The Lonely Tree House “Synopsis”

This short story is about the longing for a lost childhood and about a current loneliness feeling too. I wrote this after I watched the first episode of the Amazon Prime series called Colette. In one scene she is walking though a pasture to me her boyfriend, and this reminded me as I walked though wide almost wild pastures back at home, not to meet a boyfriend but to visit a friend or run errands as it was a shortcut, much like the short cut in the little red riding hood fable. There the inspiration to this Memoir is born.

Author’s Note:

My mother’s family is pretty large and they own lots of land. I sadly don’t own anything there in Puerto Rico so is not the same as it was in my childhood when I could run through these fields and find hidden treasures like if all of it were mine. All of it is lost now and some of my family land and farm are abandoned now or stolen and resold who knows. The last time I saw my late mom’s house it had a barb wire over my abandoned mom’s house practically cutting its roof in half. Some relative decided that they owned almost all the land or more than half of the property where my mother’s house was built. I know as the curious child that I was that our old property was much bigger I even knew in which point our property began by our first and oldest Avocado tree that an uncle cut without our permission almost giving my mother a stroke and it crossed through the corn and cilantro field right before a talk tree where the corns ended and ended behind a big patio with an old wood house passing its back yard cutting though some orange and other fruit trees ending right after the small water stream and the pigs’ fences right before the dirt road to my uncle’s food market and bar with the township’s only phone booth.

Our land ended there. It’s fourth corner was a Hill with many grapefruit, orange and almond trees. And it ended between out grapefruit tree and my aunts almond tree that I remember well because my late brother, my cousins, my other siblings and I used to climb to play and eat the almonds we found on the grown and at the tree too. The city where I grew up, the place I still call hom, and other small townships nearby also had their own phone booth, but mine was the only one in that specific sector and barrio. The town was called Moca after a Mocha tree and the barrio was a sector called Sector Ferrer and Cuchillas, Ferrer was the name of someone once important in Puerto Rico, and families who had that last name where somehow related to us, some old great uncle or distant cousin not sure now. And the name Cuchillas is Spanish for blades.

There was a popular satirical story written about my town. It is titled “Santa Claus Goes to Cuchillas” about our town and how people there that didn’t believe in Santa got to see Santa for the first time and their odd but hilarious reactions to Santa. Maybe that book inspired me to write. So rambling aside, that town was the town that I grew up and I’m sure that inspired my little too. Another thing is the actual tree house. My relatives and I played there many times. It no longer exist either. It was on the way to my aunt’s house through the dirt and grassy path and wild flowers. I was told that’s gone too. My uncle also passed away, his store shut down for good and everyone is free to claim what they wanted like it had happen the only thing we had our little piece of land. The rest is histoy as people say


The Lonely Tree House

The Lonely Tree House- Written by Evelyn Rodriguez-Lallave Author/Blogger

As I walked through the old path that once took me home on foot so many years ago, before I was 17, I rubbed my left knee with one hand and with the other I rubbed the tears from my tired eyes. 24 long years have passed since the last day that I walked these dirt roads and grassy path. Twenty four long years since I went away and got married to my high school sweet heart.

Was it that a good choice. At time it seemed it was. My childhood had been hard to deal and cope with, with many siblings and only my mother as a single parent to care for all of us, with odd jobs, no child support, no welfare, and only a small social services check and food stamps to go by. There were time when we cried for food or argued about it, because it wasn’t enough for everyone so we had to share the little we could. I never realized how much people can you feed with only half loaf of bred until I saw it happening during a weekend morning breakfast once.

I sometime imagine that that’s how the French invented the super tiny food portions they serve in many of their chick debonair restaurants. Someone might have copy the poor’s food ration system or maybe they copied it form the time of the depression era. I’d have to research that later some time soon. We aren’t French. We are Spanish which to some is almost the same, but with less class. I guess we are the getto or hillbilly cousins. But ironically my husband’s last name is Lallave. And I was told by a Frenchman that Lallave was a “Francoise” surname. He is not sure if that’s true but he doesn’t really know if his last name is French or Italian. He did looked Italian to me when I met him and immediately fell in love with him. But to marry him mainly to leave my childhood problems and home behind wasn’t really the best and smartest choice I’ve made in my life. He’d broken up my heart so many times, broken my spirit too. Looking back at my childhood it sometimes makes me think that it wasn’t as bad as it had seem to me at the time. But it really was. I was a almost feral child with no one to watch after me the right way.

