Thursday, August 4, 2016

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.