My Story

# 27

It was hot the whole time we were at the Padre’s. Hot, I mean really hot.
No one seemed to have a thermometer in Spain so I really don’t know how hot it was. Maybe 110. At the Padre’s it was a dry hot when we came but when we left, it was a sticky hot. I guess the barometer dropped. I really don’t know what that means. I used to hear my father say that. “It’s going to be hot today,” he would say. “The barometer must’ve dropped.” We didn’t have any air conditioning at our house. In fact, I don’t think any of our neighbors did either, so you just accepted a hot summer on the Eastern Shore of Maryland in those days during the war in the 1940’s.

The windows were all open at the Padre’s to catch any breeze that came through. Every now and then a quiet breeze would cross through where we were sitting. It was such a friendly feeling. You sat there all hot and sweaty and then this breeze would waft across the table and move a piece of paper or a feather sitting there. It’s a really fine natural pleasure to have a breeze like that cool you off momentarily. It didn’t last long. Only a second or two. But you knew there was always going to be another coming through again soon. A friendly breeze. Next to an ice cream cone on a summer day, I think a momentary breeze like that on a hot summer day is one of my finest pleasures.

In Spain, they have that long break at midday they call siesta time. It’s just too hot to work, even to think. The heat of the day in Spain calms down after sundown and the countryside cools off. Even the tiny little bugs that are always flying around getting in your eyes sometimes disappear. Then in the morning, it’s refreshing. Nice and cool.

In other parts of the world, just before the dawn and light blue sky arrive the birds begin to chirp and announce that a hot dusty day is coming again. But you know what? In this part of Spain, up on the plains, there are no songbirds. I guess because there are no trees and bushes or any kind of vegetation where they can live. It’s just a silent early morning except for the clomp, clomp, clomp of a horse-drawn wagon off in the distance.

Shortly after leaving the Padre’s, a wind came up and we were heading into it. Low rumbling clouds were waiting for us up ahead to the west. We didn’t have goggles so we just squinted our eyes as we moved into it.
”Oh Jeeze!” I thought. We’ve never really had any really big storm on this trip. We’ve been lucky. Please, let’s not have it now. We’re out of money. We’re nearly out of gas. We’re in a part of Spain out here on the plains where hardly anyone lives. This is like traveling from Yuma, Arizona to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I don’t know if there’s a road between those two, but it sounds awfully barren travel.

Anyway, the storm started out with small gusts of wind that every now and then picked up the gravel from the road shoulders and hit us square in the face. It wasn’t the kind of steady wind that blows sheets off a clothesline or women’s hats off into the street. But I wouldn’t want to fly a kite in it.
It was a summer storm. Just like the kind that always brews up anywhere on the planet on a hot summer day, from USA to USSR. One of those hot July dog-day tempests that drops the temperature 10-15 degrees very quickly. It’s the kind that if you’re in your car, riding along on a summer day, windows open and rolled down all the way, your elbow hanging out the side, and then you hear the sound of water pellets splatting the dusty metal roof of your car, making a rifle range sound on top. You quickly roll up your windows.

Out on the plains, tumble-weed-looking things, the kind you see in the Cowboys & Indians movies were flying eastward and low over the fields. If there were trees out there, (but there weren’t any except the new saplings that had been planted for miles along the highway by the Franco people,) they’re be bending in the wind, losing leaves and branches. This was not the kind of storm where you hear the thunder way up high where the eagles fly, it was more the kind where the crackling comes shooting along the low ceiling of clouds, down where the crows fly.
Sometimes this kind of rainstorm passes overtop as though it only wanted to let off a little steam. Other times you unfortunately are in the place where it makes its decision to crank up its ferocity and dump a ton of rain on you or sometimes-even hail.
Well this day, it started with those thick, fat, pellets of rain, threatening to let the dam burst if it wanted to. The dark clouds of this storm were low and moving with gusto overhead. You could almost reach up and touch them. They’re always accompanied by cracks of thunder atop them, as though the lightning man is riding herd right along with them, looking down to see which iron fence post or cow it wants to zap with its blitz of lightning. It’s the kind of storm you want to run for cover.
But where? The horizon was bare. No grove of trees. Nothing.
In the driving wind and rain we came upon a cross roads with a small sign we could see that pointed to Tajuna to the left. “Let’s try down this way!” I yelled to Rudi behind me and turned to drive south. The clouds began breaking up here to the south. Soaking wet, we could see a small town down in a valley and came upon some buildings on the outskirts. It turned out to be a pub/grocery store, a kinda watering hole for local farmers. We went in and several local farmers gave us a stare as we entered the dark place. And then one of them shouted, “Guitar!”
I think if I hadn’t been toting my guitar strapped on my back and we would’ve walked into that place without it, we would’ve been stared at the whole time until we left. That’s the kind of feeling I got in this part of Spain. We didn’t look “normal” to them and immediately they would have been suspicious of us, especially since we didn’t have black hair like typical Spaniards.
To me, it was a shame to see a country with a population that was so suspicious of each other and especially strangers. We didn’t find anything like this in France. Maybe we would’ve if we had been in France ten years earlier when you never knew if your neighbor was a French Resistance fighter, or a secret spy for the Vichy government. As I said before, it’s an ugly feeling to be in a society where neighbor report on neighbor, where friendships can turn into a bad blood. I didn’t know I had it so good back in the ol’ USA. And as I said before, Rudi didn’t seem to notice this feeling of distrust because he had grown up in the Nazi era.

