It Was Worth It

3 August, 2014

I have been asked whether our stay in Spain was worth all the trouble. It's a valid question; one that I have asked myself many times over. We gave up so much to come here:

• Comfortable home, recently renovated
• Church of 20 years, which we helped to build
• Friends
• Family
• Good job
• Predictable life (mostly)
• Cookout milkshakes
• Chick-Fil-A, home of the blessed chicken

After one year of living in another culture, however, I can say unequivocally, emphatically, that yes it was worth it. What we all discovered is that we did not give up many of the things on my list. Some, obviously, are deferred, but others stayed with us the whole time. Our friendships and family ties deepened with the distance. What is more, we developed some real relationships in Spain that we expect to nurture well into the future.

We have made a deposit into our daughters that will accrue interest for the rest of their lives. Opportunities have opened up, even now, for them to follow their passions in ways they never knew were possible before living in another culture. They are no longer shackled by language, nationality or cultural ignorance. 

The question I now ask myself is how can I bring this ethos back home with me? Nothing is more annoying than to hear an ex-expat say how much better everything is over there. My friends have chided me about it a time or two. The comparisons are inevitable, but they are superficial. Debating about who has the best cheese is not what matters. Opening people's minds to the possibility that other cultures are valid, good, even desirable, is the goal I am pursuing. Someone once said that one third of the people in the world eat with forks and call themselves civilized. One third eats with chopsticks and call themselves civilized. One third eats with their hands and call themselves civilized. Perhaps we need to listen to what people say about themselves, instead of forcing our own arbitrary labels upon them. 

I have no idea where God will lead me next, beyond the fact that it will be Hartsville, South Carolina. I do know that whatever does happens will be informed by whatever has already transpired, and for that my heart is full.

Farewell Dinner

3 August, 2014

The other night we held a celebration dinner at Restaurante Victoria. It is one of our favorite places. The family that owns it has adopted us as their own. We wanted to say thank you to some of the people who have marked our lives here in Spain. This isn't the first time we have done this.

Barely one year into our marriage, Susan and I decided to build a house in Pinehurst, NC. Our builder ended up being totally incompetent, so we fired him after four months. Abraham Lincoln was faced with replacing U.S. Grant as general in the middle of a bloody campaign against Robert E. Lee. Lincoln said, "It's not a good idea to switch horses in the middle of a stream." I know what he meant.

Instead of finding a new contractor, we decided to be the G.C. ourselves. Thus commenced a year of hell. Finally we finished the house. We thought it only appropriate to christen it and to say thanks to our friends and family that supported us during the ordeal. Thus began our famous pig-pickin' tradition with 100 of our closest friends.

The dinner at Restaurante Victoria was a somewhat smaller affair. We only had about 30 people. Luckily for our bank account, most of our friends had already cleared town for their vacations. We could have easily filled the plaza, and for that we are truly thankful.

Happy Birthday Katherine

Happy 13^th Birthday to

an amazing teenager who is:

Honorable


Artist and Athletic


Pretty


Passionate


Young


Beautiful


Insightful and Imaginative


Right


Thoughtful


Humorous


Drop dead gorgeous


Amazing


You-nique

I love you,

Mommy

How about that?

Another year has passed.

Perhaps you thought it would never come.

Pain and agony have been a part of your journey, but…

You have also experienced joy and incredible growth.

Believe in yourself.

I have witnessed your incredible gifts.

Remember that we love you to the moon and back.

Things that seem like challenges today are preparing you for     victories tomorrow.

Hold on to those parts of your “girl-hood”, as you pass into “woman-hood”.

Dig a little deeper everyday to find the gold in your life.

Act on your passions, without holding back.

You are my daughter, and I am so happy to say that.

To Infinity and Beyond

14 July, 2014

Danger Askins and his crew have been in the deepest reaches of outer space, fighting the dread school break fever. Emerging from his self-imposed slumber and languor, Danger is ready for the next challenge--Vacation to Italy and Beyond!

For all of June, we packed all our worldly belongings or gave them away to new-found friends, in preparation for a six week tour of Italy, Greece and Switzerland, after which we will be moving back to Hartsville, South Carolina, the town of my birth and seat of my ancestry.

