UNCLE RODRIGO

Uncle Rodrigo and His Chimarao

Living with a unique and eccentric person can be a real challenge.  My Brazilian uncle would fit into this category. 

Uncle Rodrigo and his wife Martha, Dad’s younger sister, came to live with us in Coqueiros in 1944, a year before we returned to America. I was ten years old. They took care of our house in Brazil while we were in America and stayed on with us when we returned. My most vivid memories of Uncle Rodrigo were when I was a teenager and returned to Brazil in 1947.

While we were in America Uncle Rodrigo removed all of the screens from the windows of our house in Coqueiros, as he was sure they kept the fresh ocean air from entering the house.  Aunt Martha waited on him and did her best to take care of his needs.  The first thing every morning was to have hot water ready for Uncle Rodrigo’s Chimarao.  This is the green tea served in a gourd used by the gauchos of Rio Grande do Sul, Rodrigo’s home state. Aunt Martha always made sure his white linen suit was clean and pressed and his white tennis shoes spotless. Most afternoons, he dressed up in these clothes, carried his black cane umbrella and took the bus to town.  We have no idea what he did in town and never had a need to know.  However, around 4 or 5 P.M. he returned to Coqueiros.

Stella, my best friend, also lived with us during this time. We often caught the Coqueiros bus at the same time Uncle Rodrigo did. If we saw him coming towards the bus or we were able to see him on the bus, we disappeared and caught the next one. If we happened to catch the same bus, Uncle Rodrigo would always stand up and introduce us to everyone as we entered the bus. In a loud, gentlemanly, and dramatic voice for everyone to hear, he would say in Portuguese, “May I have the honor of presenting my humble chair to my beautiful American niece, Grace Kolenda.  Would you give me the pleasure of accepting this seat from your devoted Uncle?” 

Then I would look around and see shocked looks and sometimes smiles on the other passengers, and I wanted to crawl under the seat. I accepted his offer as fast as possible and thanked him profusely, to avoid a prolonged speech.  This was my uncle, and everything he did was exaggerated. But I was only sixteen, and was embarrassed by all this.

In my book, Divine Betrayal, I describe Uncle Rodrigo’s dramatic and prolonged prayers at the dinner table. When mother knew it was his turn to ask the blessing before the meal, she would leave the food on the stove until after his long prayers!

Uncle Rodrigo's Script

Uncle Rodrigo was a romantic poet.  He used a pseudonym, “Circe.”  When he decided to create, he took over the large dining room table, placed paper over the wood, brought out his ink well and feathered quill, and with wide, sweeping motions began to write.  We all knew not to disturb him while he was creating, and when he finished, he looked for someone to listen to his poems.  Stella would always make herself available.  She listened intently, and then would tell him how much she loved his work. Often she would say to me, within hearing distance of Uncle Rodrigo, “Grace, your Uncle is very talented–I love his work.”  Uncle Rodrigo would beam from ear to ear.  (more…)

LIVING WITH AN ADVENTUROUS FATHER

Urubici Mountains

I think that parents should be aware that their family may not share in their need foradventure, and their family may not share in their unquestioning faith in God’s protection.  As a child, I experienced terror while my father and mother were able to pray and put their safety in the hands of God.

In Divine Betrayal  I tell of many times when I dreaded being with them but I had no choice.  One such time was having to travel on mountainous roads. Here is an except from my book:

About twenty-five miles from Urubici we made a sharp left turn at the small village of Bom Retiro.  There we found a gas station, motel, restaurant and a few houses. From Bom Retiro, in the near distance, we could see The Panelao, or the large pan, a land formation that resembled a skillet turned upside down. The Panelao was a prominent mountain jutting high above the rest and one that we had to cross in order to reach Urubici.  It seemed like we often reached Bom Retiro around two or three in the afternoon, just in time for the daily tropical storm. I’d look from our car and see the clouds gathering and darkening as we got closer. Dad always pulled into this little village to fill the tank and get a little something to eat at the restaurant. “How’s the mountain driving?” he asked the truckers who nursed their coffees in the same restaurant.

“Nao pode ir, e muito perigoso, espera ate a chuva passar,” they usually said, which meant, “You can’t go. It is very dangerous, so wait until the rain passes.”  

