Happy Sunday all !

Thanks to yesterdays writer Jaki Spencer...

Today we have a change of content......Not a poem, but a story....

This is from Marjorie Lacy and is from her book of memoirs.
A lovely sweet story from the 1940's

Late Spring Day, Whitsuntide.  (1940’s)                                      

Me and my friends were sitting on a wall at the top of our street, waiting for the Catholic Churches Whitsuntide March to come past. There was a hush of expectation, proud parents lined the pavements, bibles clutched in hands. All the heads of the crowd were turned to the corner.

Then, there it was, held high by some Church official, was the enormous silver cross. The crowd gasped as the brilliant sunshine reflected from the cross like rays. Following, was the Virgin Mary held high on a wooden base, carried by burly black uniformed men. The massed Priests of the local Catholic Clergy passed, incense swinging. We, the  Protestant children coughed loudly into our handkerchiefs, we knew how to behave. In spite of our interruption. Wearing their best startlingly white cotton and lace edged vestments, black robes hanging below the white, their black shoes well polished. The stately and bulky Priests marched solemnly by. As they went into the distance, the sun went in, dark clouds drifting in, dulling the scene.

Suddenly, the hundred or so, Catholic children came round the corner, trying to be well behaved and quiet, but odd break outs of giggling and shushing, could be heard. The crocodile of children approached, surreptitiously doing little waves when they saw their mums. All the boys wore short grey trousers and socks, polished shoes, best shirts, their hair water-plastered to their heads. A breeze whipped up the girl’s long dresses, the white mantillas fluttering and streaming behind them. Excited family members showered them with confetti.

We lost sight of the children, in front of us was a snow storm. The girls new Confirmation clothes whirling and dancing on the wind’s thermals. We heard their shoes tapping along the road, the frantic efforts to hold dresses down and hair in place. There was coughing as the confetti found its way into their throats. As the wind dropped, boys slicked back their hair, brushing confetti off their shoulders, glaring at mother’s for drawing attention to them - it was alright for the girls, - they were nearly men!

Calm again, as the procession got nearer to the Church everyone became quiet, respectful even reverent, all thinking about the important promises that would be made that Whit Sunday.

My friends and I would be wearing our Whitsuntide clothes to Sunday School that afternoon, we secretly all wished we could wear the more exotic white clothes of the Catholic girls on their way to Confirmation.

Lovely memories !!

Why not send in yours !!!

Neville