Most times, I felt unloved and abandoned and lots of the time I felt that I was a nuisance to my mother, that she would have been happier if I wasn’t born or if I ran away. And I sort if did many times. I ran away to hide in the woods or at friend’s and relative’s houses hearing her cry my name multiple times for until she got tired of calling me an sent one of my siblings or cousins to go look after me and try to find me wherever it was that I had gone to hide. My sister, the one that was only a year older than me, always found me. And I was kind of happy when she did, and kind of sad too, because it meant that it was time to say good by bye to my roofless three house and the clouds my true only confidant and best friends. But my sister was always there for me to listen, to protect me, even when she had no idea what I needed protection from, she was willing to save me. I knew it. She knew it.

“There you are! I found you! Mom was calling you for almost an hour. Why didn’t you answered to her, our brothers were calling you and me too. Everyone was worried for you, you know! We always worry when you disappear like that. I’m afraid that one day I may not find you ever! “, “I don’t believe you. But I’m going home now. So stop bothering me and getting so sad. Besides you will always find me. You know that. ” She smiled and sometimes even tried to hug me. She knew where to find me at any given time. At least most of the time she did.

At times I felt that no one cared for me, not even her. Specially the time when she left home to go college with some bight student’s scholarship and I stayed behind. All alone, with my mother and my younger siblings, in that gossipy small town that was drowning me in it and eating me alive. Hence the feeling of loneliness and abandonment alone hidden inside a makeshift tree house lost in the woods to escape my reality. To write poem there and stories while imagining myself to be Emily Bronte or some other known writer. I would hid to read on the dark isles of my town’s public libraries as many fiction and police drama stories that I could get my hands on. I had access to four libraries in my childhood, one was from a private University who allowed me to borrow books there because my cousin, who obviously had a better life than I did, went here for her English teaching major and told them about my early curiosity for reading and writing. They would renew my books with one single phone call, I didn’t even had to go physically to the libraries for the Librarian to stamp by book, as long as I wrote down the due dates for them they would take care of the rest when the book was finally return. They never mind the lateness, nor the food or dirt marks in them. They did minded me bending the pages and were always on my case about it, until one of the handsome young librarians printed a pink and blue card board to make a book mark for me and gave it to me as gift. The pink on that book mark was almost as pink as the car he used to ride to work. It was a pepto color pink and I always made me smile seeing it in the library’s parking lot or passing me by because it reminded me the stomach ache medicine with the same color. The young librarian always waved at me. He was much older than I was but I knew by a trustful source that he had had a crush on me for a while.

