In the Land of Dandelion Time

Even now, fifty years later, the word Spain conjures the open faces of my Ruesgan friends working fields of sunlit grain, the sweet grass smell of cow patties spattered in the lane, the gentle clonk of cow bells, and wooden carts creaking past the Bar Juanon, where my family lodged. Eleven summers. Embedded. A time when cows wore shoes and men and women had no use for banknotes, machines or cars. How could I forget?