My son Jonathan and I just returned from a very special trip to Spain. First we visited with friends at their family caseta (tent) at the Feria de Abril in Sevilla. Then, after a couple of days in Madrid at the Club Gourmet food show, we spent a night with old friends in a windswept Catalán stone village in which only 140 souls dwell.

The Feria de Abril is an extraordinary event, which occurs each spring along the banks of the Guadalquivir River. Every year thousands of Sevillians return to their individual casetas at the spring fair to gather for a week with their extended family and friends. Essentially the fair is a celebration of the family, where the people of Sevilla nurture the family ties that are the foundation of the Spanish spirit.

What attracted me to the Spanish culture when I stepped ashore more than 40 years ago was not only the way Spanish people cherished their children, but also they way they embraced all of their family.

A lot has happened since then. Spain is now a thriving new democracy with unprecedented years of material prosperity. Has the country changed? Of course it has. But for all the ephemeral glamour that the Spaniards are enjoying in this era of unprecedented prosperity, Jonathan and I found that the bedrock of honoring the family remains.

The Spaniard naturally frames his thoughts in terms of community. It is the one characteristic that distinguishes the traditional Spanish world view from the individualism of North Americans. "Children are to be seen and not heard," or "A man's home is his castle" are attitudes which are incomprehensible to the traditional Spaniard.

Children, with all of their exuberance, are to be enjoyed and treasured within the family and all whom they touch; and a Spaniard's home is thought of as an extension of his greater family. Perhaps the Jamón Serrano resting on its stand is a symbol of the hospitality that is the essence of the home.

The Spring Fair is a time to celebrate springtime and the reunion of the family – so the centerpiece is dancing: young and old dance the Sevillana – inspired by flamenco, but simple enough that grandmothers can spontaneously dance with their sons or daughters-in-law. Of course husbands dance the Sevillana with their wives, nephews with nieces – or even invited guests can join in. Jonathan fit right in dancing with our hostess.

Within the family tent, with the women dressed in colorful flamenco dresses and the men in coat and tie, it is a time to catch up on the latest news from an out of town cousin or aunt, or spend time with parents, brothers and sisters, as well as entertain friends (such as Jonathan and me).

Of course, since it is Spain, the bar at the back of each caseta is a cornucopia of delightful tapas: simmering garlic shrimp served with picos bread sticks; lightly fried boquerones/anchovies; glistening slivers of Jamón Ibérico; calamares; langostinos; fresh cracked olives; Manchego cheese and almonds – the menu is endless.

For me, the most precious of all was to see little children, mostly little girls in flamenco dresses, perfecting their Sevillana technique with each other. Some were under four years old! In the caseta of our hosts Fernando and Sarah there was a flamenco guitarist playing and singing while all ages of the extended family danced together.

Until 8:00 PM families in horse drawn carriages promenade down the unpaved avenues outside the hundreds upon hundreds of family casetas. Also riding by are young men sitting upright on their handsome Andalucían horses, sometimes with señoritas riding pillion behind them.

Lest you get caught up in the romance and miss the point I am making – the feria is not a touristic event, it is a vast family reunion. If you did not know anyone with a family caseta you would be alone in the passing crowd. These family connections are so important that the city of Sevilla all but shuts down for a week so that people can get together.

On the other end of our trip, we stayed with dear friends in the age-old rustic inn in an apparently deserted rural town of Granyena de les Garrugies. Unexpectedly we experienced the importance of the family in this unlikely setting. As we were about to leave the next morning, we spotted a lovely young woman who was walking by the inn, contending with a very bright and frisky two-year-old daughter – I'm sure you know the situation I am referring to!

It turned out that Sara was a sculptor who had left this village a few years ago to seek the stimulating environment of Barcelona. There she met Brian, an aspiring musician and composer from Ireland. After a few years of the hustle and bustle of the big city, both artists chose to have a more peaceful atmosphere amongst the olive trees by returning to Sara's home town.

Needless to say, her family was delighted, and helped them purchase a substantial medieval home which they are gradually repairing. The aging town was delighted too to be renewed with youth. Their older son goes to primary school in a class of four students – the whole school numbers 40. Sara remarked that it was as if her son had a private tutor.

It has been quite an adjustment to leave the city, but the family has fit right in. Sara designed a new fountain which bubbles in the town square. Brian has designed the label for the olive oil produced by the local cooperative – the village's only source of income.

They experience the same embrace of the family that is expressed in the caseta in the Feria de Sevilla, and we sensed that they and their children experience a loving and beautiful relationship. Is it not a fine setting for their creativity in sculpture and music?

Whether in Spain or America, it is no secret that a child nurtured in a solidly committed extended family is set to thrive. The many traditional Spaniards we met in Sevilla and in Lleida had not been distracted from this truth.

Best wishes from our family to yours,
Don

The bond of the people of Galicia to their ocean is complete. The coast is punctuated by rias or fjords - fingers of the ocean reaching deep into the land, delivering the riches of the sea virtually to their doorsteps of Galician homes.

A large bearded Gallego fisherman named Gaspar told my sons that it was not that long ago that the water was blackened by schools of fish. With a twinkle in his eye he bragged that he once caught a school of sardines in his swim trunks. Today, shellfish are at fraction of historical highs.

My sons Tim and Jonathan met Gaspar in the fishing village of Carril located on one of the Rias. The town is the site of Los Peperetes, the premium tinned shellfish of Spain. Their tiny plant is called Jelopa, named by the founder for his oldest son, Jesus Lorenzo Paz. It sits right on the waterfront.

Across the street one can see a small beach apportioned into little rock lined squares of sand where the berberechos (cockles) and two types of clams are seeded and farmed. The shellfish grow in the top meter of sand with the berberechos on top, next a layer of almejas (clams), then another layer of a type of clams/almejas that are often eaten raw.

They are all harvested after about a year of growing and brought to the preparation area at dusk. There they are put into a large sea water bath to rest and purge sand all night long. The next morning the seafood is prepared and placed in individual tins – all by hand, with a great concern for absolute quality. My sons tried percebes (goose barnacles), chipirones (tiny cuttlefish) in their ink, zamburinas (scallops), navajas (razor clams) - which were all terrific. The Gallegos have the gift of turning just about every sea-creature into a treat!

This February my wife Ruth and I decided to ‘get away from it all' and spend a few winter days in the Rias Baixas (Lower Rias) – the fjords of Galicia in Northwest Spain. We packed lots of woolen clothes and rain gear as we embarked on our damp wintry adventure to the land of the Celts – which turned out to be no adventure at all!

As we flew into Santiago de Compostela and drove along the coast visiting one sparkling fishing village after another, we passed dozens of acacia trees with bowers of gorgeous golden flowers. There were tall camellia trees (not bushes) covered with pink and white flowers. Every once in a while we would catch a glimpse of lemon trees so covered with their bright yellow fruit that we could not see a leaf. We experienced a pristine springtime as it was emerging.