“I heard that you don’t like guys from this town, and that you said you will never marry one from it. Is that true?” He once asked me all of the sudden when I was returning a book I had finished reading. “That’s right! Is very true” I said looking at him in the eyes defiantly, like a little brat. “I will never date or marry anyone from this town. I hate it. Is a whole in the middle of nowhere, like a volcano waiting to explode and I’m going to be out of here soon. To never come back. You’ll see.” “But what about your mom and your siblings? They all gonna miss you if you leave them. You’re the youngest girl in your home, your sister’s will be very said if you leave them and they don’t know where you go. Have you ever thought of that?” He seemed very angry at me when he confronted me about what I said about leaving town in the near future. He was angry at me and sad too. “I’m not going to vanish. I simply want a better life and there’s nothing for me here. You don’t know it, cause you have everything. Your nice car, a very sweet mom, and your nice pretty girlfriend. But I have nothing or no one. So I’m finding my someone and I’m leaving with him one day very far away. I’m going to places and I’m going far. You’ll see. Nothing can’t stop me. Not even you. Not that you will want to try to stop me.” I said that in a challenging but sad tone. Maybe he felt sorry for me, because he leaned forward and planted a small soft kiss on my cheeks. I blushed and turned away. I saw him once more before I left town. That time I knew that it would be a really long time before I see him. He was engaged to his girlfriend and I dating my future husband not sure yet if he was the one, but knowing that the librarian with the pepto car wasn’t the one. And we kissed good bye. He wished for more than a kiss but I was saving myself for the one, the charming prince in the white horse who will whisk me away to a far away land and maybe to a castle or a mansion one day. But my prince charming took forever to whisk me away and choose me over all the other damsels that were after him and waiting for him to also choose them, so I met a frog who pretended to be a prince, who lied and cheated me out of my most precious treasures and left me, for a wife and her castle. She was his queen and I was less than a maid for him. Finally my prince charming decided to come for me and forget all the other damsels that fought for his affection. He dropped one knee in front of them and proposed to me. He chose me. I was the one for him. I was above myself that finally someone had chosen me first and to be his wife. I extended my not so princess like hands with stubby small fingers and said one word. “Yes!” He couldn’t believed it. He couldn’t fathom that I would say Yes to him, but I did. “You said Yes? Do you really want to marry me? Are you one hundred percent sure? Don’t go changing your mind later! If you say you will marry me we are going to marry very soon. No next year but this same year. ok?” I didn’t understood his urge to marry in less than a year but I agreed to marry in 11 months. I met his ogre father before the wedding and I realized that my 18 year old Prince was also running away. We should’ve eloped as we initially had planned, but things weren’t so easy, so we put on our best gowns and married instead. My mother had to give consent and she reluctantly did as I said I would run away with him if we weren’t married, because to me he was already my husband. She agreed as she thought the best of him and signed. And we lived happily ever after. Until now when the problems began, mostly money problems and none of us know how to get out of the whole where we got ourselves into. So he works and drinks to forget. I drink with him and write to forget. Or to remember the things that were once forgotten, like my youth, my childhood years, the people that are gone to never come back, like my mother and my brother, and the people that once cared about me like my old school friends, including the librarians who were always very fond of me.

Remembering all this I looked up the hills, knowing that behind one of these hills the house of my old librarian friend is still standing, and the house of all my other childhood friend and relatives are still there, even after the hurricane Maria, wearing and waiving its colors like some sort of independence flag. I see the houses, some tiny, some very large. His was humble and a moderate large home. I stop and take a deep breath of fresh air and my eyes dries finally as I stare at the immensity of the blue sky above, with its round voluptuous cumulus clouds. They haven’t lost their glow nor their youth. “Holla! Welcome back home Eva!”, they seem to say. And there’s an eco coming from the mountains repeating my name, “Eva, Evaa,Evaaa!” They cloud me and happily, like a dog watching it owner coming home after a long day at work, they turn around and around dancing holding hands and forming bunnies, elephants, air planes and all sort off odd silly shapes while they wink at me mischievously, because they recognize in me their old little feral Niña, their little wild princess and friend who played hide and seek with them so very often that they missed her greatly when she was gone.

To the clouds she was gone for good. The poor clouds believed that something really bad had happened to their old friend. Their little indian princess girl, as they called her. They believed she was taken away by a mean caravan of toothless Albanian gypsies or by some greedy old evil man with not so good intentions. But now that they devised her in the distance, approaching the long abandoned wood tree house, climbing through the same old green hills and walking through the same old dirt roads as she always did in the past, on foot, they knew that their little indian princess was back home to her lonely tree house hidden in the woods. And they were very happy to see her. So happy that they showered her with the first spring drops of rain as a sign of good luck. It was the 1st of May, and a folklore’s tale says that if you go under the rain in the fist of may or the first day of Spring then you have good luck through out the whole year.

“Eva, Evaa, Evaaa. Here is your Sring gift. Here is your fists drops of rain come dance with us under the rain, or let’s play hide and seek. You hide and we find you along the road, like we always did.” And I ran not letting the clouds get me and we all laughed even a wild dog ran next to me laughing too and barking at the clouds. And as I’m running hiding from the clouds and their gift. I finally reach the lonely house on the trees. To my surprise there’s a pink rolls royce parked right at the end of the dirt road, as if it was waiting all these years for me to return back home.

