Stories of Lotería

Do you enjoy a good ghost story? The mystery and wonder of the circumstances. The goosebump-inducing details.  Maybe you're a believer who has had an experience of your own - or waiting for that day.  Have you considered the underlying sadness that often accompanies these tales of the unexplained? Some believe grief over the loss of a loved one, like an arrow that has pierced through the heart, creates a longing so intense that you call the spirit world to you. Who wouldn't want to see that person once more, feel their presence beside them once more, or willingly go against all rational understanding just to heal the wound for that brief moment? And yet, here is a story about a spirit who doesn't let go.  Doesn't it make sense that they grieve, too? A pearl-colored glow dripped from the crescent that hung high against the black felt sky and seeped through the open window of the dark bedroom. It wasn't a noise or even one of those sudden jerks of the leg that ya

My blog reached 5000 pageviews! I think that's pretty awesome for a small-timer like me. Thank you, readers and followers. Next card up....Las Jaras (The Arrows).

Back in 2000 I started recording family ghost stories as told to me by my Mom, my Grandma, and letters from my Aunt Socorro. Around that time I was taking an English course on memoirs and for an assignment I presented those family ghost stories as if they were being told to me and my other cousins by our Uncle George. Why did I choose my Uncle George as the storyteller? Because I (and my cousins who were present) share a vivid memory of one night we were all at his house, in my cousin Lorrie's room, waiting for him to tell us a ghost story. I can't remember what his story was about (something about an old outhouse) but the anticipation and excitement are what fuels this memory. That and the 10 feet leap into Uncle George's lap that cousin Desiree took when Ruben pounded on the window from the backyard! Here is the introduction to that memoir assignment, exactly as I wrote it, almost exactly as I remember it.  The girls piled themselves onto the cushy queen-sized bed, wrap

Angel Baby A Special Report on Good Boys Gone Bad. Benicio was a good boy. By all rational accounts, he was known to display behavior modeling respect, obedience, and all around good-natured-ness. Born on a warm morning in June of 2011, he found his birth and the bright new world around him to be rather agreeable. Benicio's parents, a loving and nurturing couple who enforced peace and harmony in the home (it should be noted) often found him entertaining himself with toys and books. Not likely to throw unnecessary tantrums, he comfortably drifted from boisterous family gatherings to quiet alone time without much fuss. He knew without a doubt that Mami and Papi would be ready at any moment to adore his evolving charm or comfort his sorrows. Even at his most rambunctious moments, he remained sweet and, well, irresistible. It is not an exaggeration to point out that those closest to Benicio believed they had been truly blessed with an angel. The change didn't occur overnigh

This is what writing at 11:39pm looks like.

My Aunt Socorro -a truly wonderful lady- is the eldest of eleven children, an avid reader, and a terrific pen-pal. From her home that is situated over 2400 miles away from those she grew up with, she records every birth, keeps our family history, and always sends a birthday card. Here are two poems she wrote way back when, and shared with me some years ago.  * Based on the antics of her two younger sisters: my Mom and my Nina THE INCORRIGIBLES (8/16/1957) Oh! My sisters are so pretty, But such naughty little brats, That they play with crickets And chase after cats. I tell them not to do it, But the rascals disobey, As if they were not afraid. So I have to turn them over, And over them indeed I hover, As I smack them with my hand to make them understand. But they keep on being bad, So that I no longer care What they do or what they dare. * This next one is about my mom before she became a mom. For those of us who know her well, we'll re

RRRRIIIINNNNGGGG The first school bell sliced through the chatter and thrill of the small yard on Amalia Street. Twenty pairs of black and white leather oxfords scurried past the sun-scarred swings and canopied lunch tables. "Line up now. Everybody line up," a friendly-faced woman with blonde hair called out to the group. Tiny bodies topped with French braids, pony tails, crew cuts, and parts perfectly combed by Mama for the first day of first grade in 1985. In the classroom we sat at our own desk in alphabetical order of our last names - Andrade, Delgado, Del Hoyo, Diaz..... There were no desks back in kindergarten. Us kids sat on the carpeted floor most of the time. Here, I felt like a grown-up professional. I couldn't wait to get my hands on some paper and start writing something. The walls were covered with bright posters, charts, letters and numbers. In the front left corner of the room, facing us as we worked at our miniature desks, was a statue of the Vir