A Sunday, that's what my entire first day in Blaj was like. That is why I put on my good clothes, bought by mother for school at the summer fair in Teiuş, my village's homestead. I can still see them right now: a vest in blue fabric, a “gentleman’s” hat, as the peasants in Teiuş wore, and a navy blue belt made of elastic fabric with little buckles and a yellow leather fastener to hold the beautiful shirt sewn by mother's hands. She had also sewn the white trousers, cotton as well. They had been tailored by a haberdasher in Teiuş, though.

“Now that's a gentleman,” laughed my godmother, when she called me down to have the milk and coffee which we took before we went to church. The previous day I had been wearing my work clothes from the village in order not to crumple the “gentlemanly” clothes.

When Father Blăjanu was home, my godmother accompanied him to the parish church where mass was held by his former archpriest, Father Bărbat, who uttered his name proudly, because he was handsome and exceedingly rugged. He emptied the glass properly and read the psalm book beautifully, as the cantor in Goga's poem said, which I knew by heart, even though it was not in the Alphabetarium. Our teacher had read it to us, though, from Transilvania, the ASTRA Association magazine.

My godmother, however, preferred mass at the cathedral, where the other more distinguished ladies went, and she felt she was one of them. Here the liturgical ceremony was more imposing, as it was led by an older canon, surrounded by two to four younger priests, plus the two theologians who served as deacons. The responses of the choir were even more impressive.

“Peace be unto you,” said the canon with his feeble and worn voice.

“And unto your spirit,” the choir thundered.

“Nice!” I said to myself.

The church, however, was rather empty.

“Well, yes, because the diac went to take a dip in the Târnava and to take some of the students for a walk in the woods at Veza,” my godmother clarified. “But next Sunday, you’ll be among them.”