A broad smile spread across Dad’s handsome face. “Well, then,” he responded with a shrug. “Hurry up, Mother. Come, girls. Let’s get going.”

 ”John, listen to the truck drivers,” Mother pleaded in a high-pitched whine. “They know best. Let’s wait here a while, John, and have another coffee.”  But inevitably Dad ushered us into the car and took off towards The Panelao.  For the first eight miles out of Bom Retiro, the road was flat and curvy. It didn’t start climbing noticeably until just before reaching the foot of the mountain. This, invariably, was when rain drops first started to splatter the car windows. Just as the steep climb began, the rain cascaded down in sheets. The one-lane road, with its fine red dust and dirt, became as slippery as soap. And in these conditions, trucks coming down the mountain left deep ruts in the sticky clay. The road had continuous hairpin curves. Eventually Dad was forced to stop the car and fish the heavy metal chains out of the trunk to wrap them around the rear tires.  The chains helped a little with the traction, but we still slid from one side of the path to the other. 

            On one side of the road was the mountain: reassuring, solid, and protective. But on the other side was the precipice, beyond which was thin air that dropped straight down hundreds of yards to the earth below. There were no guardrails, no shoulders, no safety at all.  Many trucks and cars slid over that precipice to meet their fate. The slim edge of the road was dotted with white crosses and faded paper flowers, to remind us of those who hadn’t made it.

            Mother prayed continuously. “Dear Lord, please protect your servants, help Dad keep the car from falling down the precipice, and keep us safe in your arms.” 

 I hunched in my seat and bit my nails, tasting the salt from my skin and the gristle of cuticle between my teeth.  Dorothy didn’t say a word. She sat straight up in the seat beside me, her eyes open wide, her lips pursed tightly. I could see and feel her silent fear, and it only magnified my own.  The mountainous ascent took between thirty minutes and an hour, six miles that felt like sixty. Miraculously, we always reached the summit, from which we then had to inch slowly down for another five miles. During the descent, the rain had usually slowed or stopped, so the road wasn’t quite so slick. But the moist clay caked our tires so thickly that Dad had to stop again and again to scrape it off in order to continue forward. (more…)

WHY READ DIVINE BETRAYAL ?

I’m often asked why anyone would want to read Divine Betrayal, my memoir. There are so many answers to this question, and I will give a few of the most common reasons. 

First, it is entertaining. It tells about Graceann, a young girl growing up in a different country in the midst of adverse poverty.  She had to learn to speak a new language and survive the dangers all around her. She accepted living with lice and other parasites like round worm, pin worms, and bicho de pe; a round chigger-like parasite which embedded itself in her bare feet, causing itching and pain. When playing or walking in the woods, or even in her yard, she had to keep a sharp eye out for poisonous snakes that came out to sun themselves in clearings. This was everyday life, and Graceann became accustomed to living with hunger, disease, death–even carrying dead babies to their graves.  

Divine Betrayal is also the story of growing up in a very strict, cult-like religion.  In Brazil, when the Assemblies of God was just beginning to have influence there, everything was ordered and dictated by the church. As a missionary daughter, Graceann had to obey every rule. Dresses were long and not sleeveless, hair had to be uncut and braided, make up or jewelry of any kind were forbidden, and friends had to be believers or members of the church. These were only a few of the many rules Graceann had to follow. As a child it was easy to obey these rules, but as a teenager it became more difficult, if not impossible for her to obey. She wanted desperately to be like everyone else and not to stand out as “different” in school or in a crowd.  Divine Betrayal tells about Graceann’s journey through relationship conflicts, inner conflicts, and the guilt she felt when questioning the church rules and dogma. Many missionary kids and pastor’s kids will relate to this story, as will anyone who struggled to find their identity growing up.

But with all of the adversity, there was also a lot of fun. Catching crabs off the rocks near her house, swimming, and eating raw oysters right off the rocks were some of Graceann’s favorite pastimes. She appreciated the beauty there, from the mountains to the Atlantic Ocean. Graceann met life-long friends, learned to love Brazil and didn’t want to return to the U.S. at eighteen years of age.  (more…)