For myself, there’s nothing more terrifying than to be in a room with people and notice that a person thirty feet away is looking at you while writing in a small notebook

“Is it raining outside? You’re all wet!” The store owner greeted us with an amiable smile.
“No, but it his over the hill to the north.” I managed to let him know.
One of the fellows in the corner yelled “Guitar!” again.
“Another asked, “Are you professionals?”
That gave me an idea. I took off my cap, and held it out, and said “Si, senor!”

Rudi winced. I guess he thought I was stepping too low and he didn’t want to be associated with me.
“I returned a glance that said, ”Hey! They sell food here. We can make some money and buy ourselves some lunch.”
Rudi went out to the scooter and brought in his guitar. We tuned up, the half-dozen farmers in there relaxed and sat back and waited to see if our rendition was going to be worth listening to. We sang one of our best Spanish tunes. It turned out pretty good, the tune that is. The Spanish pronunciation was horrible. But that was O.K. It clued in the farmers that they couldn’t expect to hear good Spanish coming out of us.

“Would you like to hear more?”

They actually approved. This had probably never happened before in this little grocery store/tavern.
After three more songs I passed my hat around. The coins added up enough to buy a glass on wine each and four cans of beans.
We went outside to a little rest area underneath a thatched roof and ate our bean lunch and dried off our clothes and changed our shirts. But the storm from the north swept down upon us again. We covered our scooter up and shot back inside. This time there was mostly a different group of customers and we entertained again.
Remembering the good Padre’s warning, we kept an eye out for the top dog in this collection of locals. It wasn’t difficult to decide. His name was Gerardo. He was a well-tanned quiet farmer, small in size in comparison to most of the others. He wore a beret, not the white sombrero we were used to seeing in this part of Spain. He was the first to request songs from other countries like Germany, France, and the USA. He seemed like a recluse and maybe some kind of leader in the civil war a few years back. Maybe a Captain or something. Anyway, everyone in the little grocery store\tavern respected him. It was obvious.
“We better get moving and find a place to stay,” Rudi said as the sun was starting to set. We bid everyone farewell and thanked them for their contribution that made it possible to buy some more beans and a half tank of gas. When we were packing our scooter, Gerardo came outside and asked, “Do you have a place to sleep tonight? There are no hotels around here.”
Rudi returned, “We usually set up our tent.”
Gerardo said, “With the weather we’ve been having, you shouldn’t do that. I’ve got a stable that’s dry that has a couple of cots in it for when I hire extra workers. Would you like to stay there?, -it’s not far.”
“Sure,” we both said and followed him and his donkey.
Gerardo lived alone on his small granja. No wife. No children. Just a couple of animals and some chickens. A small adobe hut where he and his animals both lived together and a smaller hut where he let migrant workers from eastern Portuguese workers live. He lighted an oil lamp and showed us the two cots.
“Thank you, senor,” I said. He nodded and said something like, “Happy to help you out.”
I chose the bed to the right, and a few minutes after we had extinguished the oil lamp that Gerardo had left in the room, we were off to sleep. I awoke sometime soon after, scratching feverishly at my legs. It reminded me of the itching I suffered when I came down with a case of hives as a child. My first thought was that I was having a recurrence. It was probably something I had eaten earlier.
I couldn’t resist scratching - - at first I rubbed my legs against the sides of the cot and then against one another. And then I began scratching with my feet, and then my fingernails - - the itching sensation was really agonizing. It spread to the rest of my body. When I had satisfied the itching sensation in one area, another area would begin itching. At first I would let it tingle, hoping it would go away. My mother used to always say when I had the hives, “Don’t scratch it. It’ll only make it worse.”
I turned on my stomach. Maybe then I could fall back to sleep. But the agonizing torture was too much - - even more areas began itching. I had areas all over my body that were swelled. My lips seemed puffed, and the area around my eyes. But they really weren’t. I was only imagining this. It seemed there was no place on my body that wasn’t being affected.
We had some rubbing alcohol out in the scooter. It would relieve the itching. But I decided it would be best not to leave the bed. I saw that the light was still on at Gerardo’s. He was probably up reading. He seemed like the kind of person that was always interested in learning. If I went to the Vespa, Gerardo would hear me prowling around the grounds, looking in the saddlebag of the scooter. He might think I was a thief, and he’d come out to look and see what I was doing. Maybe I misjudged him. It would be best not to attract any attention. Or maybe he wouldn’t say a thing. I didn’t want to disturb him.

