Ash Wednesday

A young, Appalachian transplant new to Detroit in the mid-1950s, I’d never heard of Ash Wednesday until a particular Easter approached.

Furthermore, I’d never heard of grandmothers called Nonie and Oma who wore black dresses, hose, shoes, and scarves when they walked our sidewalks Sunday mornings.

The grandmothers’ families called their scarves a babushka.

I liked that word, for it sounded like it looked, tied under their chin.

The nonies and omas spoke foreign languages which I didn’t understand. They often argued with one another from their sidewalks and driveways.

This frightened me and inhibited me from playing and riding my bike in the front yard.

Yet, I never witnessed one black shoe step off its boundary to commence a fight.

Eventually, I observed the grandmothers walk to church and back on Sunday.

That made sense because my granny never missed a Sunday service in the church my grandpa built for her.

Yet, Granny never wore black dresses after Grandpa Floyd died.

Eventually, I learned these Italian and German grandmothers were of the Catholic faith. They walked to their parish to worship God.

I’d never heard of the Catholic faith and parish until we moved to Detroit.

Meanwhile, Mom cut out patterns and sewed Easter dresses for my sisters and me.

Mr. Giovani, our Italian landlord who lived next door to us in a new house, was the first Italian I heard speak to my family. He always wore a smart hat and a broad smile.

And held a cigar in his hand.

His two daughters, several years older than my sisters and me, were my first Detroit playmates. Yet, the Giovani family did not have a nonie living with them.

One day, when the grandmothers walked past the house I noticed a black smudge on their forehead. It wasn’t Sunday, so perhaps they walked someplace else.

Between school and my neighbors, there was always something new to learn.

And of all surprises, when my mother finished our dresses she sewed for my sisters and me, she said, “We’re going to church this Easter Sunday.”

Oh, my goodness! What joy and excitement!

My sisters and I slipped into our cancans, dresses, socks and black patent shoes before breakfast. Mom drove us to Nine Mile and Van Dyke to Van Dyke Baptist Church in Warren.

I’d never seen so many children in one church service!

Thus began my education about Ash Wednesday, Easter Sunday, and in the Holy Scriptures.

Dear Reader, as God owns a remarkable sense of humor, some fourteen years later, I fell in love with a Catholic young man when we met at Central Michigan University.

A former altar boy, his mother’s heart broke at the news. Yet, she gave this Appalachian transplant a chance, a sewing machine to sew her three granddaughter’s Easter dresses, and enough love to last my lifetime.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com