Still rings in my ears the voice of the Parrot: Juanito, Pass the Milk!, Juanito, ! All morning in the house located next to a convent school. Today I become community police barracks of the Future, in that sector which is called Presidio Hill. So many died there Apristas who wanted to take power after an armed revolution. Resisted to death, but did not know of the treachery of its top leader Victor Raul was a Torre. Even now no one takes cognizance of this betrayal. Or cover it for convenience.
It was the most beautiful home we have, in one part of animal poultry roosters had to peel and my beloved Alpaca where each October to the shearer for my Grandmother Herlinda tile me my sweater, as well as some of the time my Father also. In the stands overlooking the alley that led us to another street, my father sat with his guitar and I played many songs sitting in his side transported me to another world in my young years. The More songs heard was that of the Partisan who sang Italian songs. For years I did not understand why singing those songs, which was his meaning. When I knew it, and loved much more to my father and my grandmother. They both had the most beautiful voices. They filled all the places where they hear their song. I bought a small bike that took to the streets to show off to other children, and enjoyed it.