"How a Picture Tells a Life Story" by Devin Meireles
Photo Credit: Devin Meireles
how a picture tells a life story
When delving into genealogy, finding a place to store your discoveries is vitally important. Developing a Family Book is an excellent point of reference to do just that. Chronicling any information and documents along with a collection of pictures is a great start. Ask yourself the right questions to dig for the answers: What did she want out of life?
At times, when clues were short, I focused on phenomenology and what I knew to be factual for the time. Envisioning an intuitive voice guided by the passerines above. Weaving together the details of what that life must have been like. Browsing through the photo gallery, I ponder over the elegance that was her.
***
She was Filomena Raposo Branco, my paternal grandmother (“Avó”), born on Wednesday, March 22, 1922. She resided with her family in Faial da Terra, a small civil parish in the municipality of Povoação, located on the southeastern coast of São Miguel. Lodged between Furnas to the west and Agua Retorta to the east, the quaint Portuguese valley town is one of the most stunning places on the island. A scenic backdrop for an unassuming youth.
A chorus of tweeting can be heard as though the birds are singing for her. It’s the soundtrack to her movement.
Her parents, Maria Moniz Barbosa (born 1896) and Manuel Raposo Branco (born 1885), raised their seven children in the village at the turn of the century under traditional circumstances, much like themselves. Two boys and five girls made for a full house where Avó was brought up. The family lived down by the cliffside, surrounded by slopes and greenery.
“Jantar está pronto!” her mother called out the window. Her voice echoed down the valley where her children heard the announcement and were put on notice to return home for dinner. It was that simple. The village was so small that anybody could be found within a hop, skip, and a jump.
The freguesia was dressed in a tiny collection of houses and a few roads, while at the bottom sat the ocean coast within a stone’s throw. The old Portinho do Faial da Terra was used for whaling back in those days. It was there that Avó would soak in where the green island met the clear blue ocean. As a little girl, her understanding of the world could not have felt any smaller than that corner of the earth.
Across the street stood the large Igreja de Nossa Senhora da Graça. Today, a bronze bust of Father Elias Resendes André is posted outside the church, commemorating his social work on the island, which made local history. He also founded the Casa do Gaiato, a group home for orphaned children. His life became a leading example of generosity toward all humankind, and his philosophy naturally resonated among the residents. They were kind-hearted people with pure intentions.
Avó was raised Roman Catholic in a place where everyone else shared the same belief. Inhabitants carried on goodwill that was absorbed early on. She attended grade school for merely four years and was taught by nuns, but never actually learned to read or write. She walked a very short distance to get to her classes and Sunday service. It was a monotonous routine but alas, all she had ever known.
The system pinned its faith toward religious teachings over any practical skills, ironically using the Holy Bible as a primary resource. The children were brought up to be conservative with credence given to a higher power; they clasped onto the Church’s values while earning their holy sacraments along the way. Surrounded by the bleeding hearts of the parishioners, the village was fortified with their prayers. Youth were brought up to observe these simple truths and eschew from biting the hand that feeds them.
During their off hours, the children would play on the beachside or climb up the hill to take in the miradouro that overlooks the graceful village. A walking trail was the safest route to get there. On the way upward, some kids would horse around to the wayside as if the cliffs were made of Styrofoam. They laughed hysterically in the face of danger.
“One. Two. I’m coming for you!” little Joãozinho called out as they played hide and seek with their friends. He was a classmate and distant relative to Avó.
“You’ll never catch me!” another boy replied.
She observed the high jinks with her sister from the safety of the path while the lads, including her brother, veered closer to the edge. They noticed a sign that read:
Perigo.
Disregarding the warning, the boys scaled the jagged rocks like monkeys to hunt down one another. The girls stared in disbelief. The boy’s carelessness and unruly behaviour were unlike anything deemed appropriate in their eyes, especially after being advised otherwise. They gossiped in judgment as righteous bystanders.
“These boys are stressing me out,” Avó said frantically. Her anxiety was elevated as a witness to a potential disaster. Surely, there were stories of fatal accidents that happened on the island when standing too close to the edge. While considering the worst outcome of any situation, she was uncannily apathetic to the boys’ buffoonery. The boys made her nervous, being a skittish girl, but there was a voice she silenced within herself. As a fatalist, she considered the worst, but was willing to accept whatever could happen. Akin to many other Azoreans, a belief in destiny was undisputed. What was meant to be, will be.
“What if they fell off one of these days?” her sister asked.
“If anybody, it would be Joãozinho! He has two left feet.”
The young ladies continued on the path toward the breathtaking viewpoint that sat atop the freguesia. A large and impressive panorama awaited where the magnificent coastline sat faraway with homes sporadically leading up the mountain trail. Terracotta roof tiles shimmered in the sunlight as the boys jumped around like brutes below.