Sadly this means the coming end of the Redneck's life in Europe. For now. Many people have asked us whether it was worth it to trade the known and comfortable existence we enjoyed for the decidedly unknown and discomfiting life in another country. My reply, and Susan's, has always been the same. Absolutely. The girls, too, have slowly come around to the reality that their journey to Hell and back left more than just some scorch marks on their souls. They have even started to see that La Alberca, Spain is actually a pretty nice place to live.

Katherine was invited to go swimming with some of her friends about a week before we left for vacation. When she arrived, she found her entire class waiting for her. Her friends had planned a going away party for Katherine. That's when it hit her. She later told me that I was breaking her heart for the second time in a year. The first was coming to Spain. The second would be leaving it. A few limbs broke off and all the leaves blew away in the year-long hurricane of emotions and anxiety. Her trunk will show some wear, perhaps a knot or two. However for all her sufferings over the past year, and there have been many, Katherine is blossoming into a beautiful young woman. When she looks back over her life, Katherine will see the stoutest parts of her trunk came at those moments when she faced the greatest adversity. Those rings will be close together and tightly wound, giving her the strength she will need to endure harsher storms. We are gently pruning her in preparation for bountiful harvests. The fruit will be all the sweeter.

Elizabeth is already seeing some benefits. Spain served as a cocoon out of which she was forced to emerge under her own power. As her wings unfold and dry out, she will be flying to places of her own choosing. Butterflies seem to have no pattern or path as they flit about, yet they always land at their destination. Her scope is focusing and her destination is becoming international, like a monarch. From this point forward, we will be giving less direct intervention and more guidance. She will be flying away soon, only three more years. We will be left to watch the wonderful display.

What's in Your Toolbox?

9 April, 2014

The other day I went out by myself on a hike. When I go with a friend, I don't feel the need to take anything with me, but when I go solo, all of sudden, I have a compulsion to take a backpack full of stuff:

• Long Pants
• Jacket
• Hat
• Water bottle
• Wallet
• Keys
• ID
• Leatherman

The Boy Scout in me comes out, and I need to carry stuff, just in case. Be prepared. I forgot a flashlight, however, so my total trek time was only about 1 hour. I also failed to bring along anything resembling a first aid kit. Looking back, I was not prepared for much more than what I actually accomplished--a fairly easy uphill stroll. The wallet came in handy, however, because I stopped at a new restaurant and enjoyed a few tapas and a couple of cervezas. Mission accomplished.

The only tool I brought along, my Leatherman, is really just a multi-faceted pacifier. I feel better having it strapped to my side. To be sure, I could find some uses for it on the trail, if pressed, but in truth, I am not much of an outdoorsman. I love being in the wild, but I don't know how long I would actually survive on my own. Going to a survival camp is on my Bucket List. (Hint for Christmas)

Tools and I go together like barbed wire and bare feet. No matter how careful I am, I always end up getting hurt. At this very moment, I am typing with a band-aid on my right thumb, after almost severing it with an apple slicer. I just am not safe around tools. Don't even get me started on anything with electricity.

This lack of dexterity weighs heavy on my soul. My entire family is handy. Everybody can make stuff, whether it's food, houses, robots, art, etc. I can make a mess, usually with some amount of blood loss in the mix. So what can I do to supplement my obvious lack? I am not really sure, but I think the answer is somewhere between resignation and perspiration.

On the one hand, I need to admit and accept my obvious shortcomings. Where my brother and sister can design, build and repair anything, I will just have to pay somebody else to do it. This is not such a bad way to go, however, as I get things done and then move on, perhaps a little poorer, but not nearly as tired.

On the other hand, I need to learn, grow and development. Like a muscle, I have allowed whatever shred of coordination I inherited to atrophy. It is time to bulk up. Living in Spain has actually helped a great deal with this, because I don't have a rolodex of available subcontractors at my disposal. I do however, have a Leatherman.

To date, I have successfully, more or less, repaired or replaced the following:

• Shower enclosure. Dismantled, caulked, reassembled. Still leaks, but the door opens better.
• Toilet guts. Removed and replaced. Toilet no longer runs constantly and flushes well.
• Ikea furniture. Okay, I actually helped Susan do this, so I only get partial credit.
• Art. I completed a 30 Day Challenge and drew some interesting things

That's not a very impressive list, but it is far more than I accomplished in the previous year. We all carry blindspots and weaknesses. Recognizing and working to overcome them is the challenge. 

