The old man, gave a loud slap with the palm of his hand on the rustic wooden door of the little house, and with his powerful voice and firm gesture, looked at each of his ten children.
“Do you see this door? Well... no one without education and studies comes
out of here.” Seventy years later, my grandmother still remembered the blow and
the words her father had uttered in a threatening tone.
The old man, who a few months after arriving in the country, was already
reading and writing in Spanish fluently, took care of teaching the farmhands to
read, write and a little mathematics.
His friend and neighbor across the street did the same. That is why he was
nicknamed "Maestro Efron", who had a daughter who was a jazz singer and
journalist. Blackie, a friend of my grandmother's.
----------------------------
Grandma, got up at four in the morning, and helped her mother prepare
breakfast: a poor corn flour, milk and sugar mixture.
Then she would feed the animals. Cows, chickens and the horse. Once that
task was finished, she would look for three younger siblings in the house and put
them on the horse to go to school.
The animal knew the way by heart. The grandmother, with the day just
dawning, would check the path to make sure that there was no unexpected well or
small animal that would scare the little horse.
When he arrived at the school, alone, she would stop. The grandmother would
help the little ones to dismount, after which she would say to him: "go back
home".
The noble animal, walking slowly, returned to the house and spent the day
there. They gave him water, food, he rested and -sometimes- someone would ride
him around the tiny camp.
Hours later, the great-grandmother would untie him from the post and tell
him "go get the kids". They would wait at the entrance of the school and watch
him come along the path, with a slow pace.
And so, every day, every month, every year, throughout the children's
elementary school. After school, the little ones would go to play and the
grandmother, from the age of 10, she worked in the field.
-----------------------------
In Barcelona, I lived in the street Jocs Florals (Floral Games) from
Ancient Rome, the "Ludi Floreales". They were religious, popular and somewhat
scandalous.
They passed to Europe in the Middle Ages, but in the form of a literary
competition. The best love poem was awarded.
Toulouse, Valencia and Barcelona were the main cities of this competition.
Hence, the name of the street as a tribute, in the "Ciudad Condal"
(Barcelona).
The literary contest also reached Latin America. Havanna, Buenos Aires,
Tucumán, Santiago de Chile.
As for my street, "Jocs Florals" was narrow, proletarian and silent. A few
meters from home, a small market and butcher's shop. "La Tendeta" in Catalan.
Typical house with a shop in front.
Friendly, simple people. Chatting with the owner's father -a lean, taciturn
octogenarian with a poor Spanish - it occurred to me to ask him if he had
read... something.... I no longer remember what.
The woman, who was following our conversation from the other side of the
counter, blushing, tells me: "The 'pare' can't read or write. He had to go out
to work from a very young age."
I just asked, "Was your father born and always lived in Barcelona?" "Yes,
always in Barcelona, and always in this neighborhood" "I understand" was my
laconic answer.
Immediately came to my memory the grandmother, her little brothers and the
horse, who never stopped going to school a single day.
With cold, heat, rain, storm, hail or locust plague, crossing inhospitable
and fierce fields as they were - 120 years ago - the lands of Entre Ríos.
Because culture must be cultivated. Because both words mean the same
thing.
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