SINGING THE LAUDAINHA

Circa 1975 photo by Tony Fernandes

Village Chapel

Guirim, Cumbiem Morod, Bardez, Goa, India

Photo by Roque Monteiro

Singing the Ladainha

As a young boy just growing up, I joined other children along with the elders in singing the ‘Ladainha’ (Litany) at the various feasts, functions or events, and somehow in my innocence, I could not help but think that the “the ladainha” was to pray not only for our own good health, wealth and prosperity but also for the well-being of the village people. Some of the people from our village worked in Goa and others were employed in Bombay, Karachi, Arabian Gulf, Aden or East Africa. As a child I was under the impression that thinking about them and praying to God at the same time by including their names in the litany itself was a novel and awesome idea. There could not have been a better way devised to remember these kind folks.

Believe me, I am not making this up or pulling a fast one. The only reason I did not write about this all this time is because I thought God would punish me for making fun of the ‘Ladainha’. But I say this in all sincerity, and He may still punish me, but the fact that I thought about my neighbours and others when I was that young, must be commended, especially when I prayed for the good of everyone. Nowadays, we hardly sing the Litany, let alone think of anyone else but ourselves. I hope that perhaps singing the Litany in the near future will absolve me, and in addition I will be reciting the ‘mea culpa’.

As a young lad, I knew that the “Laudainha” was sung in Latin language, and that it was dedicated to Our Lady, the Blessed Virgin Mary and also recited after completion of the five decades of the Rosary, but then I thought it was so appropriate to think of our own village people, neighbours, relatives, friends and those who worked abroad while having the joy not only in singing, but also being rewarded with 'ukoddlele chonem' (boiled chick peas) in the end. The richer the celebrant, better the chances were of being handed out with two or more types of snacks. A celebrant returning from Africa or Kuwait would mean ‘bolinha’, sweets or biscuits, and ‘tambdo soro’ (red wine) too being generously distributed.

The description below may sound akin to the famous narration of the ‘Deck of Cards” by T. Texas Tyler, but in a different sort of way. My thought was that our rendition was unique in the way. Real people from our community were involved. What was amazing to me were the similarities between what we sang and the names of the people around us, involved in different trades and professions.

To start with, take for instance when we sang 'Sancta Virgo Virginum' or 'Regina Virginum'. My godmother's name was Virginia, her sisters were Regina was Maria; Assumption was my godfather and the village chapel was dedicated to Nossa Senhora de Assumpta where the batkan's (landlady's) daughter, Angela,(Regina Angelorum) sang in the choir every Sunday; Christie (Mater Christi), Bonnie (Mater Boni Consilii) and Rosario (Regina Sacritissima Rosarii) were my classmates, Rosa (Rosa Mistica) and Gracy (Mater Divinae Gratiae) were my cousin’s neighbours in Siolim where I went to spend my summer holidays, Conception (Regina sine labe originali Concepta) was my aunt, Salvador Jr. (Mater Salvatoris) was my younger uncle, Violant Mater Inviolata) was the strict lady in the next village on the way to the church in Guirim (we jumped over the high stone compound wall to savour some of the exotic fruits that she grew), Prudencia (Virgo Prudentissima) was the woman who came over to grind curry masala and helped around the house for my grandma, Leticia (Causa Nostra Leticae) was my paternal grandmother, Consulem was the one who had petty fights with everyone in the village, Esperança was my next door neighbour and the oldest surviving lady in the village, Piedade worked at the batkar's (landlord) place, Clement worked in Vasco de Gama and Remedios worked for Obras Publicas (Public Works Dept.) in Panjim. These guys seemed to have lived up to their names too. Sucur was the village handy-man and offered help to any one who needed it, Salvador Sr. was an expert and an authority in house roofing and saved many sagging roofs from caving in. Benedict, God bless him, worked in Kuwait and gave me 'Marie' biscuits when he came down on a vacation every 2 years. Fidelis (Virgo Fidelis) who had spent 20 years in far away East Africa, was now our village leader and never gave up wearing a hat. David (turris Davidica) was my older uncle who worked in Bombay, and smoked a pipe when he came to Goa in April or May (aroma of which drifted over the entire village). Stella was my cousin who taught Cathecism, Salu (Mater Salvatoris) was the well-known ‘caçador’ (hunter) from Parra who often passed by our house with his rifle on the way to the hills of Bastora and beyond, and Agnel (Agnus Dei) owned a motor-repair workshop in Ahmedabad. His brother Vaz was a well-known tailor and smoked 'Capstan Navy Cut' cigarettes, and Aura was my class-teacher in the village Aula - a Portuguese Primary School. And as if that was not enough, as a bonus prayer, I also thought we were invoking the blessings of the Angels, Patriachs, Confessors, Apostles and Martyrs and Saints. As an extra bonus even the famous ‘advogad’ (lawyer) from neighbouring Parra wasn’t left out, when we sang the words 'advogada nossa' in the Salve Rainha. So, you see, all the names of people mentioned above are included in the Litany in some form or another, and now as readers are fully convinced, I guess I will be pardoned. Even ‘doce’ and the jack-fruit were included when we sang “Rogai por nos”. (Honestly, 'doce' was often served too after the Laudainha, and what sounded like ‘ponos’ (jack fruit) I thought we were praying for a better yield of that fruit during the season).

The Litany is also still sung in the homes, at road-side Crosses or in the village chapels in Goa, prior to a member of the family, a husband, a son or a loved one leaving in search of greener pastures for employment abroad, or those returning to work abroad after spending their holidays in Goa. A sung Litany or Ladainha is also held in honour of a saint for favours granted or prayers answered.

An unique feature of the sung Litany is its multi-lingual variety, form and quality. For example, we begin with the sign of the Cross in Konkani followed by 'Deus in adjutorium meum intende' and the 'Kyrie eleison' which is in Latin, the 'Salve Rainha' and 'Virgem Mae de Deus' in Portuguese followed by several hymns in Konkani invoking different saints in Konkani (San Francis Xaviera), English and Portuguese (O Doce Coracao).

