Lic. M. Antonia Martorell Poveda, Professor, Department of Nursing, University Rovira I Virgili, Tarragona, Spain. Guest Researcher, Department of Anthropology, School of Humanities UAEM, Chernavaca, Mexico. Guest Researcher, CIESAS, Mexico City.
Translated by Albert L. Wahrhaftig, Department of Anthropology, Sonoma State University.
I arrived in Huehuetla the afternoon of November 5, a day after my birthday, after more than nine hours of travel and others more of waiting in the TAPO bus terminal in Mexico City, and in the van which brought me from Zacapoaxtla through the final kilometers of my journey. Though buses from there to Huehuetla depart with relative frequency, they usually go overflowing with people and freight. If one wishes to make the trip seated, it is best to claim a seat well ahead or to be in it a least an hour before departure. Being aware of this “functioning” I settled in a window seat to wait for the bus to leave.
I sat there for an hour and a half while I admired and contemplated the scenes that were taking place around me. A lady selling tortillas seated in front of a market stall, men chatting about the forthcoming municipal elections, children running in the street, three Indian women who climbed onto the bus loaded down with bundles and a newborn baby, the young lawyer carrying a chestnut colored briefcase, or the pharmacist who was shipping some boxes with merchandise for his drug store. Finally, around four o’clock, the bus started up. The trip took four and a half hours, the least amount of time, usuallly, when nothing holds it up.
I arrived at a rainy Huehuetla, in the dark, and frankly tired. I remember that through the final kilometers, one thought ran through my head: “if there be one place in the world where a person could be lost, without doubt it would be Huehuetla.” Right away I met my husband who was waiting for me and other companions – Pacho, Raúl, Fidel and Cruz. I rested for a while and left my few belongings in my hotel room. The hotel, still under construction, had been open to the public for just six months. Pacho suggested the possibility that we might go to visit Guillermina in her house. Some time before, he had spoken with me about this woman and about various aspects of her life. In this way, that same night I met the old lady with whom I would spend some hours each day during my weeklong stay in Totonac country.
Guillermina’s dwelling was not easy to get to. Surrounded by trees, it sat on rocky ground several feet lower than the street. Moreover, in the house were to be found two dogs, three cats, and a bunch of chickens running around. With no windows to open its outside walls, it was constructed of wood – poles and planks. The house consisted of one dirt floored room divided into different spaces by the disposition of its few furnishings. It lacked running water and was lit by just one light bulb.
On the left side, firewood was piled – necessary for cooking and for heating the house. On the right, a cabinet with shelves stored cans, bottles, and boxes of long expired medicines and other old bits of stuff. Next to this, Guillermina has her ancient sewing machine in which she stores thread, needles, and some eggs which her chickens have laid. Above it she has hung a photograph of her uncle. In the back, one finds a little bed “protected” by a wooden crucifix decorated with white cloth flowers and a large print of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Beneath her bed, she has a large old box full of clothes dampened by the lack of sunlight. A few inches away from the bed there is another shelved cabinet which separates the “bedroom” from the “kitchen.” In it, too, boxes, cans, and pieces of cloth are heaped up.
In the kitchen there is a little square table on which Guillermina presses out her tortillas or prepares food for the animals. The back of this space is lined with a yellow oilcloth. The center of the kitchen is filled by a hearth built over a cubicle of stones on which there are four griddles of various sizes for ccooking tortillas. Sharing this space some clay jars hang, and some bowls and jugs. Next to the fire, on the left, she uses two tubs of water for washing dishes and her hands. To the right, on top of a chair, she has arranged three covered pots which contain meat seasoned with salt to preserve it. Above this chair are hung a few meters of rolled up wire, a soup ladle, a saucepan, some old coffee pots and a fan for the cookfire. The space is bounded by another piece with shelves and lower doors which protect a bag of powdered milk, a chunk of sweet roll wrapped in paper and other kitchen wares from the claws of the cat, and other cookware. The furnishings are completed by another long table covered with blue oilcloth and a few more chairs.
