Windows Mother

That was the real business of the ass of mud, making vases and amphoras in the indigenous style. He used to visit his house next to my mother, who had orders to Dona Clotilde, the matriarch of the ass of clay for his extensive collection of ferns and begonias. They had an old wooden house unpainted, excessively long and narrow, that flowed in the pottery workshop. There, in a huge mud and ash oven, baking Dona Clotilde, (macuca descendant of the Chorotega, as I said) the jars and vases, sold at exorbitant prices by being her great-granddaughter of the cacique of the Corobici and therefore their work, rather than craft, was bequeathed authentic. And there, on the sills of the Windows, were in permanent exhibition my toys to sight and patience of my mother. She, however, do not say anything. Dona Clotilde seemed to ignore the truth after toys, referring that were collected by their grandchildren in the street.

– And why not play with them? asked my mother intrigued the day of the explanation. -You do not know them, despedazarian them in a heartbeat, and charita toys for the Eagles of this House. They are like monsters that it destroy everything. Why here this room I have forbidden to come. Dona Clotilde handed him the jar of the custom, with three feet to Tripod mode, and was to change the Bill that gave my mother to give the vuelto. Then MOM started laughing quietly so not hear it in the next room. -Longer time, they steal them and Grandma takes them off. Poor children with similar grandmother told my mother laughs – but I had focused my attention on an old can of oats that was on the table and that surely Dona Clotilde used for ground water. -You can read? -Yes, in house there is an announcement like that – I said.

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