To be Continued…

I was once 6 years old 

I am 6 years old today…

I am laughing because it’s raining and I just fell inside a small muddy puddle. 

My mother yells for me to come inside the house

I have asthma and the rain affects my breathing. I could easily die.

She claims, she lies.

She is afraid.

She lost my dad.

So my mother went mad.

She doesn’t want to lose her little child. 

Is raining outside.

I look then through the window and smile.

The neighbor’s children are playing “You’re It” under the rain, some are trying to play “Hide and Seek” 

I sit on the wood floor “Go Fish” 

My siblings are all in school but

I had to stay home.

She wouldn’t let me walk alone,

“Not in a rainy day, you’re not. School can wait, but your health can’t. Go to your room. Go to bed.” 

“She thinks I’m five.” Today I’m 6 years old, now. But “she forgot!”

Is alright though, she will remember it tonight when she comes by to bring me my hot cocoa in my favorite coconut cup. She’ll remember my birthday and sing me one of her favorite songs. Tonight she will not cry or scream at me for something I never did. She will not pull my hair and drag me to the floor because my tears wet the bed. And she will not ground me sleep on the couch and all alone. 

Tonight I will tell her (in my prayers cause she’s gone) that I forgive her, like I did many moons and rains ago, from the time I was 6 years old…

Strange Things

Strange things happens to people every day. One morning you wake up from the wrong side of the bed, and with the left foot to make things worst. Your day begins with an overflow of coffee, a stained shirt and a few things to do that you don’t want to do, like morning laundry. Is Saturday morning on a Winter day. Today I just wanna go to see the snow and then go to see a movie and then I will probably have a good day. But that coffe stained in my shirt reminded me that I only have one clean shirt left and is not fit for cold weather. And my old jacket is dirty too I had spilled some hot coca on it the other day. I’m prone to spill things all over myself. And prone to accidents too. So I go to the overflown laundry room and fell in a pile of laundry face first. Definitely not my day, Firth the coffee on my last winter proof turtle neck off white shirt now this. I lifted myself move the clothing back into their basket while separating the whites from the colored ones. Segregation again, and in my own house.

Fuck segregation and racism. Why do that have to come to my mind while I’m trying to laundry. I really need to bring this crap to my therapist, when I find one, because I don’t presently have a therapist. But this needs to be studied deeply. Clothes and racism and how are they connected. Ok I’m trying to be funny and I’m sounding more like a lunatic or schizophrenic woman than a comical lady. Anyhow check mark on the things to do list.

Fist load of laundry finished. Dry shirt. Coffee is good and still hot. Next is googling a matinee movie go to after watching the fake snow show at the mall. Aquaman and Braven, but with Jason Momoa in the main role, are playing on theaters. Hard choice, but he looks sexier in Aquaman and my daughter wanted to see the movie too so Aquaman it is. I put on a second load of laundry finish cleaning the dishes and the kitchen, then run to the bathroom to remove the curlers and hair pins I had put on the night before, once that was done I was ready to go and all set. I call my daughter to confirm the movie schedule. She was happy as a child to go to the movies, specially when I was the one paying that ridiculously expensive movie ticket of $12 per person. That’s an assault, a robbery on daylight and in front of everyone’s faces. But nevertheless I got the tickets online and got a students discount. She is a college student. After the movies we ordered pizza at home, mother daughter time. We like to eat pizza and watch more movies in Hulu, etc. while talking any silly topic that comes to mind. The pizza boy arrives and is an ex coworker who looked more like a male stripper than an Uber eat delivery guy. He begins to dance as he hands the pizza to me and I think my daughter has hired a male stripper for real. Turns out that he recognized me from his previous job and was doing a silly happy dance. Ok then! Dance away. I have that effect in people, just don’t ruin my pizza or it’s free. Next strange thing the home phone rings. I forgot I had a home phone and a home phone line for that matter. It was some Trump supporter asking for donations. Well I’m democrat so that call was very strange to me and two is not elections time. The caller ID read Scam Likely. I have Scam Likely number sabes on my iPhone but not on my caller ID so this call was probably a Scam, for real.

