HONKY-TONK ENGLISH

I first met Juan when he came by my house to give me a quote on a remodel project, in the suburbs of Atlanta.  He stepped out of his truck, a dented white pickup that looked like it had lived at least three separate lives.  He greeted me with a confident, “Mister Jeff, my friend!  Today….we fix everything.  No problem.  Like a country song, yes?”

                  That should have been my first warning.

                  Juan, an immigrant from south of the border, was a building contractor by trade, spoke English in a way that was both impressive and deeply confusing.  He had learned it, as he proudly told me, by listening to country music while driving a taxi in Texas.

                  “I learn from the best teachers,” he said, nodding seriously.  “George Strait….. Alan Jackson…and one man named Toby, who is very angry but….God bless…so patriotic.”

                  Now, I prided myself on my Spanish.  I’d studied it, practiced it, even had used it ordering food, without accidentally asking for a shoe instead of soup.  But standing there with Juan, I quickly realized I was about as fluent as a toddler with a phrasebook.

                  Our conversations became a linguistic jambalaya – half English, half Spanish, and half wild gesturing. Yes, that’s three halves!  That’s how confusing it was.

                  One morning, I asked him, “Juan, did the materials arrive?”

                  He nodded thoughtfully, “Si… the madera is here. But …..how you say…. The truck, she broke my corazón.”

                  “Your heart?”  I asked.

                  He shook his head.  “No, no.  The axle. 

                  Another time, I tried to explain a design change, with my limited Spanish, “Necesitamos mover la Puerta….uh…. two feet….hacia la izquierda. »

                  He squints, processing.  Then lights up.

                  “Ah!  You mean…. We take the door; we put her on the road again, like no good honky tonkying woman?”

                  I gesture widely and say, “No, we move the honky tonkying lady right here!”  and I take a pencil and mark the location on the two-by-four. 

                  He nods smiling and jots a few notes on his note pad.

                  I wonder if he is writing a new country music song. He is wondering if I realize the new position, I so eloquently instructed, would now be directly above a central air vent.

                  His crew, who spoke even less English, would watch us like we were performing some kind of experimental theater.  Juan would translate for them, but not quite accurately.

                  The moment that truly defined Juan happened late one Saturday afternoon.  We’d wrapped up a long week, and he leaned against the countertop, which he had built, and studied the job, like a cowboy surveying his land.

                  “Mr. Jeff,” he said, “In life….. you build things, you lose things… sometimes you fix things.  Is like a country song, always.”

                  I nodded.  “That’s….actually pretty accurate.”

                  He smiled, then added, “Aso, if something goes wrong….you blame the truck.”

                  “The truck?”  I question.

                  “Yes”, he said firmly.  “Always the truck.  Even if there is no truck.”

                  I laughed.  “That might be the most useful Spanish/English lesson you’ve given me.”

                  He grinned.  “Next week, I teach you about love, whiskey, and drywall.”

                  And that’s how I learned that fluency isn’t about perfect grammar or the right words.  Sometimes, it’s about meeting somewhere in the middle-with a little Spanish, a little English, a lot of hand gestures. …..and just enough country music to make everything make sense.

 

                 

 

                    

 

 

                 

What's A Pissant?

Wikipedia defines ‘Pissant’ as a type of Formica (ant) of the subfamily Formicinae, including species commonly known as ‘wood ants, mound ants, thatching ants, field ants and Pissants’.

I'm seventy-three years old and I just found this out. For the last seventy years, I thought I was a pissant. That’s what my momma used to call me.  I can still hear her saying, “Stop running from me, you little pissant!”  And with that she would start waddling at warp speed with switch in hand.  Being only six years old, I couldn’t run and laugh at the same time, and inevitably I would be caught, given a switching and once more reminded, I was a little pissant.

Even though at the time I had no clue what a pissant was, I kind of figured, by the beads of sweat on my mother’s brow, the tone in her voice and the fire in her eyes, pissant was not an endearing distinction. As years passed, I grew to embrace my new title, partly because I could run faster and my mother got slower. I think I was in college before I finally out-grew, ‘pissant’ and began being called Jeff. Even then, when the tone in her voice changed and she displayed those fiery eyes, I was given titles, such as, “You little piece of sh*t, or You little son of a bit*ch!”  Which I never could rationalize, because I figured that was a little self-deprecating for her to say.