It is customary to invite all the village folks around, and sometimes from adjoining villages, relatives and friends. Besides, this sort of a sung prayer or meeting also serves as a social gathering, a convention, a reunion or a farewell, thereby preserving the social fabric. The village chapel serves also as a community centre. Immediately after the Litany was completed and the final blessing granted by the village elder, the benches would be brought out from the inside of the chapel and all the children and village folks would sit, awaiting their hand-out - their share of boiled or roasted gram (chick peas), biscuit and “Branco”, Portuguese wine. For me the ‘Ladainha’ will remain as one of the best-loved and most well-known sung prayers of all time. It still remains very much as a part of the Goan culture. I am trying to paint that picture through my poem below that I hope will convey and summarise those eventful and fun-filled days of yore.


THE SUNG LITANY IN THE VILLAGE

Early in the hot afternoon sun
Two young lads come over to our home
"We have come to invite you for the ladainha"
They falter as they announce.

"In our chapel, eight o'clock sharp it will start"
"You must come along" they insist
"And bring your son too" says the other
I will, I promise, says my mother.

Later in the evening that day I hear the sound
Of the triple chimes of the village chapel bell
As firecrackers accompany
They beckon the folks
To join them for the sung litany.

The violinist and his son decide
On the key and pitch;
The elders among the folks
Strike the initial chords;
As quite eager are the youngsters
To join in the chorus
Full of hope, without any hitch.

The kids sang in perfect unison
And in choral harmonization
Their high-pitched voices
Were heard at their loudest
Specially with the "Ora pro nobis"

One young lad keeps dozing;
But the thought of sweets and boiled gram kept me waking
When it was time for the village elder
To recite the final prayer at the finale of the litany
He complied with a special request in honour of St.Anthony.

Have I to say any more special prayer?
Asks the village elder of the celebrant

As the burning candles grew smaller
“Yes, please” replies the lady
Could you please say one more "Amchea Bapa"
For my son's safe departure?

The ladainha was finally over
Bringing the youngsters much relief;
The "branco" wine spilled
As the greying elderly man

In his shaking hand

held up
for the saud the tiny cup.

Someone behind in the congregation
Was quick to mention without hesitation
"This is the best ladainh by far"
"No comparison whatsoever to the one before”.

To the family and the host
To their son wishing a safe journey

in his homily,

Full of praise was the village elder

with his toast
And for his eventual successful return
Was his earnest prayer.

Almost with a skill honed
with words specially chosen
The "Saude" was complete
in the briefest time having done his best
To cover as much he could,
His wits were put to a real test.

And before he could tip
The contents of the tiny glass over
He was stopped short in the nick of time
By the local village crooner
With a timely start of
“Uddon guelem
parveanchem birem.”

Some said "Good-night",
Others wished "Boa Noite"
But the evening was not complete,
Not quite, without those words so memorable
That still in my ears linger
In a language like no other:

"Deu Bori Rath Dhium".
"Meuche Ami Faleam".

DIASPORIC RE-VISITATION - Part 3

Fishing Boats at Pomburpa, Goa, India.

Painting in Water-Colour

by

Tony Fernandes

DIASPORIC VISITATION - Part 3

Felicio continued his daily visits to the bazaar to buy fresh fish and vegetables and drank more Kingfisher beer at his favourite restaurant in the town. He visited his relatives and friends, far and near who had invited him for their village feasts. He went sight-seeing and picnics to the northernmost and southernmost beaches with his few old friends and made some new ones.

Lenten services brought back memories of childhood. Taking part in the solemn procession winding its way around the hill-side and around the perimeter of the cemetery with life-size statues of Christ carrying the Cross, and hearing the touching notes and words of the motets sung in Konkani sent a chill up his spine. In enacting the crucifixion elders guided the young men who climbed up on the ladders to retrieve the “body of Christ” while the haunting rattle of the ‘matraas’ echoed through the church,reminding him of his childhood.

After the church services, Felicio, thinking about his childhood glanced around casually if he could find familiar faces of his younger days. Luckily, he spotted a few and met them after the services, and almost failed to recognise one. He was conscious of the fact that he must have appeared a little older himself to them, just like they did to him, though none of them made any comment. Perhaps each one could notice the old missing sparkle in the other. Thoughts of younger days sent a lump up his throat. He made his way home on the scooter thinking about the times when he had covered the same distance on foot. However, better times in later years had followed when his father had bought him his first bicycle.

Of course, none of Felicio’s visits to Goa would be complete without visiting his Alma Mater, situated atop the hill and known as “Monte de Guirim”. This time, a guided tour of the new building followed a long conversation with the Principal and the Headmaster of the school. The new purpose-built wing, which features a novel sky-light, broad corridors and stair-well, is actually built on the very same spot where a humble but massive shed first stood in the early sixties. Felicio seemed to drift far away in his thoughts taking him back in time, remembering his class in that shed, when the Headmaster who was once a pupil in that same school startled Felicio by echoing his own sentiments when he said: “Remember the old days?” “Oh, yes,” Felicio replied, “I still remember those were the days when during a heavy downpour in the monsoon the students would have had to shift to a safer place to avoid the drops of rain ruining their study books”.

Felicio then paid a quick visit to the refectory of his alma mater, and while passing through the kitchen he was pleasantly surprised to see a medium-duty winch on an overhead I-beam track that is now used to lift the huge cauldrons of food from the cooking stoves. Innovative! Before his departure Felicio decided to pace up to the eastern corner of the terrace just below the refectory and next to the garage where once the famed “Land-Rover” was parked - the laterite stone and asbestos-roofed shed, next to the washing-ramp. But something was missing. It was the mango tree.

“Just let me cast one last glimpse south-east towards the beautiful and pristine landscape of fields and green hills of Socorro, Porvorim and Sangolda before I depart” a thought that he heard himself whisper as he gradually panned his head like a movie camera. And he took it all in! The green watermelon and vegetable patches in the distance lay sprawled along the twin roads that led to the hilly slopes of Sangolda. The view had not changed much. “May it always remain so and not turn into a concrete jungle”, he prayed.

Tony Felix (a.k.a. Felicio) Fernandes
Author: Goa – Memories of My Homeland

DIASPORIC RE-VISITATION - Part 2

River-side Wharf
Water Colour & Ink
Painting by Tony Fernandes

DIASPORIC RE-VISITATION

Part 2

The house located on the perimeter of the village had undergone a major change. It was now a modern house with a terrace. But sadly Felicio could not find the old owners there. Apparently some people who did not speak Konkani had now occupied it. A few houses had somehow managed to keep up and maintain the old rustic pattern.

