There is nothing quite so exasperating as carrying a story around in your soul for 37 years and not being able to get it all down on paper. Such is the case with a story I have finally written called THE SMALL HOURS. In its various partial iterations, it was called FIRST PRESS and GALVEZ GOLD, but the current and final title seemed best, given the subject matter.

And the subject matter is this: During and after the Spanish Civil War, various Leftists, wanted by the Right, hid out from their potential captors in attics, false walls, "spider holes" in the ground, and any number of ingenious locales. Now, this made good sense during the war (1936-1939), but what about after peace was declared and Francisco Franco had emerged the victor? The Left did not trust Franco and the Right, still doesn't to this day, even though the dictator died in 1975. The reason for this lack of trust being that more than once Franco declared an amnesty for enemies of the state, ostensibly allowing those folks to return to their home towns and resume their lives. The first time many took advantage of the offer only to be rounded up and summarily executed. To be fair, Franco did offer one final period of amnesty a few years before his death and this time people were not jailed or killed. But who could trust the man?

When Mary and I, along with our children, moved to Spain in 1981, one of the first things we learned in the village of Macharaviaya was that a man had come out of hiding in the next village. Not only had the war been over since 1939, but Franco had been dead for six years. Such is the power of institutional fear. I was immediately captivated by this news and have held onto it ever since. I learned about these men, called topos, or moles who had been springing up since Franco's death. I thought about their families, having to worry about children innocently spilling the secret on some soccer field or schoolyard. I thought about those very families missing out on their loved one's company, of mothers never getting to sit in the town square with their sons. I thought of siblings without their brothers. But most of all, I cooked up the idea of what it must have been like for the protectors of these men, the ones who kept them alive while they whiled away their lives in hiding. Was there love coupled with grief? Was their irony coupled with courage? And what would life underground be like if the man didn't really want to be involved in the war in the first place?

In the novel, you'll meet Maria del Carmen Escobar, and learn how she dealt with the issue of the war in her small village of La Jolla. She show us what sacrifice looks like and what it does to one's life.

THE SMALL HOURS will be my next published novel and you'll see it by the end of 2023. I look forward to sharing it with you.

In 1985, in Macharaviaya, Spain, while I was working in the fields with my good friend, Jose Antonio Robles Roldan, he told me that he had decided to ask his girlfriend, Victoria, to marry him. I congratulated him heartily because I assumed this would put an end to his endless stories of how he didn't think he could hold on much longer as an unmarried man. He was near to bursting with anticipation, blah, blah, blah; every young man's sexual lament. And, while these kind of stories didn't end, a new story developed. Jose Antonio asked me if I would be his best man and if my wife, Mary, would be willing to serve as maid of honor for Victoria. We said yes without giving it much thought. But in a village of 85 people hidden in the hills of Malaga province, it was to be an unprecedented event to have foreigners stand up in a traditional Spanish wedding. 

Mary and I were not and still are not Catholics, although Mary's family started out subscribing to this particular religious philosophy. Hence her middle name, Margaret. But, as we were soon to find out, the Spanish have a peculiar relationship with the church and the fact we were not members turned out to make no difference whatsoever in our serving as padrinos. There were a few hitches along the way; the most significant one being we found out it was our responsibility to serve approximately 150 people at the dinner after the ceremony. (Later, we realized the number was actually probably closer to 250, as people started materializing like hungry ghosts from over the hills and out of the valleys, presumably when they smelled the tripe stew cooking in the giant pots outside the church.) As a side note, when you are responsible for feeding so many people and also for learning what to say and do at a traditional Spanish wedding, it is best not to guzzle cheap gin out of the bottle any time close to the beginning of the ceremony. After all, you too may end up passed out under the immense back wheels of the only truck in town, only to wake up to a trail of shiny black ants crawling up your pant leg and making  short work of the crumbs of wedding cake still clinging to your suit coat. But it all worked out and we got an absolutely charming and handsome godson, Jesus, in the bargain. Later, when we were visiting in 2001, he took me aside and said, "Please tell me, padrino, how my father and you were nearly killed when my father took the wrong turn and the motorcycle you were on drove down all those concrete stairs to the edge of the riverbed." A quick finger-across-the-throat sign from Victoria kept me from spilling the beans on that one.

Which brings us to 2015 and Ecuador. Nothing much has changed with the church, apparently. The people seem to maintain a rather schizophrenic attitude about religion here; it's an interesting meld between indigenous and European beliefs, e.g., in all of the locally produced paintings of The Last Supper, you will find a serving of roast guinea pig, an indigenous delicacy, resting on the table next to all those European traditional dishes. Now, that is true art; culture blending. The church, however, still clings to some of its more punishing dicta, one of which is that children will not ever be allowed into the kingdom of heaven if their parents are not married. In this case, little Shanik cannot be baptized because her parents cannot yet afford to marry. There is one escape route to this proclamation, and that is if the parents can rustle up a married couple (legal proof needed) to serve as godparents, and to symbolize that marriage is the one true course for couples to take, then Shanik can be baptized and all will be well with the world and, apparently her afterlife.