It all started when I was six years old.  Our family was sitting around the small dinette table at dinner for supper. With the four us (my sister was yet to be born), our plates, silverware, napkins and glasses in wait, my mother began spooning the spaghetti onto our plates. Toasted garlic bread, sliced to perfection and portioned pl carefully placed on each bread plate.  With tea glass in hand, we held our glasses out, ready to be filled with her famous sweet tea.  As she carefully poured each waiting glass, I watched and the little pissant I was had an idea.  I reached my waiting glass across the table holding it steady as she carefully poured. About half-way, I yanked the glass from beneath the pitcher and sweet tea poured across the table. I laughed loud, expecting my brother and father to join, but no…….the look on all their faces said it all……… “YOU LITTLE PISSANT!” She yelled and commenced to pour the rest of the tea pitcher over my head.  Only then did my brother, my father and my dear mother begin to laugh. 

I’m glad after seventy years to have come to the realization that the term pissant was not really that disparaging.  Even though I was mischievous and some would say a handful, my mother did love me, and I loved her.  We had years of long talks, slow walks, and heartfelt moments together.  Those memories I will cherish till the day I die, when I hope this little pissant will see her again in heaven.

 

 

Do You Believe In Fate?

Do you believe in Fate?  Some suggest that time itself is guiding the choice, even when free will feels present.

I was once asked if I believed in fate. “Yes” I answered, without any hesitation. The confidence in my voice surprised even me, and later, when the room had emptied and the question lingered, I wondered why I had been so certain.

My mind drifted to a story I’d heard about Harrison Ford, the famous actor from Star Wars fame – how he wasn’t discovered through careful planning or ambition, but through a series of near accidents and coincidences. He was a carpenter, installing a door for Francis Ford Coppolla, the famous film director, when George Lucas and Richard Dreyfuss came to visit. Lucas noticed the young carpenter, his mannerisms, the look and the voice and on a whim asked if he would help him and read a few lines from a script, which happened to be from a new film he was working on, called Star Wars. A familiar face passing through the right room at the right moment.  George Lucas noticing what others hadn’t and eventually led to an acting part for Ford as Hans Solo.  A life redirected by chance so precise it felt intentional.  Fate, some would say, wearing the mask of randomness.

Do you believe in fate? The question, to me had come from Horace Holden, a minister and a successful businessman, a man who carried both faith and pragmatism with equal ease.  He asked it casually, almost offhandedly, yet it landed with the weight of a benediction.  In time, Horace and I became good friends, and through that friendship my world quietly widened.  One introduction led to another, like steppingstones appearing only when I lifted my foot.

Through Horace I met people whose names and stories I might never have known otherwise, including Don Ezell, owner of the famed Glen Choga Lodge in Topton North Carolina. Nestled in the mountains, the lodge felt like a place where time slowed and lives intersected, where conversations stretched longer than planned and strangers became familiar.  Standing there one evening, listening to the wind sift through the trees, I felt that same certainty I’d felt when I first answered the question, “Do you believe in fate.”

Fate, I realized, isn’t always dramatic. It doesn’t always announce itself with thunder or revelation.  Sometimes it’s a simple question, asked by the right person, at the right moment.  Sometimes it’s a friendship that opens doors you didn’t know existed.  And sometimes, looking back, you see that the path you thought you were choosing was quietly choosing you all along. 

 

Meatloaf and Memories

I think everyone has a stash of food-stained cards, scraps of paper ragged with age, and handwritten instructions stashed away in a kitchen drawer, cabinet or cupboard. Recipes passed down from Grandparents, Mothers, Sisters and friends from years past. Whether a complex description of how to properly prepare a prime rib or a two-ingredient concoction to satisfy a sweet tooth, they are all treasured by the lucky beneficiaries of these morsels of knowledge. 

We have all heard success stories about those who unexpectantly happened upon a secret recipe. Ruth Wakefield, who ran the Toll House Inn, in Massachusetts, added broken pieces of a chocolate bar to her cookie dough expecting them to melt evenly. Instead, they remained as chips, and the Toll House Cookie was born, becoming an American classic.

 Robert Cobb, owner at the Brown Derby restaurant in Hollywood in the 1930s, tossed together kitchen leftovers for a late-night meal. The salad became a star in its own right-loaded with chicken, bacon, avocado, blue cheese, and crisp lettuce. 