That night, as soon as we entered the house, Guillermina offered a chair to each of us, fanned the coals of the cookfire, and put her coffee pot on to heat. She looked for cups and glasses, and took the bag of powdered milk and the sweet roll from the old cabinet. She cut up a few pieces and invited us to take coffee and rolls. All the days that I was with her, she was accustomed to always offer me a big cup of café con leche. I felt that I couldn’t refuse and drank with certain fearful scruples proper to the Western mentality which has been alerted to the possible risks to health derived from inadequately hygienic drinks and foods. Nevertheless, at the same time, I felt that this constituted part of my own rite of initiation into an “authentic” anthropological field trip. That being so, I thought “that which must be will be.”
Guillermina was born in the year 1921 in Huehuetla. She says that because of that she is Totonac. Actually, she speaks Spanish and the indigenous language [Totonac] with equal fluency. She explains that until recently she didn’t know her exact age. When her father abandoned her, her mother, and her younger sister, he took her birth certificate. The arrival of a Catholic priest signified, for this elderly lady, the possibility of clarifying her doubt about the date of her birth. Now, with a certain pride, she says, “now I know that I am 77 years old.”
Short, with a light complexion and bowlegged, Guillermina walks rather quickly, given her age. Through her wrinkled skin and deep facial creases peer her small black eyes with a rather sad gaze. Her thin grey hair, stained yellowish by shampoo, she wears in two fine braids knotted together and gathered on top of her head. She wears a dress of a blue so faded that it appears almost white on top of which she wears a blue checked apron. She is shod with little rubber shoes, also of blue, which leave her small feet uncovered. For jewelery she has some gold earrings.
Her knowledge of Totonac brings her one hundred pesos a week when she acts as an interpreter for the doctor who comes from Cuetzalan every Sunday. Eggs from her chickens are also a source of income, using them to pay for things as though they were money. Other than these means, I know of no other possible income. Her diet never lacks tortillas, which she makes herself, to which she adds an egg or piece of meat when she has them. A large cup of coffee or of café con leche and a slice of sweet roll can complete her diet. Her considerable preoccupation for those which surround her is illustrated by the haste with which she feeds her dogs, cats, and chickens before she eats.
Her daily routine commences early. As soon as she gets up, if her resources permit it, she prepares a dish of dried tortillas for the dogs, a little milk for the cats, and scatters grain for the chickens. Followed almost always by some dogs, she takes to the street towards the house where the doctor holds his weekly consulting, greeting in Spanish or Totonac all those whom she meets on the way and perhaps buying a few banannas or tomatoes. Her daily work is to straighten up and clean the consulting office. She sweeps the floor and dusts the typewriter and the shelves of medicines. She arranges the curtains and changes the sheets of the examining table. When she is done, she can return to her home or hang around to chat with doña Lydia or some other woman friend. She says that she is used to going to be early, at nightfall. Sometimes she goes to wash clothes in a little stream and spreads them to dry in the sun there. On Sundays, after the doctor arrives, she bathes and changes her clothes.
I was able to share many of these moments during my stay in Huehuetla. The day after meeting me, Guillermina offered to teach me one of her greatest “secrets”: how to weave a napkin. She says that nobody around there knows how to make them in the way her mother taught her. In this way, I felt honored by this privelege and “obligated” to complete that task during the week. Even so, I must say that I was unable to finish it until I returned once again to my house. Now, this napkin guards my grateful memory of those days with Guillermina and forms part of an experience which I hope I shall never forget.
My anthropological training dictated that I keep a daily record, as detailed as possible, of the time I spent with Guillermina. Thus, on the day after my arrival I was able to record a conversation in which she explained to me some episodes in her life that were very significant for her. The interview wasn’t lengthy and was often interrrupted by barking dogs or by visits from friends or neighbors. Still, it seemed to me to present the idea of “ill-fated love” which has marked the existence of this elderly lady. Rather than narrate her story, I have prefered to transcribe here her own words, trying to give voice to the real protagonist of this story. To provide continuity, I have removed the questions which I sporadically addressed to her, and I have used “made up” expressions within parentheses to make up for these omissions.
Yes, well I didn’t grow up with my dad. I grew up with an uncle because they didn’t like the life my mother had. She was very delicate. And they knew that my dad had a lot of women, though they were Indian-skirted. Yes, yes. And they really liked him, for he was a secretary and they took advantage of him, I think. And my uncles got mad and brought mama back. We grew up with my uncle.
My mama worked a lot. Yes, and that one, sometimes she got us up at three in the morning to grind corn for the workers’ tortillas. Also she had to go and harvest coffee in the groves when it was harvest time. (The harvest) started around October. In September there was some and in October there started to be more. Now there hasn’t been much coffee, but then there was.