Shanik's parents, Kristhiann Jesus and Mirian came to us with a plea to please help Shanik have her baptism and we, having spent at least part of our lives as rebels, have now agreed. Upon our acceptance of the task, the family, which includes our wonderful friend and helper, Luisa, showed up at our house last night bearing gifts; tubs of fresh fruits and roast chicken, guinea pig and what looked to be a type of hominy. All this food, served round the table with joy and appreciation, solidified our place in this family of Ecuadorians. Mary and I, as usual, although it is getting much better and easier, stumbled through the language, not really the formal language, but the vernacular, but after several servings each of cheap boxed white wine, we all shared stories of triumph and sadness and hunger and poverty and the richness of culture and how is it possible for a married couple (I guess us) to remain married AND friends for almost 42 years. And to show that the entire night was not overly maudlin and sugary, we also exchanged accesses to apps for our respective phones and learned why the word "adios" is not used in Ecuador when you are leaving someone. Adios (goodbye), apparently here means something like "goodbye and I hope never to see you again until maybe your funeral." Which now explains why Mary and I got so many evil looks when we used the word so liberally at our arrival in this country. From now it will be only hasta luego or simply the universal ciao. 

So we are about to embark yet another time on the godparenthood boat. Different hemisphere and culture, but actually it seems the same. Love, kindness, sharing, mutual respect, and of course, wine seem to save the day wherever you go in the world. We are happy to serve as ambassadors in this regard, but we might have to be careful. The mother, Rosa Elena, after her third glass of wine, had a brilliant idea. She said, "Why don't Mary and you just make it all easier by serving as padrinos for every single one of my 13 children when the time comes that they each need them." At that pronouncement, I filled my glass to the brim, tipped it toward Mary, shrugged my shoulders and said, "Salud."

Here's to our health. And to our new herd of godchildren.

Here it is August and I notice I haven't been on here since January. I'd like to blame something like more surgeries or lottery winnings, but it's just life cruising along, allowing me to be lazy and forgetful, although during this time I've finished the first draft of three novels and am busily working on another (adult this time around). I've visited the States and now am back in Ecuador, which feels more and more like home, especially after those wretched one hundred degree days in North Idaho. And the fire. It missed our cabin...damn. It could use a remodel. I do grieve for the folks who lost theirs. Nature can be wicked. We saw the grandgirls, which was lovely, if not tiring. I mean, the energy in those three could power a second world country. 

But the focus of this particular post happens to be the dire circumstance that we returned to no Bump. Nowhere to be found. Wheedle was here, fat and sassy; a full grown  hen now. But no Bump. You may recall that as he matured, Bump was becoming something of a legend in the chicken run. He grew taller and thicker than any rooster I've seen in a long time, and his temperament left a lot to be desired. I fed that chick from my hand, rescued him from a terrible choking disease, and how does he repay me? By chasing me around the pen every time I dared step foot inside. He'd wait until my back was turned and then: Attack!. Plus, to be blunt, he would hump most everything in sight, including the wild turtle doves, if they would stay still long enough to allow him purchase. It was becoming a problem. 

Apparently the problem was solved in our absence. Luisa tells us that his romantic aspirations turned deadly soon after we left. So potent was his ardor that while doing the deed, he would rip part of the very combs off a couple of the hens. He ended up actually killing one of them, which on the farm, does not a dutiful rooster make. The situation called for drastic measures.

Upon our return, I noticed we now have four roosters ( two of which were adolescents when we left, but two of which I had never seen before). The latter two are fighting cocks, small and sleek and a bit savage. They spend a lot of time eyeing each other up and down, getting in vigorous pretend fights, and running from me as I represent the great big world who came in one day and removed Bump the Terrible. Maybe they think they could be next. We were also missing two hens (the one, as I mentioned, was murdered, the other was apparently, a failed rescue attempt). And Bump? Well, as Luisa so eloquently put it, "My mother says he was a little tough for such a young rooster." Even after having been boiled for most of the day.

I have to say I feel some measure of relief not having Bump here. I still have Wheedle, who I like to think of as the last survivor of the famous Peguche Nine. One chick living into adulthood isn't bad in such a harsh world, is it? She lays every day, jumps up on my shoulder and pecks at my earlobes if I haven't fed her enough, and generally represents the coop quite well. Things have calmed down considerably. There is order in the run  once more. 

A couple of weeks ago, Luisa brought over a hen and her newly hatched seven chicks for us to watch and care for. It is a tradition here; if you look after a hen and her brood, then, when it is time for them to be weaned, you get half of them and the others go back home. Gretl is a good mom, albeit highly anxious, and she has flown at me a time or two when I get to close to her kids. I'd rather see that; violence with a purpose, than experience it unprovoked and downright abusive as in the case of the late Bump. May he RIP.

Now, what to do with Gregor, Felix, Ferdinand and Groucho?