Mosiacs and Restaurants

12 May, 2014

We have traveled extensively over the past year, which is an incredible privilege. One of the challenges, however, is finding a way to engage our daughters, who have become somewhat saturated with "another cathedral" or "another museum". It makes me a little angry to even say that. I mean, they should be more appreciative of what they're getting, right? Whatever. Teenagers are the same all over the world.

One way of combatting teenage boredom on our vacations is to engage them in some family activity. Lately it has been art. In Barcelona, we attended a workshop with artist Martin Brown. He is actually British, but has been living in Spain for several years. He is a full time artist and has amazing talent. You can see pictures of some of his work on this post. I will also link to his website.

Martin creates incredible mosaics and hosts classes right in his little apartment. It was a real treat to be able to sit down with him and design a mosaic, while he watched over the process. Each person worked independently, using a box full of tile shards of various shapes and sizes.

We all hunkered down to our tasks and chatted with Martin along the way. He is an amiable guy who fell into mosaics after a pretty successful career as a textile designer in the fashion world.

After two hours, that felt like two minutes, we each had a little mosaic to take home with us. Of course, Susan and Katherine made some incredible pieces. Elizabeth's was very nice as well. Mine? Well, I completed the project. In the "everybody gets a medal" kind of way, I'm a winner too.

Truthfully, it was one of the funnest things we did in Barcelona, along with taking pictures of funny sounding restaurants, which has become another staple of our travels. Really the two go together in a weird, mosaic kind of way. All the experiences we have shared have served to shape and define our family. Each moment together is another piece that combines to make a whole. Our lives are nothing more than a composite of tiny little seconds. We must choose wisely how we place them in the framework of time.

Who wants a plate of pipin' hot dukey?

Bugs. It's what's for dinner.

I'll have the barf on brie, please. Oh and a wedge of vomit, if you don't mind.

I Need a Bigger Sack

10 April, 2014

I have rightly earned the reputation for being a gorron, or mooch, both here and in the USA. It is a gift. Somehow I am able to position myself to receive free stuff that other people happily gather on my behalf. It would be sinful for me to turn down their hospitality, so I humbly accept whatever comes my way. Evidence of this fact is that we have driven a car here in Spain for 7 months. Free of charge. We neither asked for it nor expected it, but there it is. What was I supposed to do? 

The same goes for fruits and vegetables. Sure we buy things at the market, but almost on a routine basis, somebody gives us a sack of something. Quite often, it's oranges.

Murcianos are very proud of their agriculture. They will tell you, without a shred of doubt, that their fruits and vegetables are better than anywhere else in the world. After living here for seven months, I am inclined to believe them. Two of their most ardent passions are lemons and oranges. Orchards stretch as far as the eye can see. Anyone with more than a postage stamp of dirt will have a tree, bursting forth with great globules of juicy sweetness. Every morning Susan drinks two oranges, fresh-squeezed. She has made some incredible lemon squares as well. The locals even sprinkle lemon juice on their potato chips and sliced ham. You just have to try it. 

Yesterday, a friend of mine gave me a big sack of oranges. I asked where he got them, and he said they came from an abandoned orchard. This blew me away, so I told him I wanted to go on the next procurement mission. And another adventure begins.

When we arrived at the orchard, I saw about 200 trees, full of oranges. Gonzalo asked me what I brought for a bag. My plan was to fill my backpack, and I also had a shopping bag. He chuckled and told me I didn't bring a big enough sack. Luckily he furnished one for me.

We picked oranges for about half an hour, and I came away with about 70 pounds of oranges and lemons, all there for the taking. Thousands of oranges lay on the ground. Many more still hung in the trees. The season is coming to an end, so they will probably just rot away.

The scene left an indelible mark on me. I started thinking about how God doles out blessings. My family is incredibly blessed, beyond measure. We have so much for which to give thanks. I am not speaking about material possessions. We gave up many of our "things" before we came to Spain, and we are better for it. I am speaking about intangible blessings like:

• Friends 
• Family
• Health
• Opportunities
• Mercy
• Peace

God has an infinitely large orchard and tells us to take all we can carry. I think he laughs sometimes at our bags. They are so puny, compared to the abundant harvest that awaits us. 

The tragedy is that most people don't know about the orchard and starve just outside its borders. I have a bag that is stuffed to overflowing, much more than my family can consume, so I am left with the happy task of finding other people who would like to share in the bounty. I am an orange/blessing missionary.

