The Magic Hidden in My Childhood Store in Santa Comba - Cela

From the tender age of eight, I understood the true meaning of responsibility. While many of my peers ran through the streets playing carefree games after school, I hurried towards my parents’ shop in Santa Comba, where a whole world awaited me. But that was not just a simple shop; it was a pulsating universe, a second home, a meeting point where lives intertwined and where I learned the most precious lessons of my existence.

Our store was a mosaic of possibilities. The overflowing shelves boasted a little bit of everything: from the crystal sugar that sparkled like tiny diamonds in the afternoon light, to the rice and beans that were the heart of family meals, to the robust potatoes freshly picked from the land. Each product was carefully weighed on the old scales that, like guardians of balance, had to be perfectly calibrated under the watchful eye of the inspectors who appeared without warning.

The inspectors’ visits were moments of palpable tension. When their silhouettes appeared at the door, a thick silence filled the air, and my father and mother exchanged apprehensive glances. The prices imposed by the government often seemed like a cruel joke, barely covering our costs. Still, honesty was a non-negotiable treasure for us. We knew that the trust of our customers was the foundation that supported not only the business, but also our reputation and dignity.

In addition to groceries, our store was transformed into a true bazaar of wonders. We sold clothes that told stories, shoes that carried dreams, and fabrics by the meter that eagerly awaited to come to life in the skilled hands of a seamstress. My mother, a natural artist with the "Oliva" sewing machine, reigned at the end of the counter, surrounded by a rainbow of fabrics that danced in the breeze. Each customer who chose a fabric left carrying not only a piece of cloth, but the promise of a unique piece, made with care, either by her hands or by the meticulous tailor who worked in the shadows at the back of the store.

The environment was a constant ballet of people and emotions. Customers didn’t just come to buy; they came to share a piece of their lives, exchange confidences, seek friendly advice. We knew everyone by name, and each face was a chapter in a larger story that was being written there, day after day. I felt part of something grand, not just selling products, but building indelible bonds with every soul that walked through that door.

I fondly remember when I would sneak away to the fabrics, letting myself be enchanted by the vibrant prints and varied textures. I imagined how those rolls could be transformed into something magnificent, beautifying someone's life. Dona Maria, a loyal customer with a warm smile, would come religiously every week to check out the new arrivals. "Joãozinho," she would say with shining eyes, "this one here is going to become the most beautiful dress my village has ever seen!" And, indeed, in the magical hands of my mother and the tailor, those fabrics gained a soul.

The years passed like leaves in the wind, and the store remained the beating heart of our lives, a sanctuary of learning and affection. Even on the toughest days, when inspectors knocked on the door or when stocks struggled to keep up with unstable prices, we ended each day with the serenity of those who knew they had given the best of themselves to the community we loved so much.

Today, as I revisit those memories, I feel as if I were once again walking down those narrow aisles, surrounded by shelves that seemed to reach the sky, filled with merchandise that told their own stories. There was something truly magical about that simple setting. The rhythmic sound of my mother’s sewing machine was like a comforting melody, the jingle of coins in the cash register was like music to my ears, and the lively chatter of customers wove a symphony of voices that filled the space with life.

I remember how time had a mind of its own there. On busy days, it flew like a free bird, as we hurried to serve all the customers who came to stock their pantries. As a boy, I felt important when carrying bags of rice and beans, when seriously checking the amounts of flour or sugar on the scale. Each service was a sacred ritual, a unique moment of connection.

But the most precious moments were, without a doubt, when my mother’s or the tailor’s creations came to life. Seeing the expression of joy on the clients’ faces when they received their custom-made clothes was an invaluable reward. These were pieces that carried not only threads and fabrics, but also dreams and expectations. I felt proud to participate, even if modestly, in this magical process, whether it was carrying the rolls of fabric that seemed to weigh less in comparison to my excitement or helping to take measurements with the seriousness of a professional.

The store was a world of contrasts: hard work and innocent fun coexisted harmoniously. In quieter hours, I would get lost among the shelves, exploring each item with the insatiable curiosity of a child. A can of preserves with an exotic label could spark my imagination about faraway places; a package of cookies made my eyes sparkle; and the fabrics... oh, the fabrics were portals to infinite universes.

As time went by, my responsibilities grew, and with them, my commitment. I went from being just the kid who weighed bags of groceries to becoming an essential part of the family business. My father trusted me to take care of the cash register, a mission that I carried out with the pride of someone who held the financial heart of the store in my hands. I clearly remember the feeling of maturity that invaded me when I served the first customers alone, as if, at that moment, I was crossing a portal into adulthood.

However, it was in the world of fabrics that my fascination truly blossomed. The vibrant colors, the soft or full-bodied textures, the prints that told stories – all of this fascinated me. My mother used to say that each roll of fabric was a blank page, ready to be written on with creativity and passion. And she was the perfect writer, masterfully weaving pieces that seemed to come straight out of the most elegant shop windows. The tailor, with his attentive eye for detail and precise hands, complemented this art, creating pants and suits that dressed not only the body, but also the personality of each client.

Customers would arrive full of expectations, describing dreams that my mother and the tailor would transform into tangible reality. Seeing something as simple as a piece of cloth become a work of art was an experience that never ceased to amaze me. I would often sit next to the sewing machine, mesmerized by the incessant movement of the needle and the rhythmic sound that filled the air, while we talked about life, about the people who came and went, leaving a little of themselves and taking a little of us.

The stories of our clients were a chapter in themselves. Dona Lúcia, with her wrinkled hands and affectionate gaze, spoke proudly of her granddaughters for whom she sewed dresses full of love. Each measurement taken by my mother was accompanied by stories of childish laughter and mischief. Mr. António, always elegant and good-humored, shared adventures from his business trips, assuring us that the shirts we made were the subject of praise in the most distant places.

It was at these times that the store transcended its commercial function and became a stage where lives intersected, where stories were told and where bonds were strengthened. Each product sold, each item of clothing made, each conversation exchanged contributed to weaving the tapestry of memories that I now hold so dearly.

And so, the store of my childhood was not just a setting from the past, but a true character in my story, shaping who I became and teaching me the value of work, honesty and, above all, human connection. The memories of that time continue to warm my heart, like the soft light that came through the windows in the late afternoon, illuminating the faces of customers and the smiles shared. And it is with gratitude that I relive those moments, knowing that, somehow, the magic of that place remains alive within me.