My grandmother and my mother
Hello friends of @throbawckthursday, I am fascinated by this community that gives me the opportunity to relive sacred moments in my memory. This is the only photo I have of my grandmother, I don't have many of my mother and seeing them both here so beautiful feeds my soul.
My grandmother had my mother in 1944, at 46 years old, the last of her nine children. I met her gray. My mother says that when she was little she accompanied her to earn her living. He dehusked large corn presses.
My mother breastfed while my grandmother worked and thus that beautiful union of which we were part was consolidated. One of her sons provided my grandmother with a small house in the city, by then my mother was fourteen years old and worked as a domestic.
A year later she married my father and my grandmother went to see her every month and whenever my mother was going to have one of her children, my grandmother spent a few months with her.
We all ran to catch her on the road, we didn't call her grandmother, we called her Vida, her name was Vidalina. That's what my mother called her, we learned from her. In the camps it is common to give nicknames, they even forgot their baptismal name. People from small country towns are generally shy and saying to their mother: mommy, mother or mommy made them feel ashamed. The days my grandmother was home, they spent hours talking while they peeled oranges to make candy; or they scratched coconut and cassava to make mathambre
My grandmother Vida was a simple, calm woman, with a smile in her eyes. Lover of gifts and bacon, those that she prepared herself and hung above our wood stove. On each of his visits my mother killed chickens to make him the rice with sour orange that he liked so much. I prefer chicken wings, I remember them every time I see a wing on my plate, perhaps because they were her delight.
My grandmother walked back from the small country town to the city, hours on the way with her bags on her back. He sat down to rest on a log, a stone. Maybe he was showing us the way to reach 96 years of age.
This post is AI free. The photos used are my property.
96 años es mucho tiempo.
Mi abuela y mi madre
Hola amigos de @throwbackthursday, me fascina esta comunidad que me da la oportunidad de revivir momentos sagrados en mi memoria. esta es la única foto que conservo de mi abuela, no tengo muchas de mi madre y verlas aqui a las dos tan hermosas me alimentan el alma.
Mi abuela tuvo a mi madre en 1944, a los 46 años de edad, la ultima de sus nueve hijos. La conocí encanecida. Cuenta mi madre que de pequeña la acompañaba a gansrse el sustento. Deshojaba grandes prensas de maiz.
Mi madre lactaba mientras mi abuela trabajaba y asi se consolidó esa hermosa unión de la que fuimos parte.
Uno de sus hijos le facilitó a mi abuela una pequeña casa en la ciudad, para entonces mi madre tenía catorce años y trabajaba de doméstica.
Un año después se casó con mi padre y mi abuela iba cada mes a verla y siempre que mi madre iba a tener uno de sus hijos, mi abuela pasaba con ella algunos meses.
Todos corríamos a alcanzarla al camino, no le decíamos abuela, le decíamos Vida, su nombre era Vidalina. Así la llamaba mi madre, de ella aprendimos. En los campos es común poner sobrenombres, incluso llegaban a olvidar el nombre de bautizo.
Las personas de pequeños pueblos de campo, por lo general son tímidos y decirle a su madre: mami, madre o mamá les hacía sentir verguenza.
Los días que mi abuela estaba en casa, se pasaban horas conversando, mientras pelaban naranjas para hacer dulce; o rayaban coco y yuca para hacer mathambre.
Mi abuela Vida fue una mujer sencilla, tranquila, con una sonrisa dibujada en los ojos. Amante de los regalos y el tocino, esos que ella misma preparaba y colgaba encima de nuestro fogón de leña.
En cada una de sus visitas mi madre mataba pollos para hacerle el arroz con naranja agria que tanto le gustaba. Del pollo prefiero las alas, la recuerdo siempre que veo un alita en mi plato, quizás porque eran su deleite.
Mi abuela regresaba caminando desde el pequeño pueblo de campo hasta la ciudad, horas en el trayecto con los bolsos a cuesta. Se sentaba a descansar en un tronco, una piedra. Quizás nos estaba enseñando la vía para llegar a los 96 años.
This post is AI free. The photos used are my property.