The truth is that the trees would produce even more fruit, if they were pruned and cared for. They actually respond better to being picked than to being left alone. The oranges need to be taken for the health and well-being of the tree. If we could see God's blessings rotting on the ground, due to our neglect and unwillingness to pick the fruit for others, I wonder if we would be more inclined to do the work. 

Of course the greatest blessing of all is salvation. I have neglected that part of the harvest while here in Spain, to my discredit and shame, choosing instead to keep all the fruit to myself. 

These were his instructions to them: "The harvest is great, but the workers are few. So pray to the Lord who is in charge of the harvest; ask him to send more workers into his fields. (Jesus. Luke 10:2)

I'd better get a bigger sack.

Working Out the Worries

7 April, 2014

Exercise to me is the best way to untangle the knots within. I remember a few years ago, when my boss reamed me out for something that he had just given me the green light to do. He questioned my integrity and work ethic. Nobody calls me lazy, except my wife, and lives to tell about it. 

I ran 5 miles that night, as if it were a lazy stroll around the block. The anger and indignation seeped out of my pores. The contempt for his ham-fisted, bi-polar management style pounded into the pavement. When I got home, I felt at peace. The next day I went back to work. He apologized. I did not kill him. We had an accord.

The other day I went hiking up the mountain to a destination unknown. I was by myself, since all my friends crapped out on me, but I was determined to go anyway, demonstrating my incredible resolve and iron will. Or perhaps I was just really bored. Either way, I went. Into the void. Off the beaten path. The road less travelled. Boldly going where no man has gone before. Okay, so it was almost entirely on paved roads, but since you're not here to see them, and I since I selectively shoot pictures, you will never know the difference. 

Actually my main purpose in walking up the hill was to clear my mind a little bit. 

Katherine, and for that matter, Elizabeth, inherited their stubborn, stiff-necked dispositions straight from me. This is a fact that I have shared with both of them quite often, usually after a brazen display of genetic lineage. We share a conspiratorial chuckle and take sheepish glances at Susan, knowing she bears the brunt of our furies.


Lately we have been struggling with Katherine, desperately trying to bring her to a place of peace within herself. She will get there, on her own terms, in her own time, with her own ways. We simply have to surrender and beg for lenient terms. I think she will be benevolent toward us. Not being sure, however, I have forbid her to read any accounts of biblical kings, who cut off the thumbs of the defeated kings and left them to beg scraps from the table, like so many mongrel dogs. (Read Judges 1, if you dare.)

I trudged up the mountain, backpack in tow, full of whatever I might need for an extended mission, except a flashlight, ensuring a relatively early return. Intentionally taking paths that were totally new to me, I scaled the heights for a good 30 minutes and eventually ended up exactly where I had been many times before. At first I was little disappointed. I really wanted a cool adventure. Then I was reassured. Maybe a little familiarity was exactly what I needed.

I found a convenient tree to lean against, dropped my cushy backpack on the ground and broke open my phone to read The Problem of Pain, by C.S. Lewis. I love his writing style and ability to make incredibly complex things clear and easy to understand, even for a Redneck. The premise is that pain and suffering only make sense in the context of a biblical worldview. Otherwise it is all random, meaningless and fruitless. 

Things have to make sense, even when they don't. I have crawled up many paths in my life, seeking to know truth. Every time I think I am on some brand new trail, I end up at the same place. The irony for me is that there is always an easy, paved road to get there, but I always seem to take the path that is full of briars, slippery rocks and unsure ground. 

God will make sense of this crazy path we call Spain. Perhaps it was meant to bring out some issues for all of us that would have remained hidden back in the States. At any rate, I know where the trail ends and who will meet me there, with a cold glass of water and a pig pickin'. 

"But his father said to the servants, ‘Quick! Bring the finest robe in the house and put it on him. Get a ring for his finger and sandals for his feet. And kill the calf we have been fattening. We must celebrate with a feast, for this son of mine was dead and has now returned to life. He was lost, but now he is found.’ 


So the party began." (Luke 15)

What is Your Superpower?

I once asked several middle and high school students what kind of superpower they would want to have. The answers were a little surprising to me at first, but upon reflection, I understand more clearly. Being unsure of their surroundings, scared of imminent dangers and petrified of being embarrassed, these students valued invisibility over flight, great strength or laser beam eyes. We live in a society of fear and ambiguity, and they want to disappear into a virtual reality.