Caroline and Stephanie Tatin, two French sisters who owned an Inn outside of Paris accidently came upon the elegant upside-down apple tart, called Tarte Tatin. While preparing dinner for guests, Stephanie forgot to put a pie crust on the bottom of her apple pie. After realizing her mistake, she put the crust on top instead and flipped the dessert over to discover a perfectly caramelized apple topping.

One night, while Rhonda and I began our daily discussion as to what dinner would be, we mutually decided upon meatloaf. I had come upon the recipe years before and we both had enjoyed it over a period of several years. She asked me to retrieve the recipe from our secret stash of cards, papers and tidbits of magic potions. I pulled the box from the cupboard and began thumbing through the mess of papers, trying to find My Special Meatloaf Recipe. I was not having much luck and after about fifteen minutes, I suggested we grill burgers instead. Rhonda did not like this suggestion, so she began thumbing through the mess of papers and cards as I had just done for fifteen minutes. I took that moment to suggest that later, I would take the box of recipes and organize them. Maybe even digitalize each recipe and categorize them so that every recipe could easily be pulled from the computer based on whether breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, snack, etc. As I was explaining what I could do, she patiently kept thumbing through the box. She pulls a scrap of paper, food stained and wrinkled from age. She says, “Do you know who this recipe is from?” I shake my head no. She placed the piece of paper in front of me. She says, “That was the Bran Muffin recipe, your college roommate’s mother gave me forty years ago.”

 I picked up the recipe and read it. It was written in elegant cursive and even though it listed the ingredients and detailed instructions there was also a simple note of appreciation for the friendship she had shared with us over a weekend while she visited her son. It was signed Elaine Hyder.

 Rhonda retrieved another recipe, and once again, placed it in front of me. It was handwritten as well but was on a business letterhead piece of paper. Like the other, it was stained, folded, and the corners were ragged with use. I read the ingredients and instructions. It was signed by a dear friend from twenty years back, Janet Cooper.

 By the time I finished reading the last recipe, Rhonda handed me another. It too, was written on a scrap of paper, brown with age and in cursive. 

It said: Preheat oven to 475. Salt fowl & rub with margarine over his or her breast. Put in roaster with one qt. water at 9am and cook 1 hr. Turn oven off and DO NOT OPEN, until Ralph gets up. 

I held the piece of paper and realized it was written by Rhonda’s mother, Betty. I also realized that her reference to Ralph was Rhonda’s father. Both Betty and Ralph had long passed away but their memory had always held a special place in my heart. 

Rhonda finally finds my meatloaf recipe and retrieves it from the mess of papers and cards. She says, “That’s why I want to keep this box, just as it is. Not digitalized, not categorized, but requiring me to continually review each recipe. They’re more than recipes; they are our memories.

MY BUDDY

      Joe and I met the way many six-year-olds do, by accident.  It was the first day of first grade and we both, as little boys, wandered into the small classroom, wading into a new world of new experiences, new dreams and new acquaintances with excitement and fear. It was the first step for each into our future lives, alone.

     As the teacher instructed the group of twenty-five children to find a seat, both Joe and I decided on the same, small wooden desk.  As we began to argue, push and shove over who was going to have the desk, something happened between us, and we began giggling and laughing. We began to realize the desk; the seat was not important any longer, because we both had found our new best friend.

    From that day forward, our names were said in one breath: Jeff-and-Joe.  We were like two small shadows racing through childhood, inventing adventures out of empty fields and long summer hours.  We climbed trees taller than we were brave, skinned knees together, shared secrets whispered under blankets during sleepovers.  There were baseball games, Jeff-and-Joe, together in their ill-fitted uniforms, caps pulled low, ragged gloves in hand, living life, enjoying the game together. Each cheered on the other and each helped carry the other’s burden in failure. 

     As we both approached twelve years of age, there were other interests shared.  We learned to play the piano, guitar, trumpet and music became as important to us as baseball. Our sleepovers became impromptu jam sessions and summer days would find the two of us under a shade tree or carport with guitars in hand giving a concert for unappreciative neighbors.  Joe would teach me, and I would teach him, both encouraging the other toward a dream not fully understood. Saturdays, we would catch a bus to downtown Knoxville, and we would find our way to Fowler’s Furniture Store on Gay Street, where we would spend hours. On the third floor they had pianos, organs of all kinds on display and the two of us would play for hours, many times, the store employees would gather and listen as the two small, eleven-year-olds would play their music.  We didn’t realize it at the time, but we were probably the first ‘dueling pianos.’

