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Days in barrio

Discussion in 'General Chat' started by Yours, Apr 8, 2016.

  1. Pushing the long handle of the artesian well to draw up the water. Reaching up to clasp my small hands around the smooth metal handle, I would pull it down as far as I could. And as I cranked it up and down, I would hear the water gurgling in the pipes down below, then slowly rise up higher and nearer. Excitedly, I would crank the handle faster and faster, until suddenly, cool and clear water gushed out to drench dirty me.
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    Lying on the branches of my favorite guava tree in the afternoon, looking at a caterpillar slowly inching his way on a branch that thankfully, was way, way off from… Ugh, I remember how itchy such a small creature can be!
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    Standing surprised in a field of grass, at the sight of a dark huge cloud strangely silhouetted against the blue sky. Rain fell down straight from it, grey and white. Then came the sound of an army of mice scampering. It was the rain falling on the grass! Startled, I dashed madly, determined to outrun the rain. Laughing, I shouted to my playmates, “Look! Look! The rain is chasing me!” Until the rain caught up with me, and went on ahead, scurrying on its little feet, leaving me dripping wet.
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    Sipping the sweet nectar out of the orange-yellow santan flowers growing by the dry foot paths snaking their way through the cornfields. I slowly suck a flower dry, savoring a few sweet drops, pretending to be a butterfly. I did not pluck too many, knowing they were drink for the butterflies and bees. Perhaps, too, for the fairies?
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    linging the chained heavy bucket into the atabay (well) and listening to it clang against the stonewall of the well. A big splash signals it had broken the water surface and was sinking into its depths.
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    Coddling the soft, warm eggs that rolled down the floor of the hen house. Chickens cackled and the dusty, musty smell of poultry made me sneeze.Achoo!

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    Roasting cobs of corn pulled from the stalks the farmer had allowed us to harvest. Smoke from the coal fire makes my eyes tear. No butter nor salt, just plain white corn bursting with goodness.
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    Coughing after my first puff of a rolled up cïgârêttê made from the leaf of the duhat tree with bits of tôbâccô leaves inside. Smoke irritated my throat and made me cough some more. As tears welled in my eyes, I heard Nang Vicenta exclaim, “I told you not to inhale too deeply. Now, what will your father say when he learns I gave you tôbâccô?” And I said, “I won’t tell”. Such was the beginning of many “I won’t tells”.
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    Squatting by the edge of a pond where the carabao wades, fascinated at the red and neon blue dragonflies sparkling, darting hither and thither in the air above. Small tadpoles swim by under the water. A brown curled up leaf floats by like a little boat, putting out to sea.
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    Plodding along in the twilight, dusty and tired after playing in the hills. My siblings had gone ahead and I was alone in the quiet, slowly walking down the road to follow them. A cool night breeze had sprung up, drying my sweaty back.
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    And then, there, around the corner, a sight I would always remember – a tree stood in the summer night, all lit up with fireflies – a Christmas tree in May!



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