In a recent conversation with my sister, we discussed our superpowers. Hers is creative intelligence. Becky can put together incongruent pieces of information and explain it to somebody like me. She can make the blind see and the deaf hear.

Mine is the ability to quickly adapt to any situation. I have learned to be happy in every environment, foreign or domestic. Everywhere I go, I find a way to fit in. In large part, this is a defense mechanism that I acquired in middle school, as a way to survive. None of the normal categories fit me. I was not, and am not, a jock, musician, artist or whiz kid. Without any identity, I faced a school career of isolation, which is kryptonite to me. The weakness of yesterday is now the strength of today. I am Adaptaman.

Every superpower comes with limitations and responsibilities, however. We must use our powers for Good, not gain and for others, not ourselves. One of the shortcomings with being so adaptable is that I often get confused about who I really am. What color is a chameleon? The answer could be the color of his surroundings, but sometimes the outside world doesn't match the inward realities. The danger in adapting is in not being able to return to your original self, if you can even identify who that self was in the first place. Being all things to all people sometimes means being nothing to yourself.

Spain provides an excellent laboratory to work on my powers and to pass them on. Elizabeth seems to have some of the same abilities. She fought our move at first, refusing to give up her American identity, fearing it would be lost forever. Now she has learned that it doesn't go away. The new Spanish identity is added to it, like another tool in the toolbox. She has learned the language better than any of us. The other day, I asked her to write for ten minutes about the importance of learning Spanish. She wrote two pages of beautiful Spanish, as if it was her native language. I was amazed. She has also learned how to navigate complicated relationships, especially with girls. Regardless of culture or language, high school girls can be catty. Elizabeth has learned to be a bridge between people, instead of a wedge. She can bend without breaking. She is Flexigirl.

Katherine has not discovered her power yet, but it is not adaptability. That much we know. She is struggling mightily with the myriad changes in her life. A new language, new culture, new school, new people and a new body is hard for any person to handle. My heart hurts for her. We have cast her into the deepest ocean and have asked her to swim toward a shore that she cannot see. Her resolve has run out, and she wants to stop swimming, but she has a stubborn will and iron resolve. Spain is applying the heat she needs to melt away some of the slag in her life, so that the will and resolve can be mixed to create a powerful and pure steel alloy, capable of withstanding incredible forces and strains. One day she will save the world, if we can just help her endure the unbearable heat of the crucible. This is an incredibly painful process, but she will endure and triumph over her challenges. Katherine is Steel Magnolia.

Susan's power is more subtle. She is quiet and reserved, which leads some to believe she is weak. That is a huge miscalculation. Susan has powers that defy imagination. She is like water. At rest, water seems innocuous. In motion, however, it can cut canyon walls through solid rock like the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. She is an unstoppable force. We ride along her river and enjoy the views. Without Susan we would simply sit in our little canoe, wishing for some water. She is Madame Aqua.

We have not yet perfected how to use our forces together as a team. That time will come, though, when we unite. We are world changers, on a mission from God, aka Master of the Universe. Join forces with us. I can only speak a word of caution to any who oppose us. You will lose.

Swimming with the fishes

20 March, 14

Susan and I just took our written driving tests. If we pass, we take the practical test next. Spain has the reputation for the hardest exam and the worst drivers in Europe. I can vouch for both.

In a delicious irony, we drove our own car to the exam, taking two other students with us. The owner of the autoescuela drove three other students in his car. Evidently he just recently retired as a Formula One driver. We broke every single law that we had been so diligently studying for the past several weeks. He drove like a moonshiner with a Texas bubble gum machine hot on his tail. We darted in and out traffic, ran red lights, skirted around buses and basically gave the bird to Spanish law. By the time we got to the test site, we didn't care a wit about the exam. We just wanted to take a knee and give thanks for God's provision in letting us survive.

I have decided that driving in Spain is more akin to a school of fish. The scooters are like anchovies. They dart in and out with reckless abandon, with no obvious recognition of the other fish in the area. Cars are groupers or mullet, plodding along, keeping a wary eye out for barracuda.

