Fireflies Southern Cross

Fireflies Southern Cross

I caught last spring planting in the pot when it began to rain, the mountains were blurred by the aqueous curtain and could not enjoy the intense green of the forests, to my surprise, infiltrated between the drops, snowflakes incipient struggled arm themselves and dominate precipitation. It was late September in the town we thought he had fallen the last snowfall, but nature takes its codes, suspend the work in the garden and entered the house, I light the firewood from home, the cold begins to bite.

Enjoy coffee, watching TV, small playground, in a few hours will be the family together and I must devote to common tasks.

- Mommy, the teacher gave you a statement, you should sign it.

- Honey, I need my gray shirt for Thursday, I have meeting.

- I want no more soup, I'm sick.

- We plan the long weekend, perhaps a short camp.

- No more routine, relax, relax ...!

But my state of relaxation jumps like a spring, the screen is the image of a man, a political science professor visiting the Argentina Spanish, his name occurs my shock. José Carlos! My mind begins to retrace through a tunnel which leads me to childhood memories.

They were times of war, one morning in which the wind from the river brought summer rains announcement, the neighborhood was abuzz. Army trucks were parked in the "camper" would one day be square, they started down immigrant families.

It was an extraordinary event, the neighbors came to the doors of their homes to watch the event, the kids crossed the street and got into the "camper" for near everything that happened. There were people of all ages, spoke different languages. From then on life totally changed platense that neighborhood.

By being on holiday could enjoy from early morning movement of foreigners. I spied on them from my parents' bedroom whose window faced the street, had an enviable vantage point. In the afternoon I crossed the camp they had built new and exotic neighbors. Before doing my hair managed more carefully and a little bit of perfume stole my mother was twelve, immigrant children seemed beautiful. Some were introverted, others more social, we were becoming friends.

With the girls of my age were playing with the figurines, face or dry, and wrists. Among all of hopscotch, hide and seek, or poisonous spot "tripped Farolera". If for some reason did not cross called me _ Rita ... Rita! and I hurried out with my figurines, braids freshly made by my mom and the beating heart of illusions.

Predominated Spanish, Portuguese and French Basques. The Basques were the most beautiful, unattainable saw them even more when they spoke a language so different from ours. Each family lived in large tents but soon began to build their own homes on land that the government had awarded, near the square.

They were hard workers and even children collaborated in the construction of their future homes. Getting captivated me see them in your routine! Women washing clothes in tubs and scrubbing with rhythmic energy while singing songs of their homelands. I was surprised to see take the wine in a leather object called it boot. Don Ramon, Portuguese, ate noodles and drank wine pesto that.

I learned many ways, including dancing the Jota Aragonese, and no doubt they learned our traditions, the mate was a ritual that enthusiastically assimilated. They valued about how what they got, they were very thrifty, this gave them a slight air of superiority about our customs, they could not believe the amount of food that ingeríamos. Our famous carvery!

It was a very happy time. After dinner, in the hot summer nights overwhelming, our parents let us play until late, at that time preferred to play hide

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