhood in Belo Horizonte. The building was still in construction when the family moved there from the countryside town of Pirapora, in the western portion of the state, and became involved in this fledgling parish doing what they knew best: making music, which is a topic for a future post. The church was officially inaugurated in 1940, the year my great-grandfather Christóvam died.
I love this picture because the people look so carefree. My grandfather, married to a talented seamstress, always very dapper. His face cannot be seen, and he was not one to “say cheese” anyway, but I like to think he had a slight grin under the shade of the brim. My grandmother, linking arms with Isaura, was laughing, something she did often. I still see that smile when I think of her. I noticed Deja was looking up and beaming, her gaze towards someone she knew.
When I researched the church, I saw it is located on Silva Jardim Street. I had seen that name before, it was on my great-grandfather’s death record. It turns out, the family lived down the street from their church, and the house is still there, in need of care and repairs, but still conserves its lines, embellishments and character as the city grew and modernized around it. The street is still paved with the original cobblestones. The local architectural commission has the house listed on its website, where I found current pictures of the exterior, and part of the original blueprint from 1931. I hope the goal is to preserve this historical building.
I wish I could zoom out and see who was at the window, smiling back at Deja from inside the family home. Maybe my great-grandmother? I wish I could overhear their conversation, it looks like they were having a good time, or maybe trying to lighten up after a difficult period if this was taken not too long after Christóvam passed. It could be a well-deserved respite for my great-aunts, who cared for their father alongside great-grandma Beralda during his illness. I will never know, but I wish I could thank the photographer, likely my great-uncle Alysson, known for this love of cameras and all things audiovisual, a passion he turned into a successful career, deserving of a blog post of its own. He captured a precious fleeting moment, the shutter clicked at just the right time to preserve the happiness and camaraderie of my grandparents with the sisters. Whatever the conversation was, I can feel their joy.