     Summer trips camping with Joe’s family became one of my favorites.  With guitars in hand and mountains to explore, what more could two thirteen-year-olds desire.  We would sneak and buy Swisher Sweet cigars and find a safe place in the woods to smoke them, only to find ourselves sick afterwards but once again, we giggled and laughed and treasured our friendship.  Music was not forgotten while we camped and many times, we found ourselves playing for other campers and impressing the young girls with some of our pop song renditions.  As young boys, we were mischievous and found ourselves many times trying to explain our way out of a debacle with a Ranger or our parents, but never once did we leave each other’s side.  We always managed to carry the weight together.

       Teenage years made things messier, but not distant.  We warned each other about heartbreaks and celebrated first loves.  Yes, we got in trouble a few times-once for leaving school for lunch at Burger King but as we sometimes got in trouble, we also would get out of trouble together too.  Sports, tennis, baseball and hockey became treasured past times for Joe and me. As we were still not old enough to drive, my dad would drive us to the local ice rink to practice our skills. One night, Joe and I left the ice rink to grab a hotdog across the parking lot at the bowling alley.  As Joe ate his hotdog and began finishing off his desert of a cherry pie turnover, a hoodlum began picking a fight with us.  He was much older and bigger, and I suspected he had been drinking. There were several other guys with him and both Joe and I found ourselves in a bad situation.  We both got up to leave, and we quickly made our way across the parking lot back to the ice rink when the larger boy ran up behind us and started pushing Joe.  Before either of us could say or do anything, the larger boy hit Joe in the face.  I shoved at the larger boy and grabbed my buddy Joe, and we took off running.  As we came to the ice rink I glanced at Joe, and I saw what I thought was blood running down his face.  I was terrified.  We both ran into the ice rink, where my dad was waiting and as I explained to my dad what had happened, Joe began laughing.  What I thought was blood was just the remnants of his cherry turnover. What seemed funny to Joe and me did not seem funny to my dad.  He took both of us back to the bowling alley and I watched my dad walk up to the group of hoodlums who were now playing pool.  He yanked the larger of the boys up by the collar and threatened to beat the guy to death.  As Joe and I looked on, my dad gave a tongue lashing to the group of guys and as the manager of the bowling alley approached, my dad turned on him.  Cuss words, neither Joe or I had ever heard were spilling out of my dad’s mouth and as he motioned us to follow him out of the establishment, I glanced at the hoodlums who were now running for their lives and the manager stood speechless.  Both Joe and I, in hushed whispers, giggled and laughed in astonishment as to what we had witnessed. 

        In adulthood, our paths forked.  I built a family, and Joe built a career in music. There were moves, marriages, losses, illnesses…yet every time life’s weight pressed too hard on one, the other found a way to help shoulder it. 

       And then, somehow, sixty-seven years went by.

       Now I stand at the cemetery, the winter air cool, whispers of wind under skies of gray feeling empty.  The world was quieter without Joe’s laugh in it.  The kind of quiet that settles into the bones. 

      I rest my hand on the casket, fingers trembling but sure.  “We carried each other well, didn’t we?” I whisper.

      In my memory, Joe was still that boy, giggling and laughing, still the young kid that could make a piano sing, still the teenager who insisted we’d live forever, still the man who would stand by my side as my best man at my wedding and give me praise with the birth of my child.

      In the twilight of life, the carrying had changed form.  Not physical, not even spoken.  Just the steady comfort of knowing someone had walked beside me almost every step of the way.

     I draw a deep breath, heavy but grateful.

     “Thank you, buddy,” I whisper.  “Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for carrying me through the good and bad times.”

     Though Joe was gone, I felt it-one last time- the familiar warmth of being carried.

 

    My buddy, Joe Stafford died November 29, 2025. I feel as though a piece of my life died as well and the sorrow, grief and loss are overwhelming.  On December 4^th, 2025, under the dark gray winter skies, I helped carry my buddy to his final resting place. For that privilege I am grateful and will always feel indebted to him and his family for allowing me that honor.  I know he is now in heaven and at peace still helping me carry-on.