When the workers came, we gave them lunch. At six they went to the “rancho”, to Xilocoyo an hour from here. And there, around ten o’clock, we went to leave them some tacos. Sometimes I went on horseback, and where it was steep I got down because I didn’t know how to ride very well. But I did go on horseback. And when we arrived at the rancho we had to load up the animals. Before the coffee was…in crates. They didn’t sell it by the kilo like they do now. Before they sold it by the cratefull. Yes, and we had some crates full of kerosine. And I helped load up the animals. I was a strong one. Yes, helped load up the animals, keeping them from kicking. And filled sacks. Since there were bananna plants, each of us carried a whole stalk. We ended up with our backs really bent up, tired out. It was heavy and far away. And we still had to grind corn, to feed the workers their supper. Ah, no! I tell you that we ate well, I wouldn’t say we didn’t, but we really worked. Ay, yes! We suffered a lot, really…really.
(My sister was there) also. But since she was littler, they gave her more consideration. My mom and I were the ones who worked the most because she was still little and they didn’t make her work much. But me, yes. I was about fifteen years old.
I did go to school. But before, it wasn’t required. If you wanted to go you did, if not you didn’t. And they brought a teacher who was pretty heavy handed. Later, I said to my mama, I’m not going to school. Why? Because the teacher gets so mad. “So don’t go,” mama told me. She agreed with me. Yes, poor mommy, so agreeable. And we didn’t go, and another teacher came and another just the same. We were studying and stayed in the same grade. A month or two months, sometimes three months. It wasn’t like now when there are requirements and you have to go to school or you can’t get work or….well, you have to be well educated, but before, no. Before, there was no rigor, no requirements. Yeah. And they never hit me. They did hit my sister.
Who knows why (they hit her), but me, no, not me. I went off to the ranch. One day she was like the sainted Jesus. She was shoved into the fireplace and her nose was bloodied.
(It was) my uncle. Because, I don’t know. She was very delicate and I said she should…. They brought her a little kitten for a gift, and the cat ran away, and ….(She looks up at some oranges hanging in a cabinet and says, “The oranges are molding, aren’t they? They’re molding and are going to fall down”)….and they said to her: go get the cat that ran away. “Oh! I’m not a cat herder, ” she said. Jesus! She shouldn’t have said that, for they grabbed her ear and threw her over to (she acts out the movements as though she had lived them). My mother cried, in secret, at seeing how cruel they were to my sister. My uncle was very cruel.
(This uncle of mine was ) a brother (of my mother). Yes, he was very cruel. Right, he treated her badly, but not me. I didn’t grumble. They ordered me about and I said, “I’m coming,” trembling with anger, but I came. Yeah, to not show my anger. And that one, she, the poor thing, she didn’t know, like they say, how to take care of herself. Right? They annoyed her or something, and later she couldn’t keep it in and said “No, I’m not a cat herder,” she said. And just for that he grabbed her ear and threw her out. Mama cried to see how they were treating the poor girl, little thing, still skinny. Now she’s like a bull, good and fat, really fat. And her, she grew up and went off with a man, still really young. She went off.
More or less about then (when I was fifteen or sixteen). And this man took her off, he had her. But a woman, one of my cousins, also loved that man. And that one said, “Ay get her out of here. She talks to him like she is talking to me. And she went away to get my cousin. And they brought her to my mom. But (she makes a gesture with her hands over her belly) her belly was already swollen. And they beat her like one beats a snake. Ay Jesus, no more of this. I asked God that they shouldn’t beat her any more. I said the baby is going to die, and that one is Roberto Ojeda. You went to see him, right? I said this baby is going to die.
(So Roberto was) my sister’s child. She is my sister because she is my mother’s daughter, but she had a different father. But I respect her as a sister. And they beat her a lot. Even now she tells me, they don’t love me, she says. Uncle Serafín doesn’t love me, she says, and beat me a lot, she says. But I don’t know, I don’t know why, I tell her. I don’t know. They didn’t hit me or even punish me. It’s because I didn’t hang out in the street, I didn’t talk [with boys out there]. I think that’s why, why they didn’t punish me. They didn’t say anything to me.
