This past
weekend was spent at a family reunion.
My heritage
is Basque.
Spanish
Basque.
When we went
to the Basque festival last summer, I got goose bumps
listening to
the Basque men talking. It reminded me of my childhood.
My dad
raised sheep just like his father before him.
Growing up, I
spent just about every weekend with my dad
(until I was 14 and then I discovered boys,
more specifically, I discovered my husband and well, the rest is history)
I could not wait till the weekend.
I loved riding around with my Dad in his
pickup truck.
Stopping by the sheep camp, where all the men
were gathered,
waiting for the orders of the day from my Dad,
checking the sheep, hauling water,
and my favorite thing to do,
moving the sheep down the road to another
alfalfa field.
I can still here the bells of the leader sheep
and the smell of the wool.
That is an
aroma that you don't forget.
Occasionally,
pulling out a rifle to shoot a coyote
that had found his way into the field for
dinner.
Making our
way back to the sheep camp for lunch,
which always
included lamb
and the best
part,
rice con leche
with cinnamon or dried apples that had been
soaked.
My mouth is
watering just typing that last sentence.
I miss those
weekends.
Petie