One of our destinations was Finisterre – finis terra - the end of the world. There by the lighthouse on a rocky point of land, we saw young pilgrims with their backpacks completing this last lap on the 400 mile long Camino de Santiago – as pilgrims have traveled for more than 1,000 years. Then, we went to the rival town of Muxía which trumps the claim of Cabo Fisterre to be truly the western-most land in Europe.

They 'one-up' another famous town too. Padrón may have the little green pimientos de Padrón peppers and it may have been where the stone ship carrying the remains of Santiago (Saint James) from the Holy Land came to rest, but it was at the lighthouse of Muxía where the Virgin Mary stepped ashore from her own stone ship! It is commemorated by the lighthouse El Faro Virgin del Barca. And lest you think that stone ships do not float, you can visit a nearby Casa Rural and inspect one yourself!

Our trip could not have been more engaging as we visited one harbor after another along the endless fingers of the fjords which run for hundreds of kilometers. We headed north along the “Costa del Muerte” until the shore turns east along the Rias Altas (the upper fjords). The shoreline is called the Coast of Death because of the high winds, turbulent waters and rocky coast where thousands of ships have met their fate – not the least of which were the ships of the Spanish Armada, when 1500 sailors lost their lives.

Right at the very northwest point is the village of San Andrés de Texeido where death-defying young men repel sheer granite cliffs rising from the windswept sea. They risk their lives to chip off percebes – goose-neck sea barnacles - from the sheer face of the cliff with the ocean crashing below. In the local restaurants the percebes are steamed and served just as they are. My son Jonathan told me not to leave Galicia without enjoying some – even though the cost is astonishing at $80/lb. He was right. They have an inimitably pure taste of the sea – like Ipswich clams, but more so. I felt humbled by the brave men who risked so much to bring them to our table.

Many people first think of the exotic parts of Spain: gypsies, flamenco, forts, fountains and colorful tiled patios. This legacy of 700 years of a Moorish presence is fascinating and significant. But the tapestry of Spain contains many more threads. Ruth and I find it absorbing to explore the variety of cultures still represented in this ancient land. For example, some of you may not even know of Celtic Spain – complete with bagpipes and the misty hills of the Northwest.

The next time you are planning a trip to Spain, I urge you to consider spending some time in green and gorgeous Galicia – especially in the early spring before the tourists come. The scenery is dramatic, the people are the salt of the earth and the seafood is incomparable.

Tu Amigo,
Don

There are remote country villages in Galicia where time seems to have stopped still. At midnight on 1 January, boys don belts of bells and run through the streets wearing huge colorful masks - their designs are deeply rooted in pre-history. The young men are termed peliqueiros because they wear a pelica - the skin of a dog or sheep, which hangs on them as if they had a wig.

In one Gallego town another figure, eight feet tall, draped with animal skins and crowned with a wild goat's head, silently walks through the revelers. He is a demonic figure with his curled horns and cloven hoofs, his glass eyes and cryptic smile. A group of boys run into the square, scattering handfuls of earth. A quartet of bagpipers and drummers come and go.

The sources of many celebrations of the Spanish people have remnants of a pagan past that is lost in antiquity. I remember visiting the rural city of Ciudad Rodrigo for a local version of "running with the bulls" and watching with amazement as young men displayed their bravery by vaulting over charging bulls. They were replicating what youths did in the Minoan culture at the dawn of time.

My wife Ruth and I try to visit as many folk observances as we can, for we feel it is there that one can experience the pulse of elemental Spain. Spain is a fascinating mix of cultures and traditions, one of the strongest of which was the medieval Church. Last year on Good Friday afternoon Ruth and I visited a tiny village nestled in the mountains outside of Zamora. There we witnessed a handful of old matrons singing folk hymns while their grandchildren, the youth of the town, reenacted the Descent from the Cross.

For over a thousand years, life was conceived as part of a cycle of seasons, rather than something that progressed to an end. First Advent, then Navidad, Tres Reyes, Carnaval, Lent, Semana Santa, Pascua, Pentecost, then Advent again. Tradition encouraged people to celebrate their birthdays on the day of the saint whose name they were given in baptism, rather than the day on which they were born. In addition everyone in the local community would stop work to celebrate the day of the patron saint of their town. You can see remnants of this tradition in the many national and local holidays that the modern Spanish calendar retains.

Archaic as it may seem, I find something reassuring about marking the regular cycle of the seasons - something that transcends the artifice of time. The long nights of winter prepare us for the renewal of spring. The fullness of summer prepares us for the richness of the harvest. No matter how we manipulate our timekeeping, the natural cycle is always there.

There was a time when most of human activity was determined by the presence of the sun, or daylight. (It was before the advent of electricity, which now permits the youth of Spain to frolic routinely until 4 in the morning!) In Spain and other Mediterranean countries the culture always honored the rhythm of life, rather than the hands on the watch. Since normal people feel drowsy after a mid day meal, the community set aside time for a siesta.

Years ago, when I first looked up at the 12C cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, I noticed that the analog clock (remember those - the ones with hands?) on one of the towers had no minute hand at all! It reflected a time when measuring by hours of the day was sufficient.

Today we are surrounded by the artifice of time. Right now your computer is telling you the time and keeping record of your activity. You may have a timepiece strapped to your wrist. The cell phone in your pocket measures your every usage. Then there is your TV cable box, DVR, microwave, stove, automobile dashboard. Even the receipt at the grocery store and gas station is imprinted with the exact time you were there.

What a fascinating contrast between the two cultures. The 400 year history of my hometown of Jamestown in Virginia seems insignificant compared to the traditions of ancient Spain where the measurement of time had little relevance – almost like the way we thought as children when we heard our parents read to us "Once upon a time!"

When I hear passionate pleading for my vote in the election that will change history, I put it in perspective. What really makes my history is not Election Day. It is the timeless joy of being with my family and playing with my grandchildren. The calendar is irrelevant. I suspect that the people of Ciudad Rodrigo, Valencia, Sevilla and the villages of Galicia would say the same - this year or a thousand years ago. It is the cycle of life, the cycle of love which is of the essence.

May you have a blessed Easter, or Passover, or other observances of renewal and hope. Spring is coming and what a joy that is!

Saludos,
Don

It is not that I think Cupid should be playing castanets, but I do know that it is due to Christopher Columbus and Hernán Cortés that you can give a gift of chocolate to your loved one this St Valentine's Day.

Spaniards have been enthralled with chocolate since 1544. It was then that Dominican friars, accompanied by Mayans from Guatemala, presented containers of ready to drink frothed chocolate to young Prince Philip, soon to be Philip II. He and his entourage were enchanted.