The next day, rising early in the morning, Felicio decided to take a stroll on the old path leading to the fields. He had walked along with other boys on this path on their way to school. But that was a long time ago. He tried to retrace the trail through the vast expanse of the fields. He was in disbelief to find that it was overgrown with wild plants and weeds. It appeared to be seldom used nowadays. Then as he was returning home he was pleasantly surprised at a remarkable revelation - to see a bus passing in front of his house that had “ST. ANTHONY’S HIGH SCHOOL, MONTE DE GUIRIM”, sign-written in bold blue letters on its side, picking up the students. That explained the overgrown weeds! No wonder, he thought, he could not find the old path to school!

One of the great experiences in attempting to relive the past was going to buy groceries from the market in the nearby town of Mapusa. One of Felicio’s neighbours was good enough to acquire a scooter for him. It took him nearly a week to muster the courage to venture on the street, another week to try and remember to keep to the left side of the road and join the rest in the general approach, method and style of driving, manner of honking, maneuvering, braking and turning either left or right. It was a different ball game. Since he could not fight them, he decided to join them.

In equally trying circumstances, it took him another couple of weeks to gather enough nerve in getting behind the steering wheel of a car and learn the peculiar art and special technique to get around in busy towns. He went to the bazaar everyday and bought fresh fish and vegetables and drank Kingfisher beer. He visited his relatives and friends, far and near. He went to the beaches with his new friends, saw the 'River Princess', and drank some more Kingfisher beer.

Getting across to the other side of the road in the market town was quite a feat - an accomplishment unlike the old days. He had to be very careful. Motor-cycles, rickshaws, buses and trucks whizzed by every second and in all directions. It seemed as if it was a free for all. After waiting for nearly five minutes to find a clearance between speeding trucks, buses, private cars, rickshaws and motor-cyclists he finally managed to cross the street. He felt it was indeed a major achievement. This happened everyday. And on every occasion when accomplished this feat, he thought he had triumphed, glad that he had emerged as a victor, thankful to be alive to tell the tale on the other side of the road.

In the first week of December he celebrated the Feast of St. Francis Xavier. People flocked to Old Goa throughout the month of December and then until the first week of January. Felicio managed to squeeze a suitable day one early morning. Rising up much before dawn he made a trip to Old Goa and unbelievably was home for breakfast by 8 am.

Combined with the ongoing festivities of IFFI, people flocked to the city, Panjim. On his visit to this beautiful city he had an impression that somehow some things had been left unfinished – pavements stones were stacked up in piles in several places. Government buildings, the balustrade along the river-side promenade and lamp posts were splashed with a fresh coat of paint.

Then it was Carnival – the gaudy floats made their rounds in the major cities – while tourists and Felicio walked around some unfinished pavements.

There was a slight lull in gaiety during Lent followed by some sobriety, moderation and solemnity in the villages. And by Easter it was time for us to join in the festivities of Shigmo.

Long ago there were times when Mapusa market place was crowded only on the day it was best known for – the famous ‘Friday Bazaar’ day. But now to Felicio every day had seemed like a Friday. It is shameful to mention what the wall that separates the bazaar from the bus station had become.

After circling around for about 15 minutes he eventually found a parking spot for his scooter where he could barely nudge in between two other motor-bikes, realizing that he had made a wise decision by not using his car to get there. Another major accomplishment, he thought.

There were hawkers everywhere – at the entrance to the market and on the pavements too. The walkways were full of a huge new variety of merchandise. Half-clad white tourists with locals in tow roamed around the crowded bazaar. Women in mini-skirts and big fat sweating men in shorts with huge bare bellies wandered amidst local folks. It seemed chaotically frightening.

DIASPORIC RE-VISITATION - Part 1

BRIDGE OVER CALM WATERS

River Zuari, Goa, India.
Painting in Water Colour by Tony Fernandes

Diasporic Re-VisitationPart 1

It was a long flight over two oceans and three continents. The plane circled once around the airport, made a smooth landing and finally came to a halt. The air outside was distinct, but slightly humid for the time of year. The airport building had changed quite a bit since his last visit. Felicio’s holiday in Goa was about to begin.

The taxi took on the sweeping curves along the river bank. As Felicio was about to turn homeward to the north at the T-junction at the base of the hillock Felicio saw the famous bridge looming over the Zuari river. The barges transporting the iron-ore slowly maneuvering their way under the bridge brought to mind a familiar sight of the past that had not changed.

The breeze hit his face through the open window of the taxi bringing some relief from the heat of the afternoon sun. Scooters were plying about almost everywhere. It seemed that everybody on wheels wanted to overtake Felicio’s hired taxi. Everyone seemed to be in a rush. “Who said we were susegad?” he mused to himself, “or could it be the scooter riders were not Goenkar?” he wondered.

Along the way Felicio received a casual news brief from the friendly cab driver beginning at state level, and then in a subdued tone a weather forecast followed by a general look at the prevailing situation of the land. As the taxi slowly came to a halt Felicio was surprised that he was home earlier than he had expected. He was quick to realize that it was due to the fact that new bridges were now built where none existed before, and so he did not have to wait at the ferry crossings, although he was rather perturbed to hear from the driver that the pride and landmark bridge over the river Zuari has some new problems.

The drive home was an enjoyable and also quite an experience. Apartment buildings now dotted the entire landscape. Felicio was surprised to see the pace of construction going on in places where in the past rice crops were cultivated. Huge factories and their smoke stacks emerged high in the distance north-east of the Zuari. Felicio’s village was bustling with great activity. It appeared to have undergone a metamorphosis. The footpath that ran beside Felicio’s house had now become a street and the once narrow lane in front had become a major thoroughfare. At first sight everything around seemed strange to him. He would somehow try to handle this unexpected situation and take the change in stride gradually, he thought.

His good good old neighbour and childhood friend, Manu, waved out from the balcao of his house across the street and hollered a warm and enthusiastic welcome over the din of traffic. Felicio was glad to see that Manu had not altered the façade of his house. Manu had now retired from his job as the compositor at the printing press in the city after a service of 35 years.

The afternoon swiftly transformed into evening. The road in front of Felicio’s house was full of hustle and bustle. It seemed as if it had been converted into a major highway just in a jiffy. People were speeding home from work on scooters. Bus drivers drove with one hand on the steering-wheel and the other constantly on the air-horns. The change was quite overwhelming.