The buses are whales that suck up huge loads of plankton at every stop. Now that I have this image in my mind, it doesn't bother me as much when a little anchovy goes darting by. There is a not-so-small piece of my heart, though, that is secretly waiting for a shark to come along and gobble up one of them. It's awful, I know, but that's the way of the sea.

The exam is 30 questions, out of a pool of about 4,000. That is not an exaggeration. We have memorized the whole freaking book, all 16 chapters. I can tell you about every road sign, light ordinance and right of way in Spain. I know where cattle should walk, alone or in groups. I know the difference between ciclomotores and motociclistas. I have a complete understanding for what constitutes a motorized vehicle and what is a non-motorized vehicle. Scooters and trains are non-motorized vehicles. Go figure that one out.

We have digested this great body of knowledge with 8-10 other students, all gathered around our teacher, Mercedes, who does not have a driver's license. She is passionate about her work and a good teacher. When she speaks, it sounds like a machine gun. Even the natives have trouble understanding her sometimes. By her own admission, she is also dyslexic, so she has to maintain a steady focus on what she is doing, or she gets lost.

Our fellow students are mostly young, 18-25 years old. When we started school, they all appeared to me to be a bunch of snotty-nosed brats, who would rather cut up or hook up than listen to the teacher. We slowly grew, however, into a family. Dani gave me a big bear hug after the exam. He was so amped up, he could barely walk. Before the test, the girls all had expressions of fear and doubt, so we tried to soothe their worried minds.

Susan is stick-a-fork-in-me done with the whole thing. Going to school has wrung her dry, because she doesn't have an opportunity to decompress. We literally go from language school to lunch to autoescuela. It is a grueling day. What makes it harder is that she can't go to her art classes, which have been such a nice getaway for Susan. This is the last week of class, however, so she should be able to get some peace.

The positive side is that we have a deeper understanding for what our girls face everyday.  This whole immersion learning thing is a bear. I am so proud of what Elizabeth and Katherine have accomplished so far. They can both speak and read a fair amount of Spanish.

One day, all of this will come together-living in Spain, learning a new language, experiencing different cultures, getting a driver's license. It better make sense, or I'm going to ask for my money back.

Cieza

20 March, 2014

Last weekend we took a trip to Cieza and Mula, two areas about an hour west of us. Mula means mule, so it promised to be a great adventure. Some friends invited us to go view a cave that has 5000 year old paintings. I'm always up for something new and different, so we took off.

In typical Askins fashion, we were late, which got us in just the right mood. The group was about 20 strong, so being late made the "foreigners" stick out even more. We walked up the hill and arrived at the entrance to the cave. It was basically a big manhole cover. The guide lifted the heavy steel plate door and propped it open with a metal rod that did not seem adequate for the job. We could look down into the abyss and see a series of infinitesimally small and unevenly spaced stone steps disappear into the inky blackness. Our guide suggested that kids go first, because they are more brave. We are definitely not in Kansas anymore.

What we could not know when we started our descent into Hell, was that the next set of stairs were spiral. MY hips touched both sides. It was a tight squeeze, to say the least. We dropped down about 75 feet into a fairly big cavern. Turns out the cave opens up to a beautiful vista, the other side of a river gorge. This is the first running water we have seen in Spain, other than what comes out of the faucet.

Evidently the tour guide was very proud of her job, because she spent about 45 minutes droning about a bunch of stick figures on the cave walls. At one point, she asked what we thought they looked like. In a particularly mischievous moment, I responded that it looked like a beer bottle. One person in the cave was not amused by my interpretation. She obviously lacked my recently honed artistic eye. Amateur.

After we left the big hole in the ground, we headed off for Mula, to get something to eat. I was a little uneasy about the restaurant and town, especially when one of my friends said, "I am pretty sure you are the first, and probably the last, foreigners any of these people will ever see." Cue the banjos.

We ate some great paella, which is basically rice with whatever somebody decides to put in the pan. In this case, it was rabbit. It is hard to distinguish rabbit from chicken, when you just see the meat. Discerning the difference between the two becomes quite easy, however, when you start digging into what you thought was a thigh, but on closer inspection, was a rabbit's head, cut in half lengthwise. I know it was a rabbit's head, and not a chicken's, because of the large front teeth and the eyeball that looked back at me, as if to say, "Can we please get this over with? I am really so done with this meal." Rabbits are not pets in Spain. They are dinner.

Am I eating the rabbit, or is the rabbit