Soon any Spanish nobleman worth his salt reconfigured his house so that he would have a Chocolate Room – usually situated between the Large Hall and the drawing room. There, as a man of leisure, he would spend hours in pleasant conversation with significant friends and political associates.

Philip, as a devout and pious man, faced a troubling dilemma. He found that a cup of chocolate assuaged his hunger when he was fasting. But what if chocolate was a food, rather than a beverage? Then he would be deprived of chocolate during Lent and other holy days throughout the liturgical year.

Fortunately, a series of popes who were consulted during this ongoing debate agreed that since a person drank chocolate rather than eating it, chocolate was not a food, and therefore it did not break the fast.

Philip II moved the capital of Spain from Toledo to Madrid and by the 1620's the city's population numbered about 130,000 people. Believe it or not, the new city had more than 700,000 pounds of cacao and chocolate in shops and warehouses.

Spaniards and Portuguese consumed phenomenal amounts of chocolate for the next hundred years, while the rest of Europe was completely unaware. Chocolate sweet shops called chocolaterías sprung up throughout the Iberian Peninsula, and by the 19th Century one third of the world's entire Cacao production was consumed by Spaniards. At La Tienda we offer Blanxart, a splendid line of chocolate made in Barcelona. Their trade mark of a medieval chocolate maker, (see above) reflects their commitment to the traditional chocolate craft.

As Chocolate spread beyond Spain, their European possessions moved to the forefront of chocolate production – especially the Spanish Netherlands (which are today Holland and Belgium!) When Emperor Charles VI transferred his court from Madrid to Vienna in 1711 the use of chocolate advanced to Eastern Europe.

Cacao is a product grown in the Amazon rain forests of Ecuador and Venezuela. The use of chocolate as a beverage progressed via the Mayans and the Olmecs of Central America and thence to the Aztecs and finally the Spaniards. Each day Emperor Montezuma drank fifty or more golden goblets of chocolate, and it was ritually used at betrothal and wedding ceremonies. Chocolate was a symbol of marriage. (Maybe that's where Cupid got the idea.)

Olmecs, Aztecs, and later, Spanish soldiers were issued wafers of cacao, which they would consume for extra strength during marches and in battle. One of the coincidences of history is that five hundred years later during the First World War the American army included three four-ounce chocolate bars in a soldier's "D-Ration" for much the same purpose.

In World War II virtually all US chocolate production was requisitioned for the military. Although the purpose of the available chocolate was to sustain our men in battle, American GI's generously shared their chocolate with hungry children in Europe. The chocolate bars became associated with the return of peace and normalcy.

The next time you are in Madrid be sure to visit a fabled chocolatería located next to the Church of San Ginés, in the neighborhood of Puerta del Sol. The street level has a charming 19th Century bar with white marble tables. Even today, well over one hundred years later, this magical place is filled to the brim with people of all ages enjoying chocolate a la taza (thick hot chocolate in which you dip churros). The Chocolateria San Ginés is never closed, and is especially busy in the early evening after work. And there is standing room only from four in the morning onwards, to the delight of "night owls" who are wrapping up their all night revelry!

Certainly our family is grateful for the Spanish explorers who introduced chocolate to our culture. The entire La Tienda office staff are huge chocolate enthusiasts. One of the hazards of working at La Tienda is that in the twinkling of an eye we can steal down to our showroom and get a bar of chocolate or a box of Rabitos! It is a temptation which is pretty hard to resist.

We hope all of you have a special time on St Valentine's Day. It is a really nice personal holiday. And remember, they say chocolate is good for your heart!

The other day I offered an older lady my favorite bon bon - a fig dipped in dark chocolate and brandy. She waved her finger, and said warmly, “No thank you, I don’t eat figs any more.” She explained, “when I was a little girl in Zaragoza, figs were the only food we had to eat. The Civil War was a terrible time, and World War II was worse.”

As we talked further among the group of shoppers getting their last minute polvorones, mantecados and jamón at our Christmas shop, (with the encouragement of other family members) she burst out singing a “jota” – a melancholy type of blues from traditional Aragon. Her strong clear voice sang of the River Ebro and the struggles of her people. Then with a twinkle in her eye and a warm embrace, she gathered her turrón, jamón and other treats and said, “I must go now. Felíz Navidad.”

That lady from Zaragoza, who has lived a life of both suffering and joy, captured for me that indefinable quality which is Spain: a personal engagement and joyful resilience that I have experienced in no other country. It may be due to the contributions of the people who have lived there since antiquity – Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans; Gauls and Goths; Syrians, Sephardim, and Berbers; pilgrims along the Camino de Santiago from all over Europe served by French Benedictine monasteries. Or it may be the 700 year Reconquista the people embarked upon together to free their country. It is an amazing amalgam.

Nevertheless, such speculation is but food for the intellect. What I know intuitively is that my heart was deeply touched the moment I first stepped ashore in Valencia in 1964, as a young newlywed Navy chaplain. It was as if I had found a spiritual home in a culture which in many ways embodied my ideals.

The following spring I brought over my wife Ruth to share in the magic. In due course we passed our appreciation of the Spanish people to our three boys - especially during the time lived in Andalucía and, with two boys in hand and one in a bassinet, we explored the byways of this fascinating land, and its warm and passionate people.

Sometimes when you are welcomed into a different culture, you appreciate it more than if you are born into it. With our three little boys we lived among a generous and warm people in the sherry town of El Puerto de Santa María. Our Spanish neighbors extended to us their hospitality, even though we were passing strangers, visitors. What impressed us most is how their extended families were the foundation of their lives. Their little children were precious, not only within the family but also were embraced by the neighborhood within which they would be nurtured.

I remember many years ago, when my eldest son Tim was a student at El Centro Inglés, a bilingual preschool, he and his little classmates were returned home in the middle of each school day. It was natural to include in the schedule a three hour siesta so that a young boy could relax at lunch with his family. Not the kind of hurried lunch in the school cafeteria that Tim’s sons experience in Virginia!

The routines of traditional Spain accommodate the natural rhythms of life. They affirm what is important for a spiritually healthy life: the centrality of the family and the need for a respite in the middle of the workday, and the need for a broader community. For, after the workday concludes in smaller towns, many people plan to drop by the same café as they have for years. They love to talk with their friends - many of whom they have known since they were children together!

This is a rhythm to life that leads to an intrinsic stability, punctuated by many fiestas, ferias and saints’ days. Every occasion, even shopping at the market, is treated as an event - an opportunity to be with friends and neighbors. The solitude and efficiency of online shopping is not appealing to the traditional Spaniard.