I was worried about disturbing him at the expense of getting relief for my itching. It’s funny how you bring your cultural way of life to a place where they couldn’t care less. Besides, the itching might stop any minute and I could fall back to sleep.
But it never stopped. Perhaps I slept that night, I can’t remember. But I do remember hearing his donkey and mule talking to each other in the cool night air in the moonlight. They just stood there, in silhouette, the big animal and the small animal, just making sounds to each other, leaning from one side to the other, scratching their hides on a nearby post. And then they’d be quiet for a while as though they were thinking about something else to talk about, or what the other had just said. And then they’d eat some hay or straw or something. I think that’s the times when I might have fallen asleep, when they weren’t talking to each other.
Just before the sun came up some chickens started rustling over in a small shelter beside Gerardo’s. And a rooster started crowing. Gerardo ’s light was out. He had probably fallen asleep and let the oil lamp burn down. There was no light in his home.

Rudi always slept well. The noise from the rooster and cackling hens didn’t seem to bother him. But it woke up Gerardo. I heard him rustling about with some kitchen utensils. “Oh boy!” (I thought. He’s going to cook us up some eggs and fried chicken or something. I poked Rudi. “Time to get going,” I said. He mumbled and rolled out of his cot, wiping his eyes
“What the hell are those marks all over you, Engh?” Rudi asked.
“I looked at myself closely. “I thought they were hives, but I never saw hives that looked like this!”
Rudi took a closer look. “They’re bedbug bites!”

“Bed bugs?” and I pulled the covers back to see if I could see anything crawling in the bed.
“You won’t find them now.” Rudi said. “They don’t like the light, and they crawl into the straw mattress and crevices of wood when it gets light. Look at you, you’re a helluva mess to go to Madrid!”
I didn’t care how I looked. All I wanted was to get out of there. We got dressed. Rudi tinkered with the Vespa. And I checked in with Gerardo. I noticed on the table that he had been reading a Spanish novel. It had pictures in it. No photos, just line drawings. It was tattered. Probably borrowed from someone.
I noticed that he had a watch. He was wearing it at the grocery store and now in the morning. I think he must’ve worn it to bed. It was expensive-looking. “It must have a history,” I said to myself.
“Have some bread and coffee,” Gerardo said. “Where’s your partner?”
“I’ll call him.”
Gerardo sliced some bread as Rudi walked in. No, there was no eggs and fried chicken. Nothing. Just thick brown bread. Looked like he made it himself. He had a bread-baking oven. But it wasn’t recent bread. Probably a day or two old.
It’s hard to talk to someone like Gerardo who is so poor he can’t offer a guest anything but a part of a loaf of bread. “Want to take some with you”? He asked.
“Yes,” Rudi said and we wrapped up a couple of slices in an old newspaper.
“Thanks.”

Gerardo had a map and wanted to show us a short cut to Madrid, it was only a half-day away.
“Thanks,” Rudi said,” But we have to stick to the main roads. We might run out of gas.”

Gerardo understood. I remember him waving goodbye as he stood there with his donkey and mule. I wished that I could’ve spent another day there with him. Because I saw no picture of Franco on the rugged sparse wall of his home, I imagined that he had chosen the wrong side of the Spanish Civil War, that he had lost most of his good friends to battle, maybe even a wife and young children. And maybe his land and property. Maybe he had just spent the last decade in prison.

Even with my faulty Spanish I know I could’ve understood his life story but maybe it was best that I didn’t have a talk with him. I know that the farmers at the tavern/grocery store respected him. That was enough for me.

The closer we got to Madrid, the greener the countryside became and the more people we saw. When we stopped to fix a flat tire, children appeared from everywhere. At siesta time, we stopped at a worksite and entertained the group of workers with some melodies.
We were emerging from a part of Spain that few tourists rarely see. The people seemed to be living an existence that said, “I vow to learn no more in life that my father.”
We had great hopes that this would change when we got to Madrid.

NEXT: We arrive in Madrid, almost.

Note about “My Story” by Rohn Engh. The travel years were 1957 to 1959. The first draft was written between 1960-’61 in Afton, MN but never published. The author has revived the manuscript. Drawings, sketches, and photos (Rolleicord/B&W) are by the author. For other stories and books by Rohn Engh:
“A Simple Garden Book” (1976) Look for it on E-Bay or Amazon Books
“Somethingness” (2002) Horse Creek Press Look for it at LuLu.com
“PhotoSourceBOOK” (2000-2008) Look for it on Amazon
“Sell & ReSell Your Photos” (1982) Writers Digest Books (five editions)
“sellphotos.com” (1999) Writer’s Digest Books, (F&W Publishing)
Rohn Engh is the publisher of The PhotoLetter,
PhotoDaily, and PhotoStockNOTES.
Autographed 8x10 photos and drawings by the author are available
. Phone 715 248 3800, x21. Ask for Bruce Swenson.