Carnaval Del Barrio [Izars + D11]
Jan 6, 2020 1:44:39 GMT -5
Post by marguerite harvard d2a (zori) on Jan 6, 2020 1:44:39 GMT -5
Tía Abuela Xuxa said that when she was a young girl, they had a banquet every year outside the old homestead. Families would come from surrounding farms with all sorts of dishes and decorations to ring in the end of one year and the hope of a better one. Casco Viejo we called it, she said of the stretch of lands that had come and gone, reborn as the part of the districts full of Izars, without a name. They’d waive their banderas, sing songs, drink too much, and we’d stay up until the sun rose.
I thought of her as I hung another string of lights along the back of the house, careful on the ladder so as to not get an earful about how my balance wasn’t as good as it used to be. The trees that run down the hills leading outback of the house are strung with lanterns, and a fire already roars in the concrete firepit. Aresti and Druso will bring moonshine, Bakar his sour face, Jurgi won’t come at all, and Manuela will likely question what took me so long to come up with such a good idea.
A part of me is more excited to have all the kids running underfoot again.
They used to be young enough to bounce on my knee, or to tell them stories in front of the fire, making shadow puppets with my hands and telling the same I’d heard as a child. At some point, one winter ran into the next, and they traded toys and stories for work and other vices. But today? Today we could call come together. Maybe Marisol would make a paella, or Lordes would bring empanadas. I’d break out the guitar and start to sing, and maybe someone would get out their fiddle.
As I plug the last set of lights in I tend to the picnic tables, and start by sampling a set of brownies Emma’s left out (to test, of course).
I thought of her as I hung another string of lights along the back of the house, careful on the ladder so as to not get an earful about how my balance wasn’t as good as it used to be. The trees that run down the hills leading outback of the house are strung with lanterns, and a fire already roars in the concrete firepit. Aresti and Druso will bring moonshine, Bakar his sour face, Jurgi won’t come at all, and Manuela will likely question what took me so long to come up with such a good idea.
A part of me is more excited to have all the kids running underfoot again.
They used to be young enough to bounce on my knee, or to tell them stories in front of the fire, making shadow puppets with my hands and telling the same I’d heard as a child. At some point, one winter ran into the next, and they traded toys and stories for work and other vices. But today? Today we could call come together. Maybe Marisol would make a paella, or Lordes would bring empanadas. I’d break out the guitar and start to sing, and maybe someone would get out their fiddle.
As I plug the last set of lights in I tend to the picnic tables, and start by sampling a set of brownies Emma’s left out (to test, of course).