As the years unfold, new factors and accompanying attitudes emerge that compete with the underlying structure of the traditional society. As Spain arises from its slumber and trades with Europe and the world, urban values crowd out the traditional: a siesta becomes ‘inefficient’ because efficiency brings more prosperity. Sons and daughters leave home for universities and 'greener pastures.' The elements of cohesion become strained, and we can see the social consequences.

There is no point in yearning for the rural village, the oxen and plow. They are not the essence of tradition, they were born of necessity. But our family feels a commitment to support those who retain the core values. We know people for whom hand made production is the essence of their livelihood – such as those who weave esparto grass, or others who carve bowls of solid pieces of olive wood.

Others have adapted age-old procedures to bring quality products to more people. I think of the Gil family producing fine wine from the rocky soil of Jumilla, or Belen who has made her hand painted Puente ceramics dishwasher safe.

My family and I have been nourished by the special gift the people of Spain have brought to our lives over the years. We want to share this treasure we have found in these relationships, and what better way than to bring to your table the very food Spaniards share when they break bread together at a family meal, or the tapas they enjoy when friends gather at a neighborhood café.

However, by itself, sending you food does not reflect Spain. The heart of the Spanish culture is how they warmly engage you – as the Zaragoza lady did me. We try to reflect that personal involvement with everyone we meet, from you in the La Tienda community to our hardworking box packers. We also bring our North American values and strive to provide efficient, attentive service.

How do we effect a marriage of these two distinct cultures? We do it by having our heart in both. This then is how our typical second-generation American family (with roots in Holland, England, Ulster and Armenia) came to bring the best of Spain to you, and support traditional artisans in Spain. I guess it could only happen in America!

Felices Fiestas,
Don

I remember staying overnight with new friends in Catalonia in March 2004, and picking up a Time Magazine (International) for bedtime reading. On the cover was a banner proclaiming "Spain Rocks!!" Much of the issue celebrated the emergence of the country as the vanguard of a new 21st Century European lifestyle: music, fine arts, sports, fashion – it seemed that Spain was the newly acknowledged leader of just about everything.

But, as you know, the events of our era hurtle on at a dizzying (and sometimes unanticipated) pace. Within a couple of days, the naïve enthusiasm of the Time article was tempered by a terrorist bombing in Madrid.

Since then there has been a radical political, cultural and social revolution in Spain. The amount of housing and other construction has increased at an astonishing rate, as well as the cost. Traditional norms have been discounted in a carefree manner as Spain is intoxicated by its new position in the modern world.

Beneath this excitement there is a foundation of tradition; a plumb line which keeps the nation centered. Over the thousands of years of Spain's history, cultures and people have come and gone, often leaving an imprint that has enhanced the culture of Spain, whether it was the Phoenicians, Romans, Carthaginians, Visigoths, Moors or even the Americans today.

Nevertheless I sense fidelity in the Spanish soul which transcends the various twists and turns of fortune. This constancy is revisited each year at about this time, when Spaniards gather to renew their familial and cultural roots each year. Of course Spaniards hold this in common with other people with hallowed pasts. Often cultural centering is expressed in rituals such as the Seder, the Mass and the Muslim Call to Prayer.

In order to renew my own Spanish bearings, I asked my dear friend Isabella Diaz what were the Christmas holidays like in Jerez de la Frontera before Spain "Rocked." (You can read more about the Diaz family in my Update The Shoemaker's Son.)

She told me that when she was a little girl some 70 years ago, there was no tinsel, Santa, Rudolph and Christmas trees – all of which have insinuated themselves into the commercial Spanish culture. In the 'good old days' a typical Jerez celebration for the evening of Nochebuena (Christmas Eve) is what they called "Zambomba."

Originally it was celebrated in the houses where more than one family lived (casas de vecinos). Neighbors would gather in the downstairs patio around a fire set inside an oil drum and sing "villancicos flamencos," the traditional Christmas songs from Jerez. (Remember in that time neighbors knew each other for a lifetime as nobody moved away as we are apt to do at the drop of a hat!)

Some of the neighbors would accompany the singing with improvised musical instruments, which were made of whatever material was available:

• Zamboba – drum like instrument made of a terracotta jar covered on the top with an animal skin. The skin had a central hole through which a long stick was inserted. The stick rubbed against the stretched skin making a dull noise. Periodically the skin is moistened with water so that it remains flexible.
• Tambourines, or similar shapes, with small pairs of cymbals attached
• Almirez – a brass mortar with pestle taken from the kitchen
• An anisette bottle swept with a spoon

The music was an accompaniment to singing and clapping the complex rhythms of flamenco – which has echoes of Moorish Al-Andalus. A Christian celebration enhanced by a bit of the Muslim past – I love it!

Traditionally one or two of the neighbors goes around the group offering some drinks - anisette, wine, etc. - and some snacks or tapas, as the others spontaneously sing Christmas songs Flamenco style. Today "Zambombas" have evolved into a more massive celebration in neighborhood squares, bars and even clubs. People still sing "villancicos" and pass around drinks and snacks but, Isabella assured me, they do not light up fires in bars!

This is a traditional menu of typical foods Jerezanos serve for Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and New Years celebrations in Andalucía:

First Course:
Caldo de Puchero, chicken broth with potatoes, garbanzo beans, garden vegetables and tocino - salt pork. After it has simmered on the stove for a while, the contents are strained to produce a rich hearty broth. Before serving, boiled rice and chopped hard boiled egg and tiny pieces of Jamón Serrano are added.

Second Course:
Pollo (Chicken) or Pavo (Turkey) accompanied by an ensalada or vegetables. Isabella confided that in the old days when life was hard and food was scarce, it was a feast to have chicken. In modern times of prosperity one might serve mariscos (shellfish: shrimp, lobsters) along with the typical tapa of Manchego cheese and Ibérico ham. Cordero al Horno (roast lamb) or Besugo al Horno (baked Sea Bream) has been added to the list of foods.

Isabella listed the sweet treats for the Christmas season, many of which had Middle Eastern roots - they were globalized before it was fashionable! I was delighted to see that many of the items we have discovered for La Tienda during our many trips.

• Pestiños (honey-coated sweet fritters)
• Rosquitos (almond, honey, anisette, sugar)
• Rosco de Navidad (cake with inner coats of chocolate, cream or sweetened pumpkin and syrup)
• Mazapán (marzipan)
• Turrón (candy with honey and almonds, egg yolks, nuts, fruit or chocolate)
• Mantecados, polvorones, alfajores
• Peladillas (almonds covered in white hard candy)
• Buñuelos (fried small portions of water, flour, aniseed and anisette dough)

Manzanilla, Fino and Amontillado sherries are the most typical beverages, along with Cava sparkling wine and Anisette.

At Midnight the Christmas Eve gaiety is interrupted by the ringing of church bells calling the families to "La Misa Del Gallo." It is called the "Mass of the Rooster" because tradition says that the only time that a rooster has ever crowed at midnight was on the day that Jesus was born.