Now is raining, phone ringing, movie on, pizza getting cold, pizza delivery guy gone untouched and with a small tip in his pant’s pockets, and my daughter complaining about how late the pizza arrived and the delivery guy flirting with me. My children over protect me. They think someone is going to steal me away one day. My oldest daughter specially, she monitors my life, how I talk, what I say to people specially her friends, and how I dress, what to shop at the stores, and how much alcohol to drink. Etc. But she won’t hear or take any of my advices. Now she is sleep training her baby, her own way. No advices from me will help cause she won’t take them. She gets angry instead if I insist on helping her. So I answer the phone and to my surprise I just won a trip to the Bahamas and 4 nights and 3 days at the Ramada hotel in Orlando Florida all expenses paid except hotel taxes and 299.00 port fees. Wow! I’m trolled. I never completed any online travel survey they claim I did. But I take the trip anyways and have a whole year to use it, well to claim it. I tell them to keep the Bahamas part and that I will pay the 20.00 hotel tax ahead. Heck 60.00 for 3 days can’t be beat! It was my lucky day after all. My daughter was ballistic of how naive I was and how I let people fool me into buying stuff. I like shopping what can I say. I’ll pay you to sell me something, if I really like it and can afford it. But that just me…

Keep reading. More of my trip soon…



It’s being such a long day, today. 

Such a dragging day!
It’s being raining all day,
How could a single day be this gloomy and sad?

How could I be this mad!

My tears had turned into a non stop river. 
My home into a lake.
It is so cold and clouded outside;
And I truly miss being by your side.

I couldn’t hug you today
like I used to do every day.
I couldn’t hold you.
I couldn’t kiss you goodbye.

With someone else
you ran away, last night.
How could you dare
breaking my heart?

It’s being a long day, today.
It’s being raining all day,
How could a day be so sad?

Then I Could Hear My Heart Beating

Then I could hear my heart beating

I saw his bright face and time stood still.

It was as if my soul could recognize his.

As if my past was connected and entwined with his.

As if my pain and broken heart could feel his.

It hurt.

Staring at him was ripping out my soul.

His face was bright, and his soft full lips, 

looked thirsty to me as he slid closer and closer

He was tall, with wide bright eyes.

His naked chest was beating so fast,

Hard, harder than my own heart.

I couldn’t touch him. 

Although I tried.

All I could do was to feel.

Stay still.

Feel my blood rushing fast

into my head, my mind,

and through parts of my body

that I though long time forgotten and death.

And it hurt somehow,

knowing that this feeling

was the closest thing that I ever had to love.

It was much more than passion,

or even lust.

But he was forbidden to me.

My charming dark knight,

hurt by my same pain,

same loneliness,

and same longing

was finally face to face with me.

And I had to let him go,

as I felt my heart crack, breaking in two,

beating, and dying for love,

a love that couldn’t exist

because he was a only a ghost.

Poem by: Evelyn Rodriguez-Lallave

The “Indians” are Coming

“I think of the lizards airing their tongues 
In the crevice of an extremely small shadow 
And the toad guarding his heart’s droplet. 

The desert is white as a blind man’s eye, 
Comfortless as salt. Snake and bird 
Doze behind the old maskss of fury…

…The sun puts its cinder out. Where we lie 
The heat-cracked crickets congregate 
In their black armorplate and cry. 

The day-moon lights up like a sorry mother, 
And the crickets come creeping into our hair 
To fiddle the short night away.” ( Excerpt  of Sylvia’s Plath poem, Sleep in the Mojave Desert )

They are comming on foot, in horses and in caravans, reclaiming what was theirs, what once belong to them, their fathers and forefathers. But this time around the “Indians” as some derogatorily call them, these indigenous by blood and Americans by right of their land, North, Central, and South, are coming in avalange to take what’s theirs. But not by brute force as they lost their land once to the British, and the Spaniards or the Anglo-Americans that weren’t either British nor Spanish conquistadors.  Yet their modus operandum were as equally as devastating as the later ones.

To them,  the Anglo-Americans’ actions were worst, because they were determined to make home in a country that was already populated by Natives, and indigenous, from the Chayannes, to Navajos, to the Apaches, and the forgotten Taínos, and many more. So now a new group with indigenous blood and fire in their eyes and soles were coming into the “New America” as they called it. 

