terremoto
During a visit to the home country (Costa Rica) 15 years or so ago, I found myself at the graveside of my paternal grandmother (she-who because of her awful temper and alcoholism, we, the siblings-called "grandmonster") to clean up and paint the small bed-shaped cement resting slab for my father's impending visit.
This is a typical Central American ritual, since most cemeteries are rather impoverished, so upkeep is up to the families.
The cemetery was a rather cheerful old place, lush with all sorts overgrown scary looking tropical plants, and a wonderful sign at the entrance that read: 'we only die when we are forgotten' that has always stayed with me.
Joining me on this bit of housekeeping were 2 cousins on my mother's side, Adriana and Claudio, at the time aged 16 and 10.
A rather typical Costa Rican oddity. Halfway down the length of the plots was a table laden with fruit from the cemetery's trees, for patrons to take home, but not to leave for the "guests"-this wasn't Mexico, after all.
Well, we trimmed the weeds, cleaned off the stone and took about an hour painting (whitewashing) the little tomb.
When finished, my cousin Claudio (10, very chubby, pimply faced, goofy and topped with an out of place 'prince valiant' hair-do) decided he was Fred Astaire and began dancing on one of the nearby 2 foot high structures.
"Stop that!" his sister hissed.
"Look, Mauri, I'm Fred Astaire!" he insisted.
His sister was livid. "The dead will get angry, you know."
And right then, straight out of Garcia Marquez, a 6 point 2 earthquake hit.
I managed to carry Claudio out to the waiting car, and he remained in the fetal position he had dropped to during the quake for a few hours. He would later in life try to become a priest.
His sister is the night manager for the traffic police in downtown San Jose.
My dad was in the air when the quake hit, and later thought his mother's sight looked 'good', but wondered why the fruit was all over the ground from the table.
This is a typical Central American ritual, since most cemeteries are rather impoverished, so upkeep is up to the families.
The cemetery was a rather cheerful old place, lush with all sorts overgrown scary looking tropical plants, and a wonderful sign at the entrance that read: 'we only die when we are forgotten' that has always stayed with me.
Joining me on this bit of housekeeping were 2 cousins on my mother's side, Adriana and Claudio, at the time aged 16 and 10.
A rather typical Costa Rican oddity. Halfway down the length of the plots was a table laden with fruit from the cemetery's trees, for patrons to take home, but not to leave for the "guests"-this wasn't Mexico, after all.
Well, we trimmed the weeds, cleaned off the stone and took about an hour painting (whitewashing) the little tomb.
When finished, my cousin Claudio (10, very chubby, pimply faced, goofy and topped with an out of place 'prince valiant' hair-do) decided he was Fred Astaire and began dancing on one of the nearby 2 foot high structures.
"Stop that!" his sister hissed.
"Look, Mauri, I'm Fred Astaire!" he insisted.
His sister was livid. "The dead will get angry, you know."
And right then, straight out of Garcia Marquez, a 6 point 2 earthquake hit.
I managed to carry Claudio out to the waiting car, and he remained in the fetal position he had dropped to during the quake for a few hours. He would later in life try to become a priest.
His sister is the night manager for the traffic police in downtown San Jose.
My dad was in the air when the quake hit, and later thought his mother's sight looked 'good', but wondered why the fruit was all over the ground from the table.
posted by mo figuls at 3:31 PM
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