 

WHY

     

    Why?  A one-word question that I have asked many times in my life. As a child, I had often questioned my parents with that one word, and invariably I would get the same answer, “Because I said so! That’s why!”

     There was never any other conversation about why. I simply learned to accept their answer for what it was. I knew they loved me. I knew they did what was in my best interest and I knew they had much more experience in life than me. Therefore, even though I might not know the real answer as to why, I knew their decision was in my best interest. I had FAITH in them.

     It's interesting how life works, because as I grew older, I never stopped asking WHY. I simply stopped asking THEM why. I began asking myself that one word question, WHY. Why do I want to go to college? Why do I believe in God? Why do I have the hots for that new girl down the street? Why can’t I buy that 1965 red, convertible Mustang? Why does that new hot girl down the street keep turning me down? The why’s never stopped and I really couldn’t answer myself, as I had always been told, “Because I said so, that’s why!”

     I discovered I was at the point in my life where I would have to find the reason why for myself. I did not take this new responsibility lightly. As new why’s came into my life, I would investigate, study and ponder the options with great care, because I knew my decisions would formulate who eventually I would become. I found myself reading articles about politics, religion, and economics, trying to find the right answer as to WHY.

     It was always a triumphant feeling when I discovered that I had made a wise decision after careful consideration of all the information, but there were some questions, mostly philosophical, that could never be answered by my studies. Questions such as Why is there childhood cancer? Why do tragedies happen to good and righteous people? And most recently, Why do I want to walk the Camino?

     The Camino is an ancient pilgrimage in Spain of over five-hundred miles, ending in Santiago de Compostela. It is considered, The Way of St. James, where the Apostle was believed to have walked and now is buried beneath the Romanesque Cathedral in Santiago. For over twenty years there had been a yearning, to take on the challenge of walking from Saint Jean Pied de Port France, to Santiago de Compostela Spain, following the footsteps of Saint James. I kept asking myself WHY. I knew my urge to take on this Pilgrimage was much more than just to conquer another challenging adventure. It came from something much deeper within my soul.

     I’m a Christian but this was something beyond my deliberations as to WHY. I had to look up who Saint James was! I discovered Saint James was one of Jesus’ original twelve disciples and the stories of his discipleship across Western Europe was intriguing, but there was no answer as to WHY I should follow in his footsteps on the Pilgrimage across Spain. I studied the trail and even though there was a host of historical sites to be encountered, and there were huge numbers of people from around the World that walked this famous pilgrimage annually, I still could not figure out WHY I had the urge to do the Camino de Santiago. I wished I could have asked my Mother or my Father, although I kind of know what the answer might have been.

     Instead, I turned to God for an answer. It was done in prayer, over several days and nights, months.

  God, in all his wisdom, simply said, “because I said so!”

     My FAITH sent me to do the Camino, which I did in 2023. I walked five hundred thirty-eight miles, completing what is called the Camino Frances. I went back in 2024 and completed the Portuguese Route and the Finisterre (The end of the World). I learned so much on these treks. I answered so many of those, unanswered why’s. I realized I tended to judge people too quickly. I didn’t listen. Not to others, not even to what life was telling me. I discovered the true kindness of mankind, which I had begun to believe was extinct. I witnessed a deep spirituality of different religions, and the unwavering ability of tolerance displayed by most, if not all. On the Camino, I changed. I discovered a new purpose in my life, which in all its simplicity gave me something to live for. On the Camino, I found me, or at least who I wanted to be.

     Lesson learned. When you ask WHY and you hear, “Because I said so, that’s why.” Have FAITH!

A Nudge Toward The Abbey Of Eskirotz

 

Sometimes God nudges you by giving you insight into the spiritual state of people around you.

 

            It was May 8, 2023, when my friend and I left Zubiri, Spain to continue our journey on the Camino to Santiago, Spain.  We had started our Pilgrimage three days earlier in Saint Jean Pied de Port (France) and worked our way over the Pyrenees for two days to Roncesvalles, Spain.  From there we began a bone cracking, knee destroying descent, slowly working our way down the southern slopes to the village of Zubiri.  Zubiri is a small village in Navarre, Spain that sits along the Arga River. An ancient stone Roman Bridge crosses the Arga River as one enters the village proper. The cool, lazy waters of the Arga gave us the opportunity to wade in the shallows, giving our feet a much-needed break from the previous days of hiking.