But yes, mama made us grind corn. I was strong. Made us grind corn until our hands ached. My wrist is like this because of holding the grinding stone. They didn’t have grinding machines like now. Now they go off with their corn to the corn mill. Yes, but before there weren’t any. Mom didn’t even like the hand grinders because the tortillas they make smell of iron. She didn’t like those grinders. She liked to grind corn on a grindestone to make “clean” tortillas. Yeah, that’s how we were brought up.
And me, I feel well…..proud of myself. I don’t know why they brought me very good clothes and why they bought me gold jewelery (she gazes at the photo of her uncle which hangs on the wall of her house). He didn’t have children. He wasn’t married, and he bought me my gold ear rings. And I went when they had processions at the school, well I was really elegant. Like I said, poor, but with gold ear rings. I had big ones, but my sister took them away from me, but, well, she is my sister. And that’s where they ended up. She took them away, you could say, in secret. She was angry because they bought me nice things and good clothes but for her, poor thing, they bought very plain clothes, very humble. But that’s not my fault! Not me. My uncle wanted it that way. Yes, I never disobeyed him. They sent us to grind corn and we came back worn out, like I said, with our backs all bent over. And our backs and our necks ached. You can see what a bananna stalk weighs carried in a mecapal, a Totonac carrying frame, and that tired me out a lot, but we still went to grind corn. Our body sweaty, we ground corn for the workers’ tortillas, early , and without complaints. We went off to the grinding stone like little sheep. Without a word because my uncle was touchy, really touchy!
He had his ranch alright and, well, nevermind that he mistreated us with so much work, but we ate well, very well. There was always meat, always milk and bread – we always had bread. By eleven, we were taking our coffee with bread and with milk. Yes, everyone, not just separate for my uncle, all of us had our coffee with milk, even my sister. I don’t know why he didn’t love her much. She was kind of sloppy and I think that is why he hated her. And I felt sad about it, but what could I say to him? I could only feel anguished about it. And him, when he hit my sister one time and like I said, she swelled up and had a bloody nose, my mom cried. And what could we do to my uncle. We couldn’t fight him. We were living in his house. His house here. It was his house and we were all together there.
Mama had a house in the center of town, but my aunt, my mother’s sister, took it away from her. She took it away from her saying that we were women and she had men, and that’s why she wanted the house. And mom wasn’t ambitious. (She let her have) the house. Yes, she said, that’s how we’ll leave the house, and we went there (to the uncle’s ranch). I tell you, we suffered a lot. I suffered morally at seeing how they treated my sister and without being able to say anything about it, nothing, nothing at all.
(My mother), they treated her well. She, well, she didn’t know. She didn’t ever see what they were doing with her daughter, but she held it all in. She held in her resentment. We suffered. One suffers and one learns. And we had left the house, but José Robertto fought with me a lot, a lot he fought with me. It’s Pedro José Roberto Ojedo. His real name is Robert. We called him José after my mama who was Josefina. We suffered a lot from this one. And when my sister got pregnant, we went out secretly looking for my uncle Serafín because he wouldn’t want to see her like that. Then the baby was born. And I loved that little boy very much. Since I was fat, sometimes we went to a fiesta and I said let’s go and watch for a while. I said to her, let’s go. And I carried the baby because I was fat and I could wrap him up and nobody could see that I had a baby. Yes, I said, it isn’t the baby’s fault that he has come to suffer in this world. We loved him so much! A whole lot. But nevermind. God knows. (She cries).
My uncle wasn’t political. No way would he get involved. He was always working. He didn’t go out around town, just worked. He was a mechanic. Always working. Never out and about. No – when were we going to go out? He wouldn’t let us, neither me nor my sister.
Never (she says heatedly). They were godparents and at times they went to become godparents at a wedding. They went to the party and left us behind wrapped up like piglets, sleeping. No, they wouldn’t say to us, Let’s go. They didn’t want to, so we didn’t get to go. It isn’t like…..like they were obligated to go, no. They threw us out to sleep like piglets. We didn’t know what time they came back. Yes, they went out to the parties.