The New America

Over centuries a group of people called Gringoes, and who were direct descendants of the British and Spaniards Pilgrims and Soldiers showed up to the Native people’s  backyards with either food or weapons. With friendship or war. It was something very confusing to each one of the 3 nations, the North, the Central and the South American Native tribes. Each one had one single leader the North was a nice old man named Noel. No one knew his real indigenous name for he only went by his Anglo given name as his mother as Anglo too. 

My Grandson’s Deranged “Other Grandma”

Face off imageSo as usual, I took my grandson/son to have breakfast out with me. Today we went to Waffle House in Pinellas Park, FL, one of his favorite places at his young age of 9 months. I couldn’t help to think that he will be one year old very soon, in a matter of months and not his biological father and grandparents are doing anything for him. They don’t even want to see him or acknowledge him. They have probably seen just one single photo of him unless they follow him, us, in the social media sites. ( not promoting any of them here) Other than that they have no knowledge of my grandson.

While we were eating I head an older white lady chuckling. I turned to her and then to him, they were smiling and laughing to each other, the strange funny thing is that they didn’t knew each other till then.

She was just a nice older lady having breakfast at the near by table. It seems he found her familiar or interesting and would stop smiling at her and making funny faces to her.  I tell him not to talk or stare at strangers but he doesn’t know better, he is  only nine months old so I apologized to the lady and said, he thinks you looked familiar that’s why he is smiling and staring. She said I can probably remind him of his grandma.

That’s when it hit me, my boy is mixed, Hispano and White, and she looked white. At this early age in his life he is starting to relate and notice resemblance and things. He is literally a sponge, absorbing and learning. But I also noticed how sad that she wasn’t right cause he’ve never met the woman, his other grandma, a woman that hasn’t even asked for him, her own grandson, her bloods flesh, a woman so deranged and racist that she ruined my daughter’s life, future, and relationship with that woman’s son, a man-baby mama’s boy good for nothing old ass debth bit dad. That woman that is so heartless that because of  her manipulations her son did not wanted my daughter to bring my little boy to this world. But against all odds and even his own mother, my little Many is a gorgeous smart handsome baby and he will know one day how evil, mean, and heartless these people are.

It breaks my heart as a grandmother that my grandson has to go through all this being so young. Karma is a bitch. What you do comes back to hunt you, it will haunt them. She don’t know she is missing the love and care of such an amazing person like my boy is. So no he is not confusing that old nice lady for his deranged other grandma. He has never met her. But one thing I know you have to be crazy to not love my little Many, just to look at him smile your heart melts and everything else is good again…


Article by Evelyn Rodriguez-Lallave

Hueles a Mar: Poema por Evelyn “Eva” Rodriguez

Hueles a mar, a Neptuno.
Es verano y el calor de ayer
que aun sigue impregnado
en tu tosca piel.

Todo en ti sabe a océano.
Hasta tu pelo me huele a sopa de algas y tu cuerpo a carolas y a arena mojada…
Tu sudor tiene también el sabor
de la sal de mar.

Hueles a océano, a rocas y a mar;
Hueles a arena.
y a rios desbordados,
a lagos y a charcos…

Eres árbol maduro
y yerba seca;
Hueles a arena y a tierra mojada
y a las hojas de la Palma
y me sabes a plátano, y a pastel…

Hueles a cerveza
Y a jugo de manzana,
hueles a uvas en sangria y a vino tinto…
Tus manos firmes pero suaves
huelen a trigo
cuando cocino
ya sea un arroz,
una pasta, salami con quesos y un vino
o galletas con caviar…

Tu aroma es el sol sobre el mar,
con un natural suave y varonil musk.
Hueles a caracol y playa,
a marinero y a pescador.

Tienes la escénica de la miel y veranos de pasión;
Me sabes a ayer
y a nuestras tórridas noches
de pasión y amor
que se quedaron tatuadas
en el pasado
en el reloj de tiempo sembradas
muy hondo en las múltiples mareas
y olas de mi corazón.