evening will be me talking, I have no choice. I put a coffee, interesting conversation, and did not take twenty seconds or up from the computer and move the backlog. Life happens, there is work, and between one thing and another, what can I say, I'm more interested that everything is ...
Then it was almost dark. I returned the bike. We were in the Puebla , having some wine to celebrate Father's Day. This year will seventy-nine now. That Spain. Born in 1932 and there I have your ration card of the war. With fourteen years working in the tunnel four. Where people died of " wrong road." How hard, but what a beautiful documentary that on carrilanos . This time we got to talking about his grandfather. My great-grandfather. His name was Michael, but everyone in town knew him as Miguel. Born, that I knew later on April 13, 1875. It is curious that almost all of my grandparents took me almost a hundred years. Born in La Casa del Barrio. Now there is almost nothing of the House, but is one of the most enigmatic groups of buildings can still be seen in a people so given the enigmas like mine. The stone is still visible, is taken from a church (some local scholars argue that the District is the origin of the town and probably the first church was located there) and remains can still be seen not only polychrome stonework but . La Casa del Barrio, whenever he talks to her, my father says in capital letters. There have, yet, the curtain closed Barrio. There are nearly almost uninhabited buildings, and streets have been eating the nature, this friend so nice that once you're not careful, you erase from the face of the earth ...
were four brothers and I always suspected that He was the youngest. Were the children of Isidro and Margaret, born probably in the vicinity of 1850 and also two sons of my people. My father talks about it with passion, but make it half a century of his death. Miguel was affectionate with their grandchildren and it happened that bad. Perspective view life leaves little room for poetry. I guess he learned to read and tending livestock. He married a beautiful woman that is no longer any memory in my family. Her name was Michelle. " bad since he was already married " says my father, who heard him tell his mother. They had three girls. No man. That in turn of the century Spain was a disadvantage, look at it: Petra, the eldest, born in 1904, Serafina Pilar Micaela in 1906 and a year later (I think). Soon after giving birth to Pilar, Micaela died. A man barely thirty years, three little girls and a widower. An embarrassment. He went to Madrid. Girls left here. "My mother with Paula you," says my father, who was thrilled when I mind. I guess it was to serve, perhaps a noble house. Likely to care carriages. At some point again. I'm not sure the year. Back in town, remarried. This time with Jacinta. And had no children. His girls were becoming women and were married. Serafina did with Jose " was handsome," my grandmother told me she was very old in a summer of the early nineties, when his grandson's little things inquired about his childhood. Probably the grandchildren were doing happy. He did not have many, Serafina had three children but one died child, Pilar had two and one child died and five Petra, of which one died as a child also. Serafina but only stayed in the village. So the grandchildren with the most sought were their children. He was older, but still lucid head. Always a quarter in his pocket for his grandchildren. He lived in the square at the house where my father was born, a house he inherited from his first wife, Michelle. "I was older came with us to the Church " Dad tells me. With nearly eight years, got on his donkey to go to Puebla to see Caudillo, "the day that General Franco opened railway line where so many died. He died around 1963, almost ninety years. " health was perfect, but fell off the donkey in the Uteiro " and never recovered. Died shortly after and was buried, of course, Santa Colomba.
We just wine. In The Tin Drum , one of the characters says something like that in every family has to be someone to dig into the memory of the dead so that their lives do not disappear into the mists of time. I look at my father and smiled. With so much to us gab dark. Got in the car and we're back home.
PS: Today in Valladolid back
Each
0 comments:
Post a Comment