As it had been habitual during Felicio’s previous vacations, he decided to go around the village and visit his neighbours. This, he remembered, was something he had done from the time of his college days in Bombay. In the month of April he would travel to Goa by ship to spend his summer holidays there. Visiting neighbours had been a courtesy and a habit since the days of his teens. Also he felt he should not let them presume that he has forgotten them.

His first visit was to the house of his closest friendly neighbours to find out how they were doing. Tia Anna hugged him and said she was now old, almost in her late 70’s, and lived alone. He remembered he had seen her upright long ago, but now she appeared frail and hunched. Her son worked in the Arabian Gulf. Felicio’s aunt slept over at her house since she had not been keeping too well lately.

While he was away from home he had often thought about Titi Joao. As a young lad Felicio and other boys in the village gathered around in the balcao of his house and attentively listened to the lengthy and intriguing stories he related during the evenings soon after Angelus prayers. His passing away saddened him.

Paulo Titi had passed away too. Aunt Maria had survived him. Her relatives were now living with her. As a child Felicio had played badminton in front their house. In the beginning the boys used a rope tied between two coconut trees. Later Paulo Titi had provided the village boys a real net, strong bamboo poles and powdered chalk to mark the boundaries. Paulo had organized village tournaments for them, and being a keen football player himself he had encouraged and given them tips on the fine art of the game.

(to be continued)

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

Flowers for My Valentine

Crayon & Ink Drawing

by

Tony Fernandes

Studying by the Kerosene lamp

LATE NIGHT STUDYING 
- Pastel Drawing on Paper -

by Tony Fernandes 

'BY THE LIGHT OF THE KEROSENE LAMP
AND THOUGHTS IN CRAYON'
Goa, India - 1961

Good old days they say. In fact our younger days eventually become the good old days. Yesterday, today, tomorrow and the days that follow will eventually become the good old days for the young ones among us, when they in turn will talk about the good old days.

Today, some of the good old days that I remember are the ones when I studied late into the night by the light of the kerosene chimney lamp while my mother, may God bless her, waited up for me as she was probably too afraid to find me fall asleep on my book before the kerosene in the lamp burnt itself out.

During my time as a student of St. Anthony's High School, Monte de Guirim Goa, I was a day-scholar and lived in Guirim. I had my own small study table and an old wooden chair with a cane-strung seat by the window in the 'vosro' of our little house. My father had made a small book-case especially for my books. (Konkani: 'vosro' - a living/prayer room) Various framed pictures of Jesus, Mother Mary, Perpetual Succour and our family's favourite saints hung above and on both sides of a mini altar (a traditional carved wooden piece of art placed into a niche in the wall).

By the time I got to the higher classes in the early 1960's, the table and the book-case was not sufficient for the increasing number of my text and exercise books. I was then 'promoted' to the big wooden folding table in the 'sala' (Port: sala - hall) so that  I could study in comfort.

However, the good old kerosene lamp still lit, albeit dimly, the pages of the books of my English, Geography, Science, Physics, Math, History and other subjects for sometime until my elder brother brought the famous 'Aladdin Lamp' from the Arabian Gulf that brightened the hall with generous luminosity - until electricity came to our quaint and little village of Cumbiem Morod in Guirim, bordering the villages of Canca and Parra in Bardez, Goa, during the the mid-1960's. We had a Petromax too, but that was used only during special occasions - for sung Litanies, parties and weddings.

I have often reminisced on these days of yore in the past. I have also often tried to depict the setting, first in my mind, and then in a drawing, and in my own humble way, I suppose I have managed to capture my thoughts in rendering them in crayon.

Boilanchi Gaddi (The Bullock Carriage)

BULLOCK CARRIAGE

Parra, Goa - India

(circa 1953)

Replica Size 1:16

1/8" thick plywood

Hand-made by Tony Fernandes

No saw, jig or scroll-saw used.

All parts hand-cut with sliding art-line cutters.

(Boil, Konkani, sing. : Bullock)

(Boilanchi, plu.: Of Bullock)

(Gaddi: Vehicle, Carriage)

(Boilanchi Gaddi: Bullock Carriage)

BOILANCHI GADDI

The ‘boilanchi gaddi’ is a kind of 2-wheeled passenger carriage drawn by trained oxen commonly used in Goa until around the mid nineteen-fifties. It was constructed in a wood/iron combination. Its fastest travelling speed could be compared to the usual leisurely walk of a steer.

My earliest memorable experience in travelling on this sort of conveyance was at about 8 years of age, riding in it to St. Anne’s Church in Parra, Bardez, to witness my cousin’s Baptism. These quaint carriages were privately owned and this particular one was owned by a well-known person called Harichand who lived in Parra.

The two large wooden wheels served a dual purpose - as fly-wheels and riding wheels combined into one, giving it the required momentum once it got going. It seemed it was effortless for the bulls to haul these carriages once they got to a rolling start.

These carriages, although uncomfortable, provided a means of some convenient form of transportation for certain occasions such as the one mentioned above. The ride was bumpy, but the discomfort in riding in one of these could be attributed also to unpaved or pot-holed country roads. The axle passed through a hollow on the underside of the cab with a track width of about 6 feet. The wheels were of a diameter of about 6 ft. with large hubs (around 12" dia).

The cabin had longitudinal bench seating on either side, could sit 4 passengers and 2 small children snug and squeezed in between the passengers or on their laps. The passengers could communicate with the driver through a small window or a full opening in the front. The driver had his own comfortable seat unlike the ‘gaddo’. This raised wooden seat was quite a comfortable perch providing him with an overall view. The seat was more like a wooden chest with hinges, fitted on top of the longitudinal beam. It doubled up as storage space for the driver's personal belongings, tools or vehicle accessories.

The body had quite a reasonable headroom. The passengers were well protected from the elements like the sun and rain with an arched roof. The outside panels of the cabin were usually painted in a shade of off-white, mustard or yellow ochre, and the bordered timber framework finished in red, blue or brown oil-paint. The interior was finished in different colours like white or blue with varnished wooden seats.

Entry into the cab itself was by means of a hinged rear door, boarding into which was aided by a step fitted to the cab's base. Both sides and the back had windows. Some had wooden hinged doors, others has fixed or sliding glass and curtains in them.

The front end consisted of a double bow yoke that was placed on top of a wooden beam and fastened by means of a rope thereby giving it the flexibility of pivoting it to some degree, and giving it a marginal swivel action between the pair of bullocks. This feature aided tight turns. The yoke was harnessed over their necks in order to pull the carriage. The centre-piece curved and extended downward at the front so that, without the bulls, the cart would rest at a least possible slant.