            Today, we wake to a cloudy but mild day, and we take to the trail early.  We both feel eager to start, realizing that we will be in Pamplona later in the day, also relieved to know that we now have the Pyrenees behind us.

            We walk briskly, occasionally glancing at the skies in hopes of seeing more blue sky and less threat of rain, but there is no change.  A gray fluffy quilt of clouds thrown over the sky blocks the blueness; I know is there. Not far out of town we begin to pass a large Magnesium plant and for several kilometers’ we walk alongside mountains of slag and tall smokestacks before entering the woods, following an overgrown dirt and gravel path, winding its way toward our destination of Pamplona.  We pass a few small farms, their tiny plots of vegetables fenced with a variety of materials: a sheet of metal, a broken wooden pallet, a few stones and a few strands of wire corral the well cared for garden.

            Up ahead, I see the woods opening to a larger area of green fields and a few small stone buildings. I assume we are coming upon another small farm, although this one appears to be larger than the others and by far better cared for, it too has a small plot of land dedicated to farming, but the fence is made totally of stone, and although ancient, it is well crafted unlike the ones before.

            As we get closer, I realize that the main stone structure, just off the path to the right, is a small church. We approach slowly wondering if we should stop and explore.  We see a few other Pilgrims congregating underneath a small porch at the entrance.  They take off their packs and enter.  We follow suit, leaving our packs and entering through an ancient wooden doorway into a hush of darkness. It takes my eyes a minute or two to adjust to the dimness.  Candles burn, sending their flickering of light, into the darkness, but deep dark shadows crowd the candles glow. There are whispers, a shuffling of feet, as we wander into the unexplored dimension in time. 

            Even having been on our Pilgrimage only for four days, we had discovered that Cathedrals and Churches were the best places to get our Pilgrim Passports stamped. Not only are they usually the most elaborate, but to me, and others, they hold a special importance. As my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, and having explored the small chapel, I search for where I might get my passport stamped.  I find a small table in a darkened corner next to the door that has the stamp and I proceed to stamp my passport.  As I am doing so, I feel a hand timidly touch my arm. I turn to see who it might be.  There before me is a nun.  She is wearing a very casual tunic of light gray and a white collar. On her head is a simple white coif. She is elderly, late sixties maybe, and looks frail but converses as one much younger and moves with steadiness. I turn and smile, wondering if I had mistakenly, done something wrong.  I am not Catholic and unfamiliar with their proper practices and customs.

 She smiles in return and in very broken English she says, “Please pardon, where are you from?”

            I say, “United States.”  When I say it, I realize it sounds as if I was asking a question.

            She smiles again and says, “So you speak English?”

            “Yes Ma’am.”  I say and wonder if Ma’am is an indiscretion within Catholic customs. 

            She reaches for my hand and as she holds it in both of hers, she questions, “May I bless you?”

            “Yes.”  I respond in a whisper.

            As she continues to hold my hand she questions, “What is your name?”

            “Jeff, Jeff Morgan,” I say            and I begin to feel something within me. A warmth, a feeling of peace.

            Her eyes are gray, gray as the clouds that blanket our sky.  There is a twinkle, a bit of joy, perhaps, but as she continues to stare into my eyes it seems as though she is witnessing all my sorrows, regrets, worries and pains.  The twinkle in her eyes fade and there is a look of sorrow and worry that exudes from the grayness. She continues holding my hand in both of hers, staring into my eyes for it seems several minutes.  My heart races, even though I am feeling a calmness overwhelm me.  I see her gray eyes piercing into my soul, just before a tear finds its way down her pale cheek. She says softly, “Please kneel Jeff.”

            I kneel to one knee and bow my head. In a hushed whisper she says, “Now the Lord of peace himself give you peace always by all means.  The Lord be with you.”

            Her hand is upon my bowed head and she once again whispers, “May I place this pendant of Saint Lucia on you?”

            “Yes,” I whisper breathlessly.

            She places the pendant, with a simple string, about my neck and reaches for my hand to help me stand.  She smiles and I notice that although her eyes are still gray, the twinkle has returned.

            I feel different, renewed, as I find my way through the darkness to the door of the small chapel. I see other pilgrims waiting their turn to enter on the porch outside.  They are taking off their packs, complaining about their feet, their aches and pains and they question me as I pass, “Do they have a stamp for my passport?”