It was a feast for the eyes while their ears were stimulated with the peaceful sounds of running water. A natural stream carried through Faial Da Terra that was sourced from the waterfalls nearby. Nowadays, spring fountains are scattered throughout the streets that tap into the fresh taste of the reservoir. A perpetual ambiance has provided calm to the simple villagers for centuries. Further upriver was Salto Do Prego, where they could explore incredible sights of nature and a symphony of birds. This spectacular place was an exclusive sanctuary long before the droves of tourists began visiting.
Avó hung around there, conversing for hours. Laughing and having fun until it was time to return home. The children usually made their way back before sunset, walking down the dirt roads that curled around the mountain. Farmers enroute wished the young ones goodnight while in the company of their donkey as they carried containers on a rod that balanced on their shoulders.
“Boa tarde!” the girls respectfully nodded.
“Take care, meninas!” They answered without swerving the weight on their back. “Tell your parents that it’s going to rain tomorrow.”
“We will, Senhor.”
“Obrigada.” The donkey close at hand belted out a bray as if to say the same.
As the sun set to the west, the vista of the freguesia slowly faded into the moonlit sky. The springs echoed louder with the growing silence that surrounded them. Colourful gardens darkened, while stray cats scattered for food and a place to sleep. It was like clockwork: the same thing happened nearly every day.
The remote geography offered magnificent perspectives, but a small population brought limited opportunities for work and socialization. The community was mostly involved in agriculture and commerce related to the same. As one of the tiniest freguesias on the island, their social interactions were confined to each other. Villagers were conditioned with a culture of small-town syndrome. They generally knew everybody as their neighbours or relatives.
People were friendly, honest, and polite while holding each other accountable to their actions. But when they talked, sometimes there could be a lot of gossip or rumours spread. Word travelled fast. Trending topics became local news and had the potential to alienate residents from others among the cliquey behaviour. As such, their outlook on life was bound to what they gathered from one another. Their strong belief in the Catholic faith held them to old-fashioned ideas, and their habits followed suit. The villagers obeyed what they were told in fear of being sinners, outcasting those who did not comply. Their entitlement made the world outside the village irrelevant.
She listened to the passerines closely. They told her to search out a new course—find your nest.
Things more or less stayed the same for the villagers while the times changed globally. Even so, routines adjusted as the years spanned. That journey up and down the mountain increasingly became more of a tradition than a ritual. For fun, it happened less frequently, if not for those who relied on the trek for work. Avó got older, and so did those friendly farmers who passed by. Their jobs got harder, and their ageing bodies could not manage the same labour. Some eventually bequeathed land to their descendants, and others worked till their dying days. Lives were commemorated as the townspeople grieved those lost neighbours—people they had known since day one. Collectively manifesting all the hallmarks of a scattered family, nobody was forgotten.
Familiar faces changed along the mountain route as the next generation stepped up. Many boys became countrymen themselves, carrying loads of farm equipment and livestock both ways. It wasn’t long before they greeted Avó on the journey back and forth. She occasionally walked alone after her sisters left for better opportunities elsewhere. The tranquillity of the voyage was pacifying, and young men were coming onto her with warm gestures on the hillside.
“Bom dia,” a grown-up Joãozinho greeted in the midday. He had matured to be one of those men making the long hike upwards.
“Same to you,” Avó responded.
“I hope your day is as bright as your smile, Senhora.”
“Excuse me?” She clapped back, tongue-in-cheek, alluding to the innuendo of being seasoned. “What are you trying to say?”
“Just saying that you look great today,” he said, hardly any subtlety in his approach. “Let me wake you up for the rest of our lives.”
“No, thank you. Joãozinho, you are like a primo to me!”
“E o que!?”
The closeness of familial relations was hardly a deterrent for him. Connections in blood were a non-factor to most people raised in the village. It really was all in the family. This became evident when I found records suggesting that my third great-grandparents, in the eighteenth century, were cousins. Obviously, the townspeople had played with the cards in their deck for eons. While the prospect was unopposed by the community, Avó remained unintrigued by the men in her village.
During her teenage years, an interest in the opposite sex gradually became more incipient. Fitting the typical mould of a heterosexual, conservative girl, her desire for companionship was ever-rising, but playing the field was limited to the small-town boys she grew up with. She was seemingly not keen on the proposition to marry--nor live out her life--in the freguesia, so she set her heart on greener pastures. The scenery with all its perpetual beauty wasn’t enough to keep many residents from moving on. Aspiring to follow in her siblings’ footsteps and those of many others, she wished to leave for something bigger, and there was only so far to aim.
There is much more to see out there.
Avó would realize a vision for herself into adulthood, but until then, she lived a conventional lifestyle as a product of her environment. Back then, women were expected to cook, clean, and run the household upon finding a husband. It was customary to serve the men. Young girls learned the skills of homemaking before learning to read. They were very principled and unwavering in their conviction.
“Avé Maria, cheia de graça,” she prayed routinely, “o Senhor é convosco . . .” The words rolled off her tongue from memory.