Another long standing tradition in preparation for Christmas is to visit the "Belén" or a Nativity scene. Isabella recalled that some years ago individuals took great pride in the meticulous construction of the Belen or crèche. Public and private entities - such as banks, neighborhood associations, flamenco associations and schools - would set up within their facilities their own "Belén" and would hang a sign at the street entrance welcoming the general public to visit them. (In an earlier Reflection I mentioned seeing a beautiful Belen in the window of a local travel agency, carefully placed within an open suitcase!)

Today the essential message of the Manger in Bethlehem has become secularized, as is most of our culture. To construct a crèche is mainly a hobby, rather than an act of devotion. Every year people make their own Nativity scenes and enter them in a contest. The local "Asociación de Belenistas" gathers a large number of small Nativity scenes and exhibits them in a large show room run by the City Hall.

Isabella and her daughter Olga wanted to highlight one of the "must-see" Christmas season activities for children who live in Jerez de la Frontera. It is a visit to the Servant of their Majesties where they send the wish letters for the "Día de Reyes" (Three Kings Day).

The activity is in the local Moorish castle(!) and is sponsored by the Ayuntamiento (city government) of Jerez de la Frontera.

Approximately fifteen "servants" are there dressed in Moorish clothes to greet the boys and girls and other members of their extended families. They entertain the children with little games and stories while the boys and girls wait to talk to the "Mayordomo" (Paje Real).

Other servants have their own desks where they issue and stamp certificates for the submission of the children's wish letters. The setting is amazing, very realistic for the children and exciting for all! It gets better every year!

Celebrating a Christian holiday in a Moorish Castle!! I wish these two cultures could get along that well in the "real" world. Perhaps it is something to pray for!

Our family extends to you and your loved ones a blessed holiday season.

¡Felices Fiestas y Feliz Navidad!

Saludos,
Don

Once upon a time, a long time ago, when I was a little boy, I was lying on my bed with a coloring book propped on the pillow. It was a delightful publication with a Thanksgiving Harvest theme. On the center pages I found the outline of a cornucopia –- a horn of plenty -- burgeoning with all kinds of fruits of the soil. I had so much fun filling in the drawing with varied colors of the fruits and vegetables with my black 12 color Crayola box – those were the days before the 64 crayon cartons featuring colors such "Macaroni & Cheese" and "Purple Mountain Majesty."

Harvest time has always been a satisfying season for me. I see in each fruit and vegetable the fulfillment of their growth from spring seedlings to autumn maturity. My grandchildren get a hint of this view of life when they make their annual visit to "Pumpkinville" - a field of haystacks and long vines that harbor big orange jack o' lanterns.

Over the years my wife Ruth and I have traveled through the Spanish countryside during the autumn months. Some villages were laden with the aroma of wine during their Vendimia wine festival celebration. Near Plasencia in Castilla-Leon we visited with our friend Cecilio at the mill of La Chinata Pimentón de la Vera. He introduced us to farmers who were slowly curing their freshly picked peppers in wooden smoke houses in preparation for the mill.

How easy it is to imagine timeless Spain where the local harvest traditions have been going on for thousands of years. But of course it is not the case. Radical changes occurred in 1492: not only the final triumph of the 700 year struggle with the Moors on the plains of Granada, but, most notably, Christopher Columbus's discovery of America. It was a watershed for Spain and its cuisine: the introduction of new foods from the Americas heralded a revolution in how Spaniards farmed, cooked and enjoyed food.

Think a moment. Can you imagine a piping hot mug of thick chocolate a la taza without the chocolate? What about that cooking favorite tomate frito, if there were no tomatoes? Then there is tortilla Española with nary a potato! It sounds absurd, but that is the way it was before Ferdinand and Isabella sent Christopher Columbus to the New World. Much of what we think of as Spanish gastronomy did not exist 600 years ago.

Ferdinand and Isabella sent Columbus in search of rare spices. Seasonings such as black pepper were so precious that the monarchs hoped his voyage would discover a new route to the Spice Islands. Why were spices so crucial? Remember they did not have side by side refrigerators providing an unlimited supply of ice cubes to tumble into their glasses of Coke. They had no refrigeration at all. Pepper, along with sea salt, was a priceless preservative for their meats.

When Columbus returned from the New World, he headed straight to the Royal Court, which at the time was encamped at the Real Monasterio de Guadalupe deep in the mountains of western Spain. (Fernando and Isabel had an itinerant court which was often on the move in order to reinforce relationships across various parts of their realm. Before Guadalupe they had been in Sevilla). There in the Mudejar monastery nestled in a mountain valley he presented his Patrons with chili peppers, among other treasures. The king and queen were delighted.

Without delay the local Franciscan brothers sowed the seeds in the monastery gardens – less than a day's journey from where smoked paprika is grown today! Thanks to the horticultural interest of Columbus, from that time forward the people on both continents enjoyed food that was flavored and preserved by smoked paprika.

Many other culinary treasures that the first explorers brought back to Spain were far more lasting than silver and gold. They changed the way of life for all of Europe. The list of foodstuffs is amazing: vanilla, chocolate, tomatoes, potatoes, strawberries, squash, corn, avocado, pineapples, and peppers of all sorts. Where would we be without them?

The Spaniards introduced many of their own treasures to America. Can you imagine a time when there were no citrus fruits in California, Texas and Florida? Imagine the Wild West without horses? All of these were brought to the New World by the explorers and missionaries. Since Spaniards have always loved good food, Christopher Columbus made sure some Ibérico pigs were included on the first voyage. After all, how could a Spaniard properly dine without his pata negra ham?

When you sit down at your Thanksgiving table, surrounded by family and other loved ones, don't forget our fore bearers who contributed to the food before you -- a Cornucopia of many civilizations.

Our family wishes yours a warm and loving Thanksgiving Day.

Don

Spain is witnessing a culinary revolution in reverse. After all the years of commercial progress, Spaniards are now seeking to revive their traditional heritage. It took only two or three resilient generations to overcome the tragedy of the early 20th Century: the Civil War and exclusion from European recovery after WWII. What they have accomplished is an amazing turn-around.

Forty years ago, my wife Ruth and I began driving the byways of Spain. We have many fond memories of riding in our tiny SEAT 600, bouncing along the back roads. Today we visit the hills and valleys of Spain to discover for ourselves the many artisans who have preserved their traditional ways. With the new prosperity, the roads are infinitely improved.

The conviction of traditional Spanish artisans assured that their handiwork would survive many lean decades. Their sense of integrity enabled them to resist the temptations of commercialism. Now they flourish with the support of lovers of good food, in Spain and throughout the world.