Before, they were very strict. Not now. When could girls walk around and talk to boys in the street? Yes, when? We couldn’t see that we could. I got to where I wrote a letter to ask my uncle. And my uncle said, well, he said, now you’re thinking that you’re going to get married. I don’t know what you want nor who you want to marry? I really don’t know. I don’t know who you want to marry. I hadn’t talked with any man. He said, who have you been talking to? Not with anyone, I told him, I don’t know. Well, my uncle was satisfied. Well, I hadn’t talked with anybody. And one day, they sent me a letter inside a cup (? Pocillo). They gave me a cup and there was a letter inside it. Well, I showed the letter to my mom: here it is, you can see what it is. She showed it to my uncle. He said, you haven’t been talking with anybody? No, not me, I don’t know anything about it. Maybe that’s why that one never hit me or punished me, because I told him everything and didn’t keep secrets, because otherwise it would cost me my share of things. And because he didn’t hit me, I told him. I hadn’t been talking with anybody. And he agreed with my mother and father. Uncle Serafin was like my father. And he never beat me. I worked hard and took care of everything. Especially in harvest time when there was a lot of work to do. But,…..well not anymore. Now there is no ranch. My mother sold it because my sister….When she got married there in Puebla, Consuelo, she didn’t really get marrried, they just lived together, I think, because we didn’t find out that they ever married. She sent word that…well, that she had left the house and didn’t need to be there anymore. And they sold the ranch in order to give the money to my sister. Yes, my mother helped her.
(My uncle) died. He had advised us. He said, Take good care of the little boy (that is, of Pedro José Roberto). Take good care of the boy because he will have to look to you, he said. After not loving him he came and said to my mother, take good care of the boy. He’ll have to look to you. But for sure, we took care of him.
And everything came to an end. First my uncle died and then my mother from a…from a stroke. She became mute and couldn’t talk. (She was) that way for two weeks, two weeks, and at the end of two weeks she died. But she became thin, so thin. Ay, death is so sad! So sad, but we do what we can. It is God’s law: to be born and to die. What are we going to do? Who is going to go against God?
My mother was from Guaacan and wore Indian clothes. She was from here, from the state of Puebla, a Totonac, but she spoke Spanish. I don’t know about my grandparents. I didn’t know them. I didn’t know them. Nor the grandparents on my father’s side. I grew up without a single grandparent.
Now I ended up alone, the two of us, Roberto and I, there in my mother’s house. (But later on) I was saddened by being summoned to the city hall. There he asked that we divide up. He wanted the whole house (she means the house in town which belonged to Guillermina’s mother.) And so we divided it in half. They gave half to me and the other half for him. And then he got married. That’s how we grew up and then José got married to that girl and I had to separate from them because we were having a terrible life because of that girl. Maybe José Roberto hadn’t made her understand, for they had..she had become very rude. They were really losing money because mama was suffering from a week heart and they were operating on her in Puebla. Who knows how they lost all their money or where they could have left it. It seems to have been inside a suitcase full of clothers. I castigated them and said, Maybe you stole the money and didn’t want to give me any of it. The poor guy didn’t have any money. It was in the suitcase and who would have put it someplace? Who knows? I didn’t see it. I can’t justify it. I think that resentment stayed with him because I had castigated him.
And I? Mama is sick, is in Puebla, is getting worse and needs the money. It wasn’t much, about 300 pesos in those days, but it was always necessary to send her money and what was I going to send? That’s what the money was for. I think it ended up with him. And now it’s all gone. It’s going to be eighteen years that I’ve been here, not even twenty. Now it’s a long time that I’ve been here. Don Ramón understood that I had a bad life. He was a millionaire, really a millionaire. He told me, I have brought the deed and I’m going to take care of it for you, because they’re going to scare you out of there, José said.
Well, you’re a millionaire, so what am I to do, I said. Sell the house is what I’ll have to do. He sold it for me and he said that I could stay here. He asked for the deed that Don Ramón was going to take care of and sold my house. I got left here (she refers to the house where she lives now) but he didn’t give me papers, didn’t give me a receipt. Ay, I tell you I have suffered. You haven’t suffered like that, have you? This just happens to poor people. Poor thing. Ay, what pain!
I came to the house and there he stayed with his wife. Maybe that wife wasn’t in love with himn. I don’t know. She began to act very badly, badly the both of them, you hear? Very – I don’t know, I don’t understand – very treacherous. I had a girl servant and she gave him a baby, and this woman of Josés beat that girl. And she stood for it, poor thing. I said, it’s your fault. You weren’t blind. You knew he had a woman.
