El Corrido del Pajaro

A tribute to my father.



The hair brush was my enemy. It would come out early morning and my mother would warn me it was getting late as the time looking for the brush went on.  I couldn’t be late for school.  I loved everything about the elementary school me, my sister and eventually some of my brothers would attend.  There was a beautiful mountain view. From the hills tucked under the sharp mountain top you could see thick puffs of white steam from the plant my mom worked.  Then the small town gave way to fields. Straight rows of apple trees, peaches, alfalfa, wheat and more apples.  I usually hid the brush in hopes of being able to wear my hair down like so many of the other girls.  I had long brown hair and the only acceptable arrangements were one big braid, two small side braids or one ponytail.  The place where my…

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