            I smile and nod, “Yes.  Buen Camino.”

            As I approach the trail, my buddy is waiting for me.  I glance to the sky and realize that the gray is gone.  All I see is blue sky and sun-drenched fields of green.

            I look at my friend and say, “Wow that was quite an experience.  I’ve never felt that way in my life.”

            He grins and says, “I felt the same.  God has a way of nudging one on the right path.”

            We spend the rest of the day continuing our journey to Pamplona. We walk mostly in silence for I can not think of anything but that little stone church and the ‘blessing’.

            It takes us thirty-eight more days to complete our walk to Santiago.  I will witness many blessings, miracles, revelations and yes……..nudges along The Way!

 

Side Note:

            It will be weeks later before I take the time to do a little research about that small church, that we came to just outside of Zubiri. The little church is known as the Church of St. Lucy (Santa Lucia), but collectively the buildings are listed as The Abbey of Eskirotz. It is believed to have been built in the 12^th Century.  Originally, it had been built as a fort, of possibly Templar origin and converted to an abbey church in the 13^th Century - The Abbey of Eskirotz. As I delve deeper into the history of this little church I discovered an unbelievable story behind it.

            For years the Church of St. Lucy sat empty. Slowly decaying over hundreds of years, it was left to be swallowed by the ground it sat upon.  It’s contents, sculptures, mosaics, and murals considered to be too ancient to be of value. It sat forgotten and ignored and left for ruin.

            Around 2010 a gentleman from South Africa, Neill Le Roux, walked by the ruins of the little church while walking his Camino.  He was retired then but before in South Africa, had worked restoring historical buildings.  He took interest in the little church and after his Camino was over, he found himself, along with his new Wife, Catherine visiting several times over the next few years.  He had met Catherine, an English lady, in Madrid while doing his first Camino. They both shared the same interests and decided that now Neill was retired, it would be a perfect place to live and raise their new baby.

            The legalities of purchasing such a property were difficult to say the least, but around 2012, he was able to work a deal with the Archdiocese of Pamplona to purchase the Abbey of Eskirotz for 150,000 Euros. The price of the property at first glance would seem fair, but Neill estimated that a proper renovation would cost near 500,000 Euros more. 

            After the purchase, Neil began his work on the Abbey and working with art historians, he discovered 12^th Century wall paintings behind the altar.  The church’s hand-painted altar was dated as being from the mid-13^th century (which was exposed after the church’s 16^th century altar was stolen during the time it stood abandoned).

            During the beginning of the restoration, the local governments of Navarre, Zubiri and Eskirotz took issue with the purchase and filed many legal documents claiming the purchase was not legal.  They claimed that the Archdiocese had no right to sale the property.  The filings continue, costing Neill a fortune in legal fees.  To my knowledge the legal issues continue today.

            Not long after the purchase of the property and Neill began his renovations with the help of volunteers and donations, his Wife Catherine would leave him, taking with her their young child Evalyn.  They moved to England where they continue to reside.  The separation also led to many legal disputes which basically left Neill without any parental rights.

            Close to this same time, Neill was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer, given only a few years to live.  Even with all that had happened to him and his dream of renovation of the little church, he continued to move forward with it. Many volunteers came to work, and donations poured in while he continued to fight the legal battles with the local governments, his Wife’s refusal for him to see his daughter and now his fast-approaching death from cancer.

               The last post I found of Neill, was around 2018 where he was finally able to win a small battle legally, to see his daughter.  He was elated to be able to travel to England to see his dear Evalyn, only eight years old, to say his good-byes for he knew his time was near.

            When I read this story of the little church and realized all the pain, sorrow, and burdens that has walked through it’s doors yet it still stands welcoming more.  Just as it welcomed me and gave me a reason to live.  In one of Neill’s last post, he had taken a picture of several of his closest friends at the little church.  Some of the photos were volunteers, some were pilgrims that had returned several times to visit, but there was one that caught my eye.  She had gray eyes, a simple gray tunic and a smile that I will never forget.  It was the nun that had blessed me.  It was Maria Asunción.

            When I began researching this little church, I kept finding more bits and pieces of information that I found extremely intriguing.  Unfortunately, the information I came across would be from unverifiable sources and I don’t know for sure if everything is true. Regardless of the validity of it’s entirety, I find it a remarkable story.