(And the woman) treated me like a pimp, like a sneak, as they say. I couldn’t stand for all this. I said no, I’m not a pimp. But José wasn’t telling me that he was going to see the girl. I wasn’t there. I was working with Don Ramón, with Dr. Ramón. And when I came back, she was this way (she gestures to show a pregnant woman.) So the child was born and was named Julia, I tell you. I intend to dedicate myself to working and taking care of the child. I said, Don’t go. Be here. I’m working and you be here, I say, here in this house and take care of the child.You will see when it needs to be changed and you will change it. That’s how you’ll take care of it. You’ll take good care of it. That little one was nice looking, not ugly, nice looking, and light skinned, light skinned.
I came to the house and he was there with his wife. Who knows what happened to that wife who is dead now, and young she was. She wasn’t well. Poor thing. They brought her when she was thirteen, young and still little. And she has some pretty daughters, adorable they were. With a figure like yours. They married and I don’t know where they might be. And the girls were big, too. And that’s where we ended up, him on one side and I on the other. Ay God, life is sad, very sad. We were well off, well off. But he got to be bad. It was “nerves” I think, but I don’t know. I always remember the sadness. It makes me sad because he was always ordering my mother: to bring things, to go to bed, to get up. We separated for once and all (she sighs and cries) and as for the wife, I don’t know. He didn’t want to look out for anyone. [Si, pero ahí estarí de Dios, conformarse.] It isn’t that I want to speak ill of him, because he is family. I really loved him, but then what happened. He changed a lot, a lot (she continues to sob). That was my destiny. There isn’t anything to say about it (she sighs, sobs, and cries). It makes me sad, but there’s nothing we can do about it. What am I to do?
Yes, I’m living here, but they didn’t give me any papers. That’s the bad part. Until this day they haven’t said anything to me. It was the real wife who also didn’t live with Don Ramón. I ran her off, he says. She left thirty four years ago. She was left with a daughter, but she raised her. I said what were we going to do if they were going to sell this place or do something else. I don’t know about that, she says. I don’t know how things ended up with Don Ramón. Don Ramón sold my house for me and didn’t give me a receipt, I said. I didn’t trust her. They can make me run, tell her. I’ll have to sleep in the plaza. I don’t know how I’m going to do it. And she said to me no, no I’m not going to put you out for anything. So far, they haven’t bothered. I think because I’ve been here so long. Ive been here a long time. The kids were little and now they’ve gone, Julia’s children who grew up here with me. They were here for fourteen years. And after fourteen years they got angry. They turned bad and told me ….who knows what? I don’t remember now. And I said, now I can’t I think it was one of the Pantaleones (?) who fixed things up quickly. I was working but I couldn’t. And he said if you don’t want to do it, don’t do it, and who knows what. And, well, he turned bad. “You know, old lady, I’m not attacking you or running away from you. I’m going, he said. I’m not attacking or running. So let him go, that bad one. He left. He choose his saints day, the second of May, to get up at three in the morning and leave. Remember you ran me out on the second of May, he said. I didn’t chase you out, sonny, your violence ran you out, I told him. You are very violent. You get like José, very violent. You didn’t drink He didn’t drink. He was very msall then. If he didn’t drink, he was fine. But sometimes he got mad.
There was another brother, Pablo, this one didn’t talk, he didn’t say anything. He was very quiet. Yes, a good kid. They’re all good, except at times. They do have their times. We all have our…..they spend our energy. No, I tell you there are times when the bad things come to you and there are times when the good things come. There’s always a little of everything.
Since Julia left, I have been alone, alone. Nobody stays with me. And I counted on her. I wanted, because when they went to school and when they graduated from primary school, I gave each one of them….I had things from my mother. I gave a golden medal to each of them. I liked it that they graduated from school. And maybe over time they’ll make up with me and look after me. They come to visit me. But that’s not sufficient. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have given those things. They are my mother’s things and why should I give them away. And I gave them, what a thing. They’ve got them now. They’ve got them there.
They were golden medals of that old gold. I have a ring that was given to me. There was a ring with ear rings. They took them from my mother and I put on the ring and ear rings. They said to me, No, it’s going to take you, to take you, you are going to be terrified. No, I have never been afraid, no have they come for me. And they said that I was going to be frightened by the ear rings. Let’s hope they don’t come. I haven’t even dreamed about it. And that’s all of it.