Our sons Tim and Jonathan just returned from a trip to El Bierzo and Galicia. In one small village they met a young couple who produce jars of rare wild mushrooms preserved in olive oil. Each evening during the harvest season they make the rounds to the cottages of old ladies to collect mushrooms. The local women gather mushrooms from special sites in the hills as their forbears have known for centuries.

A day or two later my sons drove along the rugged seashore of Galicia in order to meet a couple who produce extraordinary tinned seafood. Each night about 3:00AM they get up to telephone fishermen at sea in order to anticipate and purchase the very freshest and best seafood which will arrive at dawn.

When I was on the road in rural Spain in 1965, I remember seeing a man behind a mule, with his small son by his side – teaching him how to plow the land; or a farmer from Galicia guiding a wooden wagon that was pulled by a team of powerful oxen. They had rabbit fur pelts placed between their horns as a means of protection from the weather.

In Andalucía, I remember men buzzing off to work on their "motos" with saddlebags woven out of esparto grass straddling the rear fender. In earlier days, they would have ridden burros. Within one of saddlebags was tucked a whitewashed terra cotta jug (tinaja) that served as the worker's source of water as he worked in the fields. Occasionally Ruth and I would come across the painted wagons of a Gypsy caravan, with the colorfully dressed women waving hello.

At home in El Puerto de Santa María we would take empty 1-liter Coke bottles to the bodega down the street, where they would be refilled from a large sherry cask. In the morning, we would go to the Buen Pastor Bakery and get a loaf of hand-made bread – still warm from the oven. The municipal market was overflowing with local potatoes, spinach, oranges and fresh caught fish.

At the time, it was interesting and romantic to dip into a pre-industrial society and enjoy the way people lived centuries ago. However, for the people of Spain it was a time of deprivation and suffering. Their modern economy had been devastated by the 1936-1939 Civil War and ensuing World War II isolation – even from the Marshall Plan. To us the oxen were quaint; to them it meant they could not afford a tractor – or, more to the point, rarely had a decent meal.

As people became more prosperous in the 1970's and 1980's, they replaced their oxen and mules with tractors. Workers could afford small automobiles to replace their motos. As women began to work outside the home, they enjoyed the efficiency and convenience of air-conditioned Hypermercados. These supermarkets began to crowd out the local farmers' markets, which are only open in the morning.

Local bakers began putting preservatives in the dough so that the loaves they baked before dawn would stay fresh until the evening when people stopped by on their way home. Their business declined as people bought commercial pre-sliced Bimbo, which would stay "fresh" for days. It is true that the quality of food declined, because artisan items were inefficient to make. Nevertheless, the quality of life was much better for many people.

Now their prosperity is at a point that Spaniards appreciate artisan quality products and are willing to pay for them. Jamón Ibérico used to be a delicacy restricted to the wealthy, but now it is available at the neighborhood tapas bar. Spaniards are able to appreciate the traditional hand made food of their past, and they are willing to support the artisans who have preserved it.

Perhaps the transportation revolution is the most amazing thing of all. Just imagine, an old woman in El Bierzo gathers mushrooms in the woods, or a shepherd brings to his village the cheeses he made in the high country of the Picos de Europa and in a matter of weeks we can enjoy their handiwork in our homes in America.

Tu amigo,
Don

Last spring my wife Ruth and I met three men who produce remarkable products near the remote mountain town of Jumilla, located in a coastal mountain range in northern Murcia. The mountains are about a half a mile above the Mediterranean port of Alicante.

As we approached the area, we saw the haunting image of gnarled and blackened grape vines dotting the hillsides: each of them struggling to find life-giving water. Every day the vines face adversity due to the extremes of the arid mountain climate. The grapes bake in the summer sun and hunker down for the cold nights. Yet, under the stony surface of the vineyards, their roots draw moisture from shallow chalky soil on a bed of limestone that absorb the scarce rainfall.

Many of these plants have lived for nearly eighty years in this harsh environment. All year long, dedicated vintners tend the vines by hand. The grapes remain on the vine until they have reached their absolute ripeness, and then they are gathered and sorted by hand before they are pressed. They are the source of remarkable wines.

These gnarled vines are emblematic of strength and resilience. I am referring both to the grape vines and to the families who cultivate them. Miguél Gil, owner of one of the bodegas greeted us cordially when we arrived in Jumilla. His cousin Lorenzo and his neighbor Juan Molino accompanied him. In his dignified, unassuming way, Miguél embodied the traditional hospitality of Spain.

Miguel graciously invited us to join him, his wife Marisu and their young son Miguél for lunch featuring the best rice dish in the world. We drove to a modest restaurant named Paco Gandía in an inconsequential town - one of those unpretentious places that only food lovers know about.

There, in a small room overflowing with delighted Spaniards, we were served "the best rice in the world". It was made of rabbit and fresh local snails simmered in a bed of Calasparra rice, saffron and spices. As I looked over to the open kitchen, I could see a stone hearth fueled by dried clippings from the vineyard. Over the crackling flames was our delicious fare simmering in a paella pan. It seemed to be a cross between my understanding of a paella and arroz a banda. It was the best.

Later, Ruth and I walked the land with Miguel, seeing those valiant gnarled vines and visiting his family bodegas, which were a balance between tradition and artful technology - which produces extraordinary wine such as Clio and Juan Gil.

During our walk together, Miguél stopped by a container filled with items that had been cleared from his father's office years ago: the first electric typewriter in town, elaborate American short wave radios, etc., signs of an imaginative and progressive man. However, before he could reach his prime Juan suffered an untimely death - leaving his grieving wife to raise their nine children.

With heroism and determination, she nurtured a very close family through the aftermath of the horrifying Civil War followed by the hunger and deprivations of World War II and beyond. A tribute to her strength and character as a mother is that even now her sons and their families maintain intimate ties with one another. The younger brothers are working side by side to produce some of the most noteworthy wine in the region. The sons named their bodega Hijos de Juan Gil after their beloved father. He would have been so proud.

The second person we met was José María Roch -- another man of great integrity. As we stood outside his centuries-old finca, he pointed out his various vineyards planted on the hills in such a way as to take advantage of the microclimate. José María cultivates his family's vineyard Julia Roch y Hijos traditionally and naturally. He uses no irrigation and a minimal use of chemical products.

He spoke to me fondly of the venerable vines that were growing just at our feet, and showed us the family's traditional bodega. At the dinner table, José María told me that when as a youth, he chose to work with the land, his brothers questioned his judgment – they chose technical careers in the modern economy. Now, he said with a sense of pride, they appreciate his wisdom – for through his labor the family is now producing Casa Castillo, an internationally celebrated wine.