Stopping or braking power was provided verbally, or with gently moderated 'ho-ho'. Braking on some of these carts was quite unique, provided by a cleverly designed device. It consisted of two wooden poles, parallel across the front and back of the wheels. They were connected into an intricate double acting trapezoidal contrivance of ropes. This device was in turn connected by a longer rope from the rear to the front. By means of applying pressure on this rope with his leg he would be able to slow down the cart with his weight, while going downward on a slope or try to slow it down in an emergency.

The wooden poles that acted as brakes were slightly flattened at the point where they came in contact with the outer rims of the wheels. In action the whole system seem very much like centrally-pulled caliper brakes of modern day. If parked on a slope the wheels were chocked with a stone. The rest of the maneuvering and negotiating was done by means of touch or contact conveyed to the bullocks by the driver with a stick. With a slight nudge here, and a slight tap there - on their backs the ever obedient bullocks hauled the carriage faithfully. They were mostly gentle in nature and never seemed to be in a hurry. These animals were held in reverence by the owner and his family members, and respected for the work and sustenance they provided.

The yoke rested over the necks of the bullocks, and in hauling it stopped short just before the ridge of their shoulder blades. Bells hung around the bulls’ necks rang constantly as they passed by on the road. These bells had a distinct sound and acted as warning bells to others, or merely let the people know about the presence of the ‘boilanchi gaddi’ in the vicinity or area. They sound of the bells 'kinni-kinni' could be heard far away and long into the quietness of the night as the lone hard-working driver returned home. At night a gently swinging hurricane lamp hung low in front, beneath the main beam and between the bulls. The light from this lamp was more to warn others of its approach to oncoming motor vehicles rather than a light to guide itself or light up the road.

I was too young to remember or to care how much the fare would have cost for a ride on these carriages of yesteryears, but my guess is they must have been quite affordable and probably would not have cost a fortune. They were taken out of service as their popularity declined due to their slow speed combined with the import of motor vehicles and taxis. They were mainly confined to their own districts and seldom made long trips over the hills.

Another impression stuck in my mind is that people walking briskly along the road often overtook them. Among my childhood memories are the ones that the bulls seemed to make a good team, faithful, quiet, with their downward and humble gaze, always seemingly engrossed in their own thoughts, and also the rare sight of the driver asleep, with the bridle reins and stick in his hands returning empty on his way home. There was certainly an advantage in having trained bullocks so that way the driver could be assured of reaching home safely by taking the shortest route possible after a long and hard day’s work. Having trained bullocks was like having a GPS so that he could be assured of being on the right track. And in the absence of an Auto-pilot he could still reach home while he took a short nap.

The era of these types of slow but reliable vehicles made an exit for good, making way for modern transportation. Those were the days of innovative ways of another period of yore. It is now just a childhood memory - gone but not forgotten.

Tony Fernandes

* Withers yoke is a yoke so called because it fits just in front of the withers of the bullocks. The withers is the ridge between the shoulder blades of an animal, typically a quadruped. The yoke is held in position by a coir rope harness. The pull is generated from the yoke without exerting too much pressure on the bullocks’ necks. The weight in fact is on the front of the bull’s withers. Ideally, a high hump on the withers prevents the yoke from slipping over.

Daddy Doll

Remembering Dad's Everywhere

(My daughter's favourite article)

By Erma Bombeck

When I was a little kid, a father was like the light in the refrigerator. Every house had one, but no one really knew what either of them did once the door was shut.

My dad left the house every morning and always seemed glad to see everyone at night.He opened the jar of pickles when no one else could. He was the only one in the house who wasn't afraid to go in the basement by himself. He cut himself shaving, but no one kissed it or got excited about it.

It was understood whenever it rained, he got the car and brought it around to the door. When anyone was sick, he went out to get the prescription filled. He kept busy enough. He set mousetraps. He cut back the roses so the thorns wouldn't clip you when you came to the front door. He oiled my skates, and they went faster.

When I got my bike, he ran alongside me for at least a thousand miles until I got the hang of it. He signed all my report cards. He put me to bed early. He took a lot of pictures, but was never in them. He tightened up mother's sagging clothesline every week or so. I was afraid of everyone else's father, but not my own. Once I made him tea. It was only sugar water, but he sat on a small chair and said it was delicious. He looked very uncomfortable.

Once I went fishing with him in a rowboat. I threw huge rocks in the water, and he threatened to throw me overboard. I wasn't sure he wouldn't, so I looked him in the eye. I finally decided he was bluffing and threw in one more. He was a bad poker player.Whenever I played house, the mother doll had a lot to do.

I never knew what to do with the daddy doll, so I had him say "I'm going off to work now" and threw him under the bed.

When I was nine years old, my father didn't get up one morning to go to work. He went to the hospital and died the next day.There were a lot of people in the house who brought all kinds of good food and cakes. We never had so much company before.

I went to my room and felt under the bed for the father doll. When I found him, I dusted him off and put him on my bed. He never did anything. I didn't know his leaving would hurt so much. I still don't know why.

By Erma Bombeck, June 21, 1981

Cars in Goa - 1976

AULD LANG SYNE

As we bid adieu to each year on the last day of every year, this year is no exception. As we witness the last few hours of 2008, we reflect on the good and the bad, happiness and sorrow in our lives, strife, war, floods and earthquakes, births and deaths far and near.

One may say that the times that have gone by are things or events of the past. True, and in a few years we will refer to those days as the good old days and ways, but those will be the days we will not forget.

Some may live till they are very old,

and then will come some youngster

who perhaps we will hear

into our ear whisper:

'now tell me about the good old days'.

We cannot forget what has happened, or change the past, but we can definitely hope for the best in 2009 and in the years ahead. Personal resolutions that we usually make and don't keep - that's fine, but one resolution we can definitely keep is to pray for the sick, the bereaved, the injured, the afflicted and the poor.

And most of all, as we usher in the New Year let us hope for love, not hatred, and pray for Peace throughout the world.

FREDDY BARBOZA

Born: 30 November 1930

Died: 28 December 2008

REMEMBERING MR. FREDRICK CHARLES BARBOZA

It is with great sadness that I learned about the death of my father-in-law, Mr. Freddy Barboza, after a long illness. He passed away in Parra, Goa, today, at 78 years of age. He has been a loving husband to his wife, Benedicta, father to 4 daughters, 1 son, grandfather of 11, and a great-grandfather of one.

