He looked across the horizon, his gaze wandering over the mountains and valleys that his father had once called home. The jagged peaks hid the sun from his view as a light rain fell around him. He turned and studied the house where his dad and his dad's dad had been born. It was a large house, made of solid, sturdy stone, much like the people who lived in this land. The walls were painted white and the roof was covered with red tile. The curtains on the windows hid the rooms behind.

He entered the massive wooden doorway into a bright, light blue room. It was framed by a large fireplace on the right, the kitchen and stairwell to the left, and the entrance to the barn ahead. The barn was closed, as cows were no longer kept on the small farm, but at one time the animals had been the sole source of heat in the cold winter nights. There was a light in this room, though the wires running across the ceiling showed that they were an after thought, not something that had been even conceived of when the house was originally built. The fireplace had not been used in many years, as propane heat had became more economical and convenient.

The kitchen contained a large stove, a sink, a small table with chairs, and an old sofa that had seen many children and grandchildren tear at its skin. There was a large cupboard filled to the brim with all kinds of foods: canned fruits, vegetables and meats of many kinds. The stove was now fired by propane gas, a small pipe connecting it to the fuel source outside. It was obvious that the family never ate here. They must have eaten in the larger foyer, though that table was not out now.

At the top of the stairs, a small bathroom had recently been installed. Everything in the house was either very old or very new. There were three bedrooms to the left of the landing, one still used by amuma. Her bed was high off the floor, to give more space for the things she stored underneath. Her walls were covered with religious icons and there were photographs of her decesed husband on the dresser. She had a large chest that contained hundreds of photographs, stored for a rainy day or a grandson from America. The other rooms were spartan, each with a bed and a dresser and a crucifix, a necessary addition to all rooms. On the wall of one room hung photographs -- of amuma's wedding day, her brother-in-law lost in the Civil War, and her husband's parents. To the right of the landing was a larger open area. The floor boards were old and wearing a bit thin, as one could see between the cracks to the foyer below. They were little more than old, grayed planks lain across the rafters of the ground floor. There was a freezer that contained more food, mostly frozen meats and vegetables. Next to this open area was another bedroom, much like the other, waiting for another soul to spend a night in its cold, yet comforting environs. There was also the hay loft, still filled with hay, hay which was beginning to decay from lack of use.

This house once held eight children, their parents, and their grandmother. Now, it holds only the mother, who, alone, prepares soup for dinner while listening to Holy Mass on the radio. Today she has a visitor, her grandson from America, the land where her eldest son made his life, leaving home at the young age of eighteen. He has been reluctant to come up here and spend the night, as he felt he had so many things to do in the town, so many people to see, so much to learn. But, though he doesn't realize it now, this is where he will learn the most. This is where his father grew up, where his father learned about life, learned who he was. It is also where his grandfather was raised, and where ancestors for many generations had called home. He will regret not having spent more time here, not trying to learn the secrets of this old house and its sole inhabitant. He will regret not studying the walls, the layout of the stones, the arrangement of the beds. He will wish that he had spent more time there, that he had learned what this old house had to teach him. He wishes that he had spent more time with his father when he had the chance. Though his father is still alive, his health is not good, and he had the chance to get to know his father better back in Seattle. But, he didn't take the time. He didn't learn what he could have. He didn't learn more about his father and the house he came from, the house that did much to shape the man his father is today. The house that protected the family from the storm, that sheltered them from the heat, that, at the same time, shaped them into who they later became.

That is why he must go back, go back with his father, and visit the house, together. Why he must see the house with his father, see it through his eyes, see his father playing in the yard, speaking with his own father, working with his mother. It is why he must go back with his father. To try to learn all that the house can teach him, to learn who his father is and what his father also has to teach him. They must go together so that he can understand the man who is his father.

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guerrica at asu dot NOSPAM dot edu 25-Feb-2004 17:54 #344 Blas, I am a long time fan of your website. As in your case my father is from Euskadi, in fact he is from the same town (Munitibar) as your father. I've spent as much time there as possible and shared more than a couple of drinks with your uncle Martin that runs Herriko Taberna. I too was interested to see where my father was from. I took pictures of the baserri inside and out. I measured the dimensions of the house and noted where major appliances/features (rooms, furniture, etc) were located. The greatest wealth of information was of course my aitxitxe, my father's father. He told me many stories; He told me how the whole valley was bombed by the Germans when they attacked Gernika and showed me a "new" beam that supported a portion of the house that had to be a replaced when a bomb struck the huerta (garden) in front of the house. The next beam in would have taken the whole house down... I was lucky to have the foresight to write down many of the stories, having lost my amuma and my other aitxitxe previously. When he passed away in February of '03 and I went back for the funeral. We all sat in the kitchen afterwards, my father, myself from America and countless cousins and aunts and uncles (my dad's family numbers 12!) and told stories about aitxitxe. Before I knew it I was telling many of the stories I had heard from Aitxitxe first hand. My family was stunned. Here I was born and raised in the US, I learned Spanish in school and only came to visit Euskadi begining in 1992. I knew more stories than all of them, and I had them written down. Whether it is a place or a person there are so many familial/cultural resources we may take for granted until it is too late. I say go and visit Euskadi, sit down over a copa, some patxarran or a glass of leche casera and listen. I learned so much from just being in the right place and asking some questions.... The last day of my first trip back in 1992 I remember spending the day with my aitxitxe, sad to know I had to leave. My cousins had invited me to go to Lekeitio one last time like I had done so many days before. They couldn't understand when I said I wanted to stay in the baserri with aitxitxe. Sure, I knew he would sleep late and then we would probably just walk around the huerta or sit inside in the kitchen and have lunch with my tia. Lekeitio I knew would always be there, but aitxitxe wouldn't. Now with only one Amuma remaining and my parents approaching retirement (I say approaching because they are Basque after all and I don't think they will retire until God makes them) I cherish their company. Although I live in a different state I call often just to see how things are. Amuma is always amazed at how near I sound on the new fangled cell phone I've got and my parents get to stay informed about my goings on. Carpe diem. There is no time like the present. To call Spain I recommend 1010987. You can call any Spanish number (including cell phones) for $0.03/min and $0.39 a connect with minimal taxes. This works for domestic #'s as well. It's not as good as being there but it helps. To get a number in Spain (or an address) try Infobel's website. I even got my aitxixes "actual" street address which I don't think the postman would know since everyone just goes by baserri names. http://www.infobel.com/spain/wp/search/# Blas, if you make it Boise some time when were both in town we should get together. Maybe we can get together for a game of mus and take on our dad's. They are apparently both well enough to spend a bit of time doing some Basque-o bluffing. Take care, Joe M. Guerricabeitia
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Last updated: Wed, 25 Feb 2004 - 17:54:24

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