Juan Molina was the third man of Jumilla with whom we spent time. He is the fifth generation to operate a ranch called Casa Pareja. He does not produce wine, but rather olive oil and fruit. Juan drove us throughout his 800-acre holdings. A nursing field dog decided to join our excursion (with her puppies tagging along) as we drove slowly by the groves of organically raised olive trees nurtured from olive pits. Ruth and I marveled at the way row upon row of old olive trees seemed to be prospering even though their trunks arose from a seeming bed of stone! Some of the trees were ancient – surely older than any of the grape vines in the area.

We stopped at a cluster of small buildings, where within the patio Juan proudly showed us the olive press of his grandfather. He fondly recalled that as a little boy he would be at his grandfather's side watching the olives arrive from the groves and be pressed the traditional way: a mulch of the ripe fruit was sandwiched between discs of woven esparto grass and pressed until the olive oil flowed.

Juan ushered us through a formidable oak door that he had rescued from an abandoned monastery. In the corner of the next room sat a magnificent desk, entirely hand carved and fitted from olive wood. It was at that desk where he, his father and his father's father transacted the family enterprise.

Juan is completely committed to the concept of traditional natural farming in all aspects, even though Jumilla is an inhospitable climate. He has even found a way to mix his olive pits with manure in order to produce fuel!

Juan's approach to cultivating the soil is not easy – in fact, life had not been easy for him and his family. Nevertheless, he is convinced that it is the right thing to do. He was an organic farmer before the term became fashionable. I could sense the pride he felt in his life's work as he asked Ruth and me to sample his freshly pressed olive oil.

After two extraordinary days, we left Jumilla with a deep appreciation of our hosts: the fruit of their labor – the gnarled vines and olive trees and the treasured products they produced witnessed to resilience, determination, and grace - all qualities that create these remarkable men of Jumilla.

Tu amigo,
Don

The contemporary culture seems to be very receptive to fantasy and legend. There is great interest in the legend of the Holy Grail or Tolkien’s Middle Earth, C.S. Lewis’s Narnia and now the finale of the Harry Potter series. The latest and greatest rollercoaster at Busch Gardens is named after a mythological beast, the Gryphon.

I wonder how many of you realize that the wonderful little Pimientos de Padrón, which are a surprise hit here at La Tienda, are also wrapped in legend! Although there is no parallel with the enthusiasm about Harry Potter, each year we ask our local farmer to plant a few more rows of seedlings – and now we have asked another farmer to lend a hand as well.

The origin of the seeds from which we grow these delightful peppers in Virginia trace back to a rustic town along the Atlantic coast of Galicia, in farthest Northwest Spain. The town of Padrón is so far west that the neighboring village on the storm-tossed Atlantic Coast is called Finisterre - loosely translated as “the end of the world.”

The town of Padrón is shrouded in history and legend that stretch back to pre-history. Archaeologists tell us that it was an Iberian settlement of the Caporos people. Because of its natural location at the confluence of two rivers, the settlement was on the crossroads to what is now Braga (Portugal) to the south and Astorga (León) to the east. Classical Roman documents indicate that it became a significant town named Iria Flavia under the Romans.

Now here is where the need to sort out history and legend comes into play. According to tradition, it was in a rocky area above Iria Flavia that Apostle Saint James first preached during his stay in Hispania, which was at the peak of its cultural ascendancy in the Roman Empire, so it is conceivable that James would head there, as had St Paul, according to Biblical accounts.

Unfortunately he returned to the Holy Land where he was martyred in Jerusalem. His disciples Theodore and Athanasius placed the body of James in a stone boat and set it sail westward. They navigated the mythical stone craft across the expanse of the Mediterranean Sea, sailed by Gibraltar through the Pillars of Hercules, and headed north along the Iberian coast until they found safe haven in a peaceful ria or fjord. There they moored their stone vessel to a pedrón (Spanish for big stone).

The two disciples remained in Iria Flavia (now Padrón – Patron ) to preach after burying the body of the apostle in Compostela. The legendary pedrón mooring stone can be seen today at the parish church of Santiago de Padrón.

Legend has it that some shepherds in a field saw a star shining on the site of St James grave in Compostela. It was during the final throes of the struggle against the invading Moors in the eighth century. As news of the shepherd’s miraculous discovery spread to the defending armies they took heart, and at the critical battle of Covadonga they saw St. James riding out of heaven on a splendid white charger in order to lead the Spaniards to victory.

From that time forward, St James (Iago was the old spelling) was viewed as the patron saint of Spain, and the name of the site where the funerial stone boat was pulled ashore was transmuted from “Pedrón (mooring stone) to Padrón (Patron).

Padrón soon became a popular passing place in the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route but the focus of attention gradually moved to nearby Compostela, capital of Galicia. But here is where the peppers come in (you thought I had forgotten).

Over the years a Franciscan monastery grew up in the barrio of Harbón, a neighborhood of Padrón. It was there at the Herbón monastery where the Franciscans apparently first tried growing the pepper seeds they had brought back from the New World in the 18th century. This place still remains the heart of the Pimientos de Padrón belt today.

One of the members of the La Tienda community wrote me “I am actually from Padrón - my family originates from there. We have a 100-year-old farmhouse next to the monastery in 'Herbon' the small village contained in Padrón. All my aunties and uncles produce these pimientos. There is also an annual 'fiesta' to celebrate the pimiento. People come from all around to visit.”

What do these legends and fantasies have to do with the very tasty and occasionally hot tiny green peppers? Had the Spaniards not believed the legend of Santiago, they might easily have lost the crucial Battle of Covadonga to the surging invaders. Hispania would have had a radically different culture, in which Franciscans could not flourish, nor could they plant peppers in their monasteries. Nor would there be the pilgrims of Santiago de Compostela to enjoy them in their tapas bars and therefore the fame of the peppers would never have spread across Spain and the world.

Are these stories true? Could a stone ship sail across the Mediterranean? Was the body the shepherds found really that of St James or just another first century Roman? How could the soldiers have seen James riding out of heaven on a white horse? These are questions that we as benighted children of the scientific age ask. Certainly they would not have occurred to a medieval pilgrim. For him, life was a mystery.

So when next you sauté in olive oil your portion of these unique peppers from Galicia, and when you dust them with sea salt, before popping them into your mouth as a delightful tapa, be thankful for those whose trusting naivete has enabled you to savor a unique treat from far western Spain.

Tu amigo,
Don

A unique beauty surrounds the ancient city of Zamora when they celebrate Semana Santa. Their Holy Week is an occasion that is very genuine and very somber. Zamora is an agricultural city with roots in the soil. Their vineyards provide some of the finest wine in Spain, and their sheep’s milk produces the excellent Zamorano cheese. Located in northwest Spain near the Portuguese border, Zamora’s stone battlements remain as witness to the many key conflicts that affected the history of Castile, Leon, and Spain as a nation.

