several days ago that I'm writing about the 24. Wanted to post today. But today I have to talk about my dad. One type Peronist. A common type. So common that they will not read here a story of heroes, but a common history, like millions of guys with their common histories, common to not less important.
My dad was the son of Italian immigrants, who sold off their assets in urope to pay debts and save the cleaning of the name, and came back with one hand and one below. He was the youngest son of Don Luigi and Elvira. He grew up in the neighborhood of Pompeii, and his childhood and adolescence were marked by the splendors of Peronism, inaugurated the brand at the seventeenth, when I was a kid who looked with her big blue eyes (blue or gray or blue sky ... amazingly) how women came from the arms seized by Almafuerte Avenue, to release the Macho.
Then came her shoes and the dust that he sent the government, love for Evita, friends, milongas, going out to laburar, Perón Perón how great you are. The large type books and began to fix refrigerators, washing machines, those things, in an era where you could make a future without you do need a college degree. At 28 Pirulos settled down and married my mother, a brunette working, pretty cute. Like so many, made his home in the bottoms of nonna's house. Over the years, hence we went to a small apartment of two rooms, and then to the house itself, built thanks to Eva Peron Plan of Banco Hipotecario, beyond by 73.
I have my old images that appear in a movie. When the truck arrived with the company to the home of Almafuerte, played horn and I would run and I was up to the box and jumped died laughing when we cross the threshold of the gate. He had a special wave to the guys. With self and others. The kids will beat him as mucus. My cousins, the neighbors, the children of friends, everyone loved my old man. We were dying of happiness when they rang the bell to get to the apartment, tired, carrying his leather bag with tools, and the three were to hang from it, while searching candy in their pockets. We can not forget how dedicated her for us. The toys that we bought so hard, the times we had a horse, who played with us, scared us, we shit on farts .. On Sunday morning, five in the big bed to watch the race from Lole, and he making breakfast for everyone. The Lole came out second and then mate with bread and salami, as we waited for the noodles are or barbecue. His family was the best for my old world.
The old man wanted, above all, that we study. By year 77, recently relocated to Torcuato, the house still unfinished, the old man had no money to buy the book first grade reading for my brother. But my brother had to have his book, so the guy went and bought a notebook Rivadavia, Sylvapen markers (those of small flowers, remember?) And a box of crayons and asked for a book borrowed and copied it in full. Let's see if I understand: the enferrrrmo you copied the entire book of reading, with his drawings, colors, printing and cursive letters. My brother had his book equal to its peers, but with lines. That year my brother was the best student in his grade (first and only time in his life, haha).
The old man always supported us in everything we decide, but did not like. When he left he was to enter the National School of Drama, the guy says "Look, daughter, I'd rather you study something else, but if that's what you want, I'll support you." And there was, always. I went to all the work I did, at least in Buenos Aires. Then, when I said I would live to Chaco, neither liked nor shit, was undoubtedly a great pain for him, but supported, because I was chasing a dream of happiness. When I was pregnant, I came to Buenos Aires to the news. He, in his fifty- seven years, and was being brutally eaten by Alzheimer's. In one of his moments of lucidity, I told him I was pregnant and asked if I did not bother to go to have a child without being married. He replied: "How do I go to import, if you give me a little grandson?" When I came back with my baby a fortnight, I know you enlighten the nearly two years left of life. Or they brightened my daughter. He was the last thing you could do, with all the limitations imposed on the disease of shit. Sheltered us, protects us, loved us. And when everything was more or less on track, he died. Motherfucker, the cop takes bony types good too early. My dad did not meet their sixties.
three children picked their legacy. The three have, undoubtedly, some of it.
My younger sister took her love of nature and sport. For years now, living a good life in Necochea, concerned about the environment, turning off lights to save the planet stuff. And coaching a basketball team assholes 5 / 6 years. Basketball. My old was runner-up basketball in the '51 Championships preventable infant. Things in life, the meeting blogger la Bancaria conocí al capitán de aquel equipo, que es el padre de los jóvenes Cacharienses, el mundo es una carilina. Pero volvamos a mi hermana. Ella es la única que mantiene la estructura familiar que nos inculcó el viejo: marido, hijo que es un divinor, un perro, una casa con jardín. Claro que mi hermana exageró un poco, y la casa se la compró con vista al mar.
Mi hermano, el del medio, tiene ese buen humor a prueba de balas. Mi viejo era así, el alma de las fiestas, siempre pronto a alegrar la vida de quien estuviera cerca con algún chiste pelotudo. Como ese en el que Pedro se hunde al pretender caminar sobre las aguas, y Jesús turns, looks at him and says, "rocks, idiot, stepping stones." That kind of jokes, incredibly stupid, I reread it now and again I shit laughing. So is my brother, an actor who sometimes just want to kill, and then the guy goes and leaves you with any shit and we disarm all the fury you can be brought.
I, the eldest, stayed with his passion for music, lyrics, and Peronism. I'll never sing Romance de Barrio with sweet chirping, nor will I play the harmonica doing so with the leg as he was, but the guitar pan and open the snout and Masomenos defend myself. I'll never write those sonnets perfect (or that incomparable poem to the shit he wrote the animal). Just words and accommodate the software flaw here, sometimes with some effectiveness. Peronist passion is in their ideals, their flags and I took forward, where more than I am. And where else honor. I hope.
The brothers inherited the hand for drawing. The three are parents who are eager for their children. The three of us sent some cagadón sometime. The three of us are good people.
Sorry if I made too long, I I wrote all this because today only fifteen years ago that was supposed to be. And to say I'm proud of the old man had. And the old man should be proud of what he did. I hope everyone has an old as mine.
I said.
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