My first meeting with him was in the U.A.E. in 1974, having been introduced to me by his eldest daughter, Edna. I guess he liked me because he let me marry his daughter one year later! And I instantly felt without any doubt that here was one good man.

I remember the days when my wife and I worked in Dubai and our children were in boarding school in India. Mr. Barboza tirelessly made all the travel arrangements during the 1980’s to drop and pick our kids from the airport when they came to spend their Christmas Holidays with us. He was very fond of all his grandchildren.

Actor, composer and lyricist in Konkani tiatr in Bombay, Mr. Freddy Barboza retired in Goa 18 years ago. Besides being an actor in Konkani tiatr in Bombay at an early age in the fifties and sixties, he also acted in the Konkani film 'Boglant'. He has been an inspiration to many younger singers and actors of Konkani stage of today. I once witnessed at a 'tiatr' when he personally handed a cash reward to an upcoming singer, soon after this singer had finished singing his own composition on stage. Such was his love for the Konkani theatre.

Whenever we went to Bombay or Goa on a vacation, he would invite us to see tiatr along with him, and during the interval would always take me back-stage to meet some of his fellow artists like Prem Kumar, C. Alvares, Jacinto Vaz, M. Boyer, Remmie Colaco, Shalini, Antonette and Ophelia, proudly introducing me to these actors as his ‘eldest son-in-law’, and very often giving me the undue credit of being a great photographer, artist and a hi-fi and sound expert.

He owned Fredrick Travels in the 1970’s and 1980’s in Bombay, from where he recruited people for employment in the Gulf. He also owned a Car Rental Company.

Besides having a full-time business of his own, his love for Konkani never ceased. He dedicated most of his spare time acting in Konkani dramas, composing Konkani songs, writing lyrics, producing and successfully releasing 2 music-cassette albums in the early 1990’s, titled 'Juliana' and 'Maria' which were big hits. In the late 1990's he did roles in tele-films like 'Mogachi Faxi' and 'Suttka'.

Incidentally, he had often been seen and it was also known to his family, relatives and friends that he wrote lyrics on a small note-book that he always carried with him while he travelled by bus to work at Firestone in Bombay in his early years.

I always remember him as a very busy man and a methodical worker in Bombay and in Goa. He was never idle. An early morning riser, he meticulously made notes of everything that he had to do during the day. Sometimes I would see him writing lyrics, and at other times I would hear him hum a tune or sing a verse into a portable mini tape-recorder. He was so talented and versatile that he could compose impromptu and dedicate a song at the drop of a hat to any one celebrating a big day or any occasion.

After having chosen to live a semi-retired life in Goa, he frequently staged Konkani 'tiatr' (plays) in Mapusa, and had one especially dedicated for charity towards St.Anne’s Church, Parra, in the early 1990’s.

I have seen him hiring a taxi and then attach the bill-board advertisement to the back of it, fit loudspeakers on its roof, and go around Mapusa town and the by-roads and lanes through the country-side announcing: 'Tiatr' 'Tiatr' over the portable PA system and distributing flyers. I had once the opportunity and pleasure of tossing out these bright multi-coloured leaflets to passers-by through the rear side window of the taxi, making brief stops at the various 'tinttos' (market places) in Siolim, Anjuna, Arpora, Saligao and Parra for refreshments. After all was done, he would treat me to a beer for helping him toss out the flyers and for accompanying him on his publicity rounds.

He worked very hard bringing up his family, and spared no pains to put food on the table. From humble beginnings when he used a bicycle as a means of transportation and later graduating to a motor-bike, he moved on successfully in his business through mere perseverance, and succeeded in owning a fleet of cars that included a Chevrolet Impala in Bombay.

One of the things that I remember is that he loved to ride his motor-bike which he always kept in a pristine condition. In his younger days he was full of adventure, having ridden his bike from Bombay to Goa via Pune and Kolhapur. His driving ability and judgment always impressed me, specially negotiating and maneuvering through traffic. My first trip in his car from the airport to his house in Bombay, with his daughter - my wife, Edna, is one to remember!

 He rode his bike

 and drove his car

 until the age of 74.

 Just like a pro!

Words are not enough to express our grief in his passing away. But we will keep his fond memories forever to cherish.

Tony Fernandes

Canada

ONE COLD, WINTER MORNING

Village folks including children waving out to the soldiers on armoured tanks, trucks and jeeps passing through Guirim on the evening of 18th December 1961 - heading for the capital, Panjim.

ON THAT COLD, WINTER MORNING:

A Childhood Memoir : 18th December 1961

Tony Fernandes tonferns@hotmail.com

CUMBIEM MOROD, GUIRIM, BARDEZ, GOA:

I recall that cold morning. I had risen early to study for my second tri-monthly examinations. Mother was in the kitchen, preparing tea. It was then that I heard ear-deafening noise of what seemed to be low-flying aircraft.

A little later, I put out the kerosene chimney lamp. My mother and I cautiously peeked out of the window, but saw nothing.The sun had not yet risen. The pre-dawn sky in the east cast a faint scarlet glow. I could feel mother's fear, as the preceding days had been quite tense. We were aware of the trouble that had been brewing up. A statue at Mapuca had been blown up a few days earlier, causing anxiety among the populace.

Suddenly we heard a knock on our door. We remained still and silent and only opened the door upon realizing it was our neighbours, calling out to us in low voices. They had come over to ask mother whether she had any idea what was happening around us. Mother told them that she thought that the noise came from fighter aircraft, as a result of the political tension prevailing at the time.

We all went out when the sun had risen. We could see smoke billowing out from the town in the distance. By noon the word had spread that the Indian Army had reached Mapuca and that Air Force jets had bombed the army barracks and some government buildings in town. We also learned that the barracks there were in fact empty at the time.

The Portuguese soldiers had probably left the previous night on the orders of the Governor General. He was subsequently considered to be a wise man in ordering a retreat and a surrender that followed. It was the talk in our village that he did not want the Portuguese soldiers to put up a fight, as human lives would have been lost in the crossfire - in the event of bombing and fighting between the armies.

I realized that my mother's appearance was one of sadness. I felt sad too as I could not go to school. The Indian Army had occupied my school, pitching their tents on our football field. My father had always said that we would one day be liberated, but my mother thought otherwise.

