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His mother's silences were brutal, cold, punitive, just like the place in which she lived, the place he swore he would never see again. software If his mother were to grind anything it would be coal, not corn. But Mama Theresa could not be any of those things, he knew. There was no cold or coal or sharpness to her.

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Children of many ages ran underfoot, chattering in Spanish and English and even throwing in Apache words, asked embarrassing questions and made unwanted comments, sitting, sometimes at Mama's feet, sometimes at his. Jucarii pentru femei on link page Sometimes one of the smallest would crowd into the chair with him or sit in his lap, expecting as naturally as sun and moon that he would be held; and he found he liked that. software on Top page Mama would tolerate them, ignore them, and even when she scolded it was soft and warm and loving.

software Sometimes she would hum or sing old songs, ancient songs, always en Espanol, their comfort reaching out to him. Sometimes she would speak, in Spanish, in English when she wanted more than sound to reach, instruct. software She never asked questions, she never lectured, she never sought reaction or a response in these quiet times, never seemed really to be paying attention to Barry. His mother's words usually burned, her angry sharp tongue analog to her leather strap, whose crack and fire he had felt too often Mama Theresa was not like that, either. None of the ninos running around the place, morning, noon and night, had ever tasted the smoke of leather whipped afire. special education Mama told stories, stories of her children, or of someone's children; old stories of legend, of coyotes and foxes, Indian and Mexican and Spanish stories; stories of people and times she knew in the flesh and others she knew only in heart and soul and legend, her voice a light, countermelody to the gentle wind chimes and warm sweet breezes on the ramada. Subtle stories they were, even a mind as sharp as Barry's didn't catch her effortless insinuation of lessons into them; messages of strength unknown and discovered, of love for family and children and horse and land; of jokes and foibles of people who he didn't know and might never meet, and who might never have existed; of Abe her wayward son, and of Barry by sinuous parallel and unmetered congruence and geometry he could not consciously grasp, and could not unconsciously miss, with his mathematical mind. She conveyed not mere acceptance and healing, but the inevitability of life and events and the unimportance of it all, the futility of fighting that which is, which was, which would be.