Stories of Paraná - those who have lost

Stories of Paraná - those who have lost

Those who have lost
Marcelo Oikawa

When pulled the ear of disaffection with a weight scale during that fight within his small store, Peter Venancio had no doubts.
Sold everything and left, did not appear anymore in Mouth Oz.
Do what.
That was how he came to Londrina, doing the accounts of dripping and bologna sandwiches that would sell.
Assembled the Bar Londrina and concluded it would get rich in ten years, getting in the way of the settlers who came up on Saturdays to shop in town.
Soon he saw a hot land like an ice cream parlor that was a necessity.
Within a month, his wife and daughter and daughter Jupira Elza, six, were waking up at dawn to beat the cream currant, lemon and toasted coconut.
It was there in the Bar Londrina, spending belly propped on the counter, he saw, year after year, old trucks go up the street in Vila Guarani Casone, laden with coffee, jarring the body.
At the time of the harvest was getting increasingly impatient, eyes shining, to start to find ten years was a long time in the land.
The old trucks loaded prospered their owners, which in turn delivers the coffee machines fell with brand new trucks purchased here close at Ford dealership.
The custom was to stop on your Bar The newest and happy owner of that wonderful green and black with the smell of fresh paint, paid a round of beer, rum, and ice cream sandwich.
To see both old truck loaded up coffee and so lucky to see descend back with new truck and pocketful, Peter sold the bar and bought a cup of coffee.
It took three years to form planting, counting each day with anxiety in the stomach, the day of his first season and his first truck.
It would be in 1953. But in the 53 Northern Paraná met his first black frost.
On the first morning of the event we had gone crazy.
People who walked in carpooling of new trucks, with the nose up, now crazed wandering through the streets, laughing and crying.
In the first week of the event, people who had killed himself.
Peter Venancio, pitted. Lost the plantation.
Deflated. Not killed.
Not mad. But became disillusioned.
I never told anyone what had happened inside.
Only thirty-five years later, sitting in the kitchen daughter Jacira one afternoon confessions, he admitted that he had frost burned their hopes.
He died five years later, at 92, selling sugar cane juice and tack, making the numbers game in the street Maranhão.
Like him, thousands have disappeared in the red dust of time.

Marcelo Oikawa, journalist


Source: Stories of Paraná, Brasil.