I remember running on the winding path leading to the red mudroad, that passed through our village in Guirim, along with other boys, to see the Indian army proceeding slowly, heading for the capital, Panjim. Certain sections of the main road from Mapuca to Panjim were not usable. The bridges were destroyed by the retreating Portuguese soldiers.

I saw young boys, accompanied by older folks of our village, waving out to the Indian soldiers sitting on top of their tanks in full battle gear. I waved out as well! The boys shouted "Jai Hind" and I followed doing the same.

I was fascinated with the artillery comprising of huge tanks, armoured cars, jeeps and trailers, gun carriages with canons of different shapes and sizes towed by trucks, proceeding towards Panjim. They created clouds of dust as they rumbled along. Most of the soldiers had moustaches, beards and turbans: all were smiling. The line of army vehicles continued long after dusk and trickled into the night.

The situation remained tense for many days and nights. A sudden hush seemed to hover over our lives. We returned home playing football in the fields long before sunset.

One evening, as we wound up our usual play at our improvised football ground, I overheard some of the bigger boys saying that we now 'Indian subjects'. But the only 'subjects' that I was concerned about were those of my curriculum like Geography, History and Religion, that had to be postponed into the New Year.

It seemed like everything had come to a halt. School football tournaments were cancelled as both our football fields remained occupied by the Army for some time. Our juniors volley ball finals were disrupted. There was no midnight Mass in my favourite church or at any other chapel in our village that Christmas, and no New Year's Eve Dance. Perhaps it must have been the only New Year's Eve when Johnson & His Jolly Boys - the hot favourites of the time - did not play.

That was 47 years ago today. It was long before mid-night that the lamps and candles burnt themselves out in the lanterns and Christmas stars in frontof the houses in my village during the Yuletide of that year. Everything was calm, quiet and dark with the exception of the brilliant star-lit sky. Everything was silent except for the intermittent hooting of the owl - heard but never seen, along with the dogs barking most of the night in the neighbourhood, and the occasional howl of the wolf in the wee hours of the morning.

May happiness reign in your home this Christmas and may the New Year continue to bring good health, love, joy, peace and prosperity.

At this very special time of year let's pray for peace everywhere in the world - for all families, relatives and friends. That the entire world may live in peace, love and harmony between each one and all nations.

At this Yuletide let us remember the innocent who lost their lives in the terror by mankind towards mankind in Mumbai.

Please take care and caution wherever you are and in whatever you do.

To Secret Santa

To

Father Christmas

From

Tony Fernandes

Dear Father Christmas,

Today I sit back and ponder of days when I was very young. Children referred to you then as the all-giving Father Christmas. And if I were lucky I’d get just two gifts:

– 1 new trouser and 1 new shirt for the midnight Mass.

As a child I was fascinated with undiminished enthusiasm at the sheer joy that prevailed at Yuletide. I made a new miniature crib every year, fabricated a "star" out of a frame-work of bamboo, lined it with translucent craft-paper and lit a candle in it, and had it hung high up on a 20 ft. bamboo pole in the front of our house.

Very often during Yuletide I dreamed about Santa Claus. I am also intrigued by the number of names people called you: St. Nicholas, St. Nick, Father Christmas,Pai Noel, Papa Noel, Papa Natal, Santa Claus, Pere Noel, Papai Noel, Sinterklaas, Baba Noel, etc.

Then, Santa, I don’t know why all these good folks have now started calling you ‘Secret Santa”. Is it because you've been secretly hiding or stashing away some gifts? Are they meant for me? Anyway, as for me, you will always remain just the same jolly good merry old soul, no matter what - whether you are secret or whether the gifts are.

Santa, by the time when I was just about touching my teens, the number of gifts received had grown to three – a pair of new shoes got added to the list! Those days all apparel, stitched or ready-made, had to be what we Goans popularly call as 'vaddtea angar'. Literally, this means 'for the growing body', and economically, rightly so. Trousers, shirts, etc. were bought a size or two larger!

As a teenager, many months prior to the onset of Advent, I randomly dropped loose change in a piggy bank (made of red clay). This self-subsidy was put aside as a little pocket money, part of which I used to buy something for my mother at Christmas time. This continued for many years until I finished my studies and started to work, and forgot about the piggy bank. That's when my wish list got shorter and giving list grew bigger. The child-wonder was slowly beginning to lose its hold.

In turn, I wondered whether Santa was turning away and getting less fond of me as I grew older. I felt ignored. What did I do, where did I go wrong?

Of course, dear Santa, there's no doubt, that over the years you have worked tirelessly and your generosity has kept on growing tremendously, snow or no snow. Today's young men have got to be ashamed of themselves.

But Santa, I would like to bring to your notice that this year is the first year ever that I have been asked to participate into a Kris Kringle procedure adopted at the convention held at my place recently, also known as 'Secret Santa'. If I’ve got it right, names of the family members to whom the gifts are to be presented, were drawn out of a hat. As I was new to this modus operandi, forgive me Santa, for I may have bungled at this game from the very start. (I'm not good at games. I don't get them quick enough. Very slow learner. Am getting old too, you know). Also making my 'want list' public surely wasn’t intended. Please don’t take it seriously as you must be already aware that those items on my list are very expensive indeed. Jokes aside, but Santa I still love this new idea. Don't get me wrong.

But on the other hand, I have every thing that I've wished for that includes a wonderful wife and three charming children and a modest roof over my head (with a chimney of course - you know why). At this point in time I would like to mention that the dryer is not working too well and the cooking range looks battered. Would you be passing by Sears or Future Shop by any chance? But would that be beyond the admissible range, would it Santa? Specially now that that whole world is on the brink of a huge recession? But on second thought... what about the new super-slim wide screen....um, no, no, don't worry. I need a new lens for my camera! Also all my colleagues in my age group are now using iPads!

But Santa, I do understand. The word ‘recession’ is on everyone’s lips. Most of us are hearing it for the first time.

So, Santa, in view of the hard times being forecast, anything inexpensive (or even nothing at all) will do, as I believe the primary purpose of Secret Santa is to restrict all the unnecessary gift-giving. Moreover, this year older people are not supposed to receive gifts any way, more so because of the recession, even though it amazes me that you are still so rich after all the gift-giving for so many years. One good thing you still use your sleigh to deliver gifts - so there, you save such a lot of cash as you don't use any gas. Fortune List or Forbes List? No way, you are beyond that. Do keep the old-fashioned traditions going. I admire your good old ways. Do take care. Use more horses to pull the sleigh if you have to.

