Sundays were for the most part the best day of the week. It was truly a day of rest. No school, no early mass, no fetching wood for the fire or feed for the goats. I could finally sleep in late - in island time that was probably about 7: 00 am at the latest. Coming awake, I could smell my favorite breakfast being cooked. Stew fish that was to be eaten with potato bread baked the night before. During the week breakfast was always the same old thing. Tea made from the leaves of the lime tree, or a number of other native plants, eaten with bread or corn meal made from ground corn or flour pap - which I hated with a passion. You ain’t Bahamian if you haven’t eaten flour pap. Water was heated, flour was stirred in to thicken, then it was sweetened with sugar to add taste. It didn’t look any better than old fashioned liquid glue. It probably didn’t taste much better either. I can’t really say since I never got the inkling to taste it myself. It took me many years to realize that those were extremely lean times and we were given the best our parents had to give. This was my Sunday. What I disliked about Sundays most was standing for an hour or more, parting and scratching my adopted mother’s scalp while she sat in the door watching the neighbors go by. Nah! Possibly it was just a half hour, back then it felt like hours and hours. My relief would usually come in the form Holy Redeemer church bells. Ding, ding, ding, ding! Goes the church bells. Time for Sunday school!
The bells could be heard all over the town. The church tower held three different size bells. The medium size bell’s bass sound meant time for church. Then there was large bell, slow heavy toll, Bong! Bong! Bong! This bell told the town there was an emergency. The smaller bell’s dings in rapid succession meant time for Sunday school. Basically it is was saying, “Hurry! Hurry up!” And so, off I would go! Usually in a pretty pink dress, white collar, and smocking down front, white laced trimmed anklet socks, white buckled shoes, tiny white handbag, occasionally short white gloves, and my catholic missal (Catholic prayer Book) proudly stepping down the road heading to Sunday school. You see, my proud strut was because I wore a store bought dress. For school and other events, I usually wore dresses sewn by the local dress maker made from chicken feed bags, durable, flowery prints that were quite pretty. Some were made out of flour sacks or chambray. Resting in that missal was a lace veil that I delayed wearing until just before I entered the church door. I was never too happy about that lace covering my pretty braids. I was proud of those braids because my adopted mother would allow the neighbor's daughter to braid my hair for Sunday mass and other special occasions. During the week , my adopted mother braided my thick hair. It often looked like goat horns protruding from the top of my head. Needless to say, I learnt to braid my own hair at an early age before most of my friends.
As I head up the road, various persons would call out to me.“Hi, Tinkerwee!” “Good afternoon, Cousin Ida.” Older persons were never called by their first names. Cousin, was a term of endearment as well as a show of respect. “Hi, half-pint.”, that would be Mr. Brown who owns the local bar. He would often say that I was no bigger than a half-pint of brandy. Him being a bar owner, you can see where that comparison lies. Then came my usual routine. Once I turned a corner just down the road from my house, I would look back over my shoulder. Yes, All clear! It’s time to loosen that sash (belt) of my dress and pull in as tight as my tiny waist would allow then retying it neatly back into a bow. Grumping, steaming, and stomping my feet with frustration, I just could not understand why my adopted mother insisted on tying that belt so loose. All the other girls wore their belts tight. Well... Maybe, not as tight as I would pull mine. Meanwhile, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that she does not show up to mass to see me before I can loosen it on the way back home.
Making my way into the Sunday school classroom with a friend or two, we would always sit neat and lady-like during our lessons. But once mass began, we fought to sit behind the large pillars that divided the church into four sections. They hid much of the playing around and eating we did during mass from the watchful eyes of the Catholic nuns who sat at the back. Ironically, I did want to become a nun as I would get to wield their powerful, cringe-worthy, chilling glares and quick art of knuckle whacking. The nun wore long grey gowns, grey and white veils, white starched collar and long grey bibs down the front with rosary beads attached at the waist and black laced shoes. Looking up to find one hovering over you, arms folded under her bib with those eyes that seemed to stare through to your very soul seeing all the mischief hiding within was terrifying. Nonetheless, the following Sunday we would always be up to mischief as usual. Why? Because a 7 year old believes they can always outwit any adult somehow. Today, I can only relish my past impish ways through my mischief-loving granddaughter who I’d shake my head at and say “Been there, done that!”
Be sure to let Smiling take you to visit Holy Redeemer Church New Bight Cat Island, a beautiful historical land mark. Sit behind the pillars and imagine yourself, 7 again, hiding from the steely eyes of the nuns. Also would you be brave enough to sample the dreaded flour pap of my youth! Come to Cat Island feel the flavor and true culture of the Bahamas. s.
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