When my wife Ruth and I arrived in Zamora for Holy Week this year, the sincerity of the people was unmistakable. Semana Santa was a serious event in their lives. As an act of humility, some choose to walk bare-footed during the processions. Yet we experienced something more: the power of an all-absorbing tradition as the entire citizenry worked in concert to express the values they share.

The strength and tradition of Zamora is reflected in the weeklong observance of the last days of Jesus on earth. This central event mobilizes the life of the city. Various merchants provide artfully designed guidebooks and pamphlets so that the observers of Semana Santa will know exactly where each of the processions will begin, and the route that each will follow.

The closest we have to this kind of civic involvement in America may be our preparations for Independence Day, especially in smaller cities and towns where citizens plan the Fourth of July parade and accompanying festivities with great care, and involve a broad spectrum of people.

In Zamora, virtually all of the processions pass through the narrow cobblestone streets within the city walls. A very dramatic one winds its way from the fortified cliffs down to the riverbank, passing by a medieval bridge, near the remnants still in the river of the bridge built by the Romans. It is a particularly solemn procession, with incense, subdued drums, and music in a minor key.

Ruth and I had hardly dropped off our suitcases before we were caught up in the drama of Holy Week. Before we knew it, we were involved in a profound ritual enacted annually for over a thousand years. Hundreds and hundreds of men and boys were filing down the main boulevard, clothed in penitential robes and hoods, carrying long flickering tapers.

The focal point of each procession is the paso carried by members of the confraternity. A large hardwood platform displays a hand carved life sized tableau which represents one of the mysteries of the last days of Jesus' life. It is lifted up on the backs forty or fifty strong men, and carried for many hours along the narrow streets, with barely a pause. The rest of the penitentes accompany their paso wearing robes and hoods in colors unique to their brotherhood. My wife and I were amazed to see that a few fathers had their sons walking by their sides in robes – some under five years old!

Now and then, you see a typically Spanish touch. If you looked closely, you might notice a man in the procession discreetly slipping caramelos (wrapped candies) to the children in the crowd!

One of the longest processions involves a route of many miles. Over five thousand men and a few young boys escort several dramatic hand carved pasos as they pass through just about every neighborhood in the city. You can imagine the sight of all these men of Zamora in somber procession. We were beginning to wonder how these people could survive such a long ordeal, when, in a perfect Spanish touch, the procession ground to a halt in the Cathedral plaza.

The men lowered their pasos, removed their hoods, and enjoyed an informal merienda (picnic) with their friends and family – perhaps a chunk of chorizo, some sheep’s milk cheese and a little wine brought from home. Suitably refreshed, they donned their hoods, hoisted their pasos and continued on their penitential path.

What impressed me most was that virtually every person in this small city, from toddlers to pensioners, participates in this community event every year of their lives. The night before Good Friday there is a procession involving thousands of men and boys silently walking all night through the winding cobblestone streets of Zamora until the early hours of the morning. Later, in the dusk of Good Friday over four thousand women and their daughters process together in candlelight accompanied by a small band. On Easter morning, joyous townspeople fill the Plaza Mayor to witness the climactic procession of the Resurrection.

This is the power of tradition. It provides a unity of spirit among the people of Zamora. There were posters and banks of flowers around us. We savored steaming sopa de ajo (garlic soup) served us in commemorative terra cotta cups by the bartender of a neighborhood café. We rarely saw anybody but Spaniards. Clearly, this was not a tourist production.

In many ways there is nothing we do in America that parallels this celebration that takes place throughout Spain each Holy Week. We neither have the centuries of tradition, nor in most cases, the stability of families living in one place for many generations. Nevertheless, we do have a flavor of this kind of community solidarity.

On Independence Day last week, I am sure some of you experienced the kind of common effort that small towns in rural America still expend to create an old-fashioned Fourth of July celebration. I know many of our friends, their children and grandchildren lined the streets of our hometown of Williamsburg and neighboring Yorktown waving flags and eating hot dogs.

As in Zamora, the prime focus is on a parade that involves local people representing various groups devoted to service such as the Red Cross or the Kiwanis. Alongside are marching civic leaders, school bands, veterans of past wars and perhaps small contingents of soldiers from the National Guard and other uniformed services – just as in Zamora.

To be sure, I am not equating a patriotic parade with a religious event in terms of the values they represent. However, I am saying that when people come together in a common enterprise devoted to commemorating the values they hold dear, there is a certain health and strength that sustains them long after the parade or procession is over and the marchers go home.

Tu amigo,
Don

(This is an updated encore article by Don from 2004, who will be back with a new article next month.)

A poignant image of forty years ago still sticks in my mind. My wife Ruth and I were exploring the back roads of rural Galicia in our tiny SEAT 600. We were driving cautiously in this remote area of northwest Spain because often we would have to slow down to accommodate a farmer leading his oxen to the field. It was quite a scene: the weathered face of the man and the docile expression of the large beasts yoked together, with rabbit pelts between their horns to keep off the flies.

This particular morning I noticed a farmer behind a horse-drawn plow preparing a small patch of field. His son was by the plowman's side, he couldn't have been much over 7 years old. They were plowing the rocky field together. Sometimes the father would give the reins of the horse to his son so that he would become familiar with that aspect of plowing. As they worked together over the hours, the father would share his thoughts and his skills with his son, to help his boy to prepare for his role in life as an adult. The traditions of the family were being passed to the next generation in a very natural way.

About twenty years later, Ruth and I found ourselves flying into Madrid hours after the attempted coup (golpe). Elements of the Guardia Civil had invaded the Cortes firing automatic weapons and were holding about 350 MP's hostage. We had to gingerly weave our way through heavily armed men to get to our hotel room located down the street from the parliament building! Inside the Cortes was high drama.

The king, Juan Carlos, had to choose between the Falangists who would enhance his power; or the young democracy that was hanging by a thread. Many lives were in the balance. In the midst of the crisis that would define his place in history, the king called to have his 12 year old son by his side. Just as the farmer wanted to share his skills and thoughts with his son to prepare him for his role in life, so Juan Carlos wanted his son Felipe to learn what it was to be a king.

Prince Felipe now has two children of his own, infanta Leonor and infanta Sofia. It will now become his joy and duty to share life's lessons with a new generation.

Today as I write this, Ruth and I enjoy watching our son Jonathan playing with Sarah, his 4 year old daughter. Even at this young age she learns from her father's love and experiences his values. Our son Tim loves to go fishing with his young sons, Sam and Ben. When they are out fishing Tim teaches them how to get the bait, cast the line and allows them to "take the reins" of the boat. These are precious times between fathers and their children.

What a joy it is to be a father and see your sons grow strong as they themselves become husbands and fathers. Fathers provide a foundation to their children, whether they are farmers plowing fields, kings governing nations, or regular men teaching their children what they value in life.

Happy Father's Day, from our family to yours -- con un abrazo!

Tu amigo,
Don