Have a Merry Christmas.

In Santa, I still believe!

Tony Fernandes (a.k.a. TonFerns)

Silver Bells - It's Christmas Time in the City

THE CRIB - The Joy of Christmas

Christmas season has always been a wonderful time in Goa. No decorated malls or anything on a scale like those in the West, but it has its own unique charm. Happiness in the households and vibrant atmosphere prevails in the cities and towns during this time. The story below depicts the joy and wonder of Yuletide in Goa from the perspective of a child back in the late fifties. There may not have been many string lights those days. But a ‘star’ made from bamboo and coloured craft paper was a must and it had its own aura that said it all. As soon as the sun set, these hollow body 'stars' would be lit up by incandescent bulbs in the cities while in the villages they would be lit up by candles or oil-lamps, accompanied by bright lanterns all along the balconies. The highlight was attending the midnight mass on Christmas Eve and visiting neighbours after that. It was truly the happiest night of the year in many a home for the rich and the poor alike. It has perhaps not changed much since then.

THE CRIB – The Joy of Christmas
It was October with December, Christmas and New Year still far away. It was the time for the little boy to visualize the setting of the crib. Every year he would try to make it different than the previous year.

The boy wondered what Bethlehem must have really looked like so many years ago when Jesus Christ was born. So he shuffled through some old Christmas cards of the previous years which he kept for references in the old wooden chest, and came across a card depicting a Nativity Scene with the hills in the background and manger which was in the foreground. The Star of Bethlehem was high above in the picture. He had one long look at it and put it back where it was. So he set about with the immediate task which was to paint a back drop of a star-lit night with faint hills as silhouettes in the background. So he put his thinking cap on. He walked to the nearby town to buy a cardboard for the backdrop. He would use the existing colours in his collection and hoped they would last to paint the entire scene. He would make a small star using translucent foil with a light in it and NOT a painted one, and attached it to the backdrop itself. He would bring the soil from the fields and would grow grass in it about a week in advance on a large flat piece of wood on which he would place the crib itself. He would then 'construct' a "bridge" with water underneath and a winding path that let to the entrance of the crib. He would transplant little yellow flowered plants, which he would scoop with a trowel along with the soil that held on to the roots, from the fields nearby, trying to make it as realistic as he could, embellishing the area around the crib with some tiny shoots of flowers that grew in the garden adjoining his house.

December drew near and soon it would be Christmas time. By that time he thought he would have saved enough pocket money to buy a new Nativity Set that he would go and see every time he went to the near-by market town. He hoped nobody would buy it before he got there.

Two weeks before Christmas the boy told his mother that he would like to open his piggy bank and count the amount the small coins he had saved, so that he could go and buy the Nativity piece set. So one day he collected whatever he had and headed to the market town along with his mother to buy the set from the shop where he had seen the crib set.

"That's the shop", he told his mother, pointing to the shop as soon as he reached the shopping street. "I’ve seen it in their showcase that last time I was here", said the boy. "It’s a lovely piece, come on mother, hurry", he said, leading the way and tugging at his mother's hand.

He looked into the shop window and to his great grief the set was not there. The boy’s heart sank. They went in and enquired. It had already been sold. So they requested the man in the shop behind the cash counter to show them another set if he had. “See over there," the man said looking over his bifocals, pointing his finger to a shelf on far side of his shop. The boy turned and saw in the direction the man pointed. There it was, a set better than the one had seen before. Happily, he asked the price. Sadly, it was expensive. It was not something he could afford. "We will go to another shop and see" the boy's mother said. The boy was silent. The second shop did not have any either that suited to his little collected savings. "We will see another set in another place", his mother said.

After shopping around in the market place for groceries they returned home, but without the Nativity set.

Soon it was Christmas Eve. The whole crib was ready and lots of people from the village would come to see it after the mid-night mass. But he did not have any nativity pieces to place inside and around the crib.

Then a brilliant idea flashed past the boy's mind. Why not make a figure in the form of Baby Jesus in a cradle with outstretched hands like the one he had seen in the various Christmas cards he received the previous year. Good idea! he said to himself. But where's the clay? Too late for clay.

The boy's mother was busy in the kitchen making some last minute sweets from kneaded flour. Why not use flour instead of clay, he thought. So he asked his mother for some kneaded dough and started to make a rough form, and then slowly handcrafted a form of Baby Jesus which he himself could not believe that it turned out so well. He then let it dry and painted it and placed it inside the crib. He switched on the crib lights and there it was.

The boy joined the village folks who walked to the church to attend the midnight Mass with lanterns in their hands. Walking home after the service they sang many songs and carols. People from the village came to see his crib as usual after the midnight Mass. No one else knew his little secret about Baby Jesus in the crib except his mother. After another singing session along with the other boys and girls from the neighbourhood, the lad finally went to sleep.

As soon as he woke up the next morning the first thing he did was to see the Crib and found that 'Baby Jesus' was missing from there. He was puzzled. Did somebody steal it? Was there somebody else like himself who needed it so badly?

The puzzle was finally solved when he found out that the real culprit was the pet cat in the house. The boy decided to make another one and placed inside the crib.

A few hours later the cat was caught "red-pawed" trying to take it away the second time. So finally the third time he decided to craft one out of real clay. And uses it every year to this day.

And I know this story is true. I was that boy.
Excerpted from my book: Goa - Memories of My Homeland

Tony Fernandes

In Flanders Fields

This is one of my favourite poems

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

by Lt.Col. John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

_________________________________________

World War I - Ypres, Municipality in Flanders, Belgium.

____________________________________________________________________

In the poem by John McCrae 'In Flanders Fields' poppies are referred to, but why poppies?
The answer is simple: poppies only flower in rooted up soil. Their seeds can lie on the ground for years and years. They will sprout only when someone roots up the ground. Battlefields during the war, churned up the soil while dead soldiers laid on the ground and the poppies blossomed.
Canadian Lieutenant Col. John Alexander McCrae was born in Guelph, Ontario. Poet, physician, author, artist and soldier during World War I, and a surgeon during the battle of Ypres, he is best known for writing the above war memorial poem.

Remembering the War Dead everywhere.

Lest we forget.

LOVE IS A MANY-SPLENDORED THING

In Memoriam

MR. ERASMUS VIEGAS

1927 - 2008

REQUIESCAT IN PACE