Her faith in Deus carried her through the monotony of small-town life before getting a chance to upgrade. She lent a helping hand around the house of worship and was counted upon to do so. Volunteerism was obligatory; all hands were on deck for major preparations. Just like any other village, patron saints were celebrated annually. She worked with and consumed the local harvest on their feast days. Among a few hundred inhabitants, they were self-sufficient to host everybody, including occasional guests from other freguesias.
Crops from their farms were integral for the typical Azorean soups of the region: fervedouro is made with sausage and cabbage, porco com molho de fígado is pork with liver sauce, and sopa de tomate is a basic tomato soup. People gathered for community meals followed by dancing into the night, twirling to the rhythmic sounds of the local musical group at the bandstand.
Avó inherited these recipes and more when they were handed down from her family. Authentic cuisine was a legacy that carried over generations. One could say that Avó knew her way around the kitchen before combing her own hair. At home, she was well-versed in making papas grossas (Portuguese porridge), bolo da sertã (flatbread), and my personal favourite, torresmos (pork rinds).
Every fall season, she also helped produce an abundance of pimenta sauce and chouriço that was made to last the ensuing year. Those ingredients would complement dozens of other dishes, being staples of the Azorean food fare she knew inside out. That joy of cooking was very much an art form and a show of love. She relished in sharing home-cooked meals with those around her. That fulfillment stemmed from an old-school practice where small-town people warm each other up with a bowl of soup. It was a gesture that represented a sign of kinship. Her mastery of cuisine was a craft she honed, yearning to serve a man and children of her own one day. That wish would come to fruition in due time.
Applying traditional wisdom took precedence over everything. Expertise came from hands-on learning. There were no degrees nor accredited programs to give chase to; practice was the best teacher for such subjects. She also learned many other homemaking competencies like embroidery, needlework, and sewing. Gifted with natural talent, it didn’t take long for her to take up those skills.
Her aptitude for stitching was exceptional, and while she eventually made a career of it, it didn’t prove to be worthwhile in Faial da Terra. As a young adult, she began freelance work as a seamstress for some escudos; however, many requests came in as favours or trades. The village was only so big, and Avó faced limited options for sustainable income. With low industrial development, the landowners prospered, while many others were making the difficult transition to move abroad and establish their lives elsewhere.
Give chase to the sun. It will lead you there.
Once coming of age, Avó followed the path of her siblings in search of that better life. Women entering the labour market were eager to work—windows of opportunities awaited over the mountains, into the unknown. The unexplored terrain lay ahead where she took her bucket of skills and aspirations to the biggest city on the island, Ponta Delgada.
Go now!
Taking that first step was the hardest part of her quest. She embraced her parents with a sombre goodbye, knowing full well that could be the last time they would see each other—and it was. Corroborating the old English proverb “children are certain cares, but uncertain comforts,” her guardians would not be afforded the benefit of her caregiving.
Her father wished her the best of luck, saying, “While you may be moving far away, our amor knows no distance.”
His words etched themselves in her heart forevermore.
“Your sisters will also be there to help you on the way,” her mother added.
Their full support gave her the strength to move forward. They appreciated the sacrifice she was making for better prospects—that’s just the way it was.
“Eu te amo Mãe e Pai.”
She also parted with friends and neighbours whom she had known since birth. Joãozinho was saddened to see her go, but eventually bunked with another kinswoman. He would be just fine. They all said a prayer for her before she set about the journey of a lifetime. The distance to the capital was about fourteen hours on foot, which she surely did not saunter, but the transit was by no means rapid.
Gingerly passing through townships along the way, she took in the magnificence of the green island, realizing the exquisiteness of her homeland. Observing craters at Povoação encircled by forests and river valleys. The active volcanoes at Furnas were astonishing to see in person. The smells of the geysers made her nauseous. She continued westbound toward Vila Franca do Campo, which was formerly the largest settlement before an earthquake hit many centuries ago. The tour was an exploration of the island's history right under her feet.
She moved along the main road on the southern coastline and made her way past Água De Pau and Lagoa until finally reaching her Ponta Delgada. Her sisters were there to receive her. They showed her around and guided her. The city had more buildings and people than she had ever seen, brimming with activity in every which way. It was promising to see plenty of storefronts open to the public, and the port was a major hub for business. Upon arrival, she began seeking employment. She sought to meet all kinds of people to expand her social network and create a new beginning for herself. The strength of her ancestors grounded her like a rock, and her future looked as bright as her faith in it.
***
I stare at the photograph from that time. It displays a stunning young woman with bright eyes fixed on moving up in the world. I see her eagerness and joy like how a bird lifts into flight. There were so many milestones still yet to come. Ready to bring any dream to life as she saw fit. She is beautiful. Her impetuosity protrudes from the frame as if her voice can be heard. The choir of passerines are singing to her majesty. Born under a lucky star, she is a glittering diamond just waiting to be discovered.
Devin Meireles is a health care worker that moonlights as a freelance writer and family historian. He has published short stories and articles as well as a narrative nonfiction book about his grandparents’ immigration story.