My turn: Summer tales still haunt me
Growing up, summer was a time of fun in the sun, during a time in which we didn’t worry about getting over-tanned or catching too much UV rays.
But it was also a chilly time of evenings spent hovering under the covers, afraid of the electrifying thunderstorms that shook those summer nights.
And during the day, summer was equally chilling as we’d escape from the heat under shaded trees at Lindsey Park, and whisper haunting stories of La Llorona.
Some of the most skin-crawling stories I heard as a child were told in broad daylight. It wasn’t a matter of where or when, but how the stories were told. We must have had some really good storytellers because I’d be afraid at night just thinking about them.
One woman told us La Llorona had buried her children under the pitcher’s mound in the middle of the baseball diamond at Lindsey Park. For a long time, I wouldn’t go to that area, not even to buy a grape and cherry snow cone.
La Llorona — the legendary woman who had drowned her three children after being deserted by her lover — was supposedly roaming Lindsey Park. Our storyteller knew how to embellish the story.
“Sssh!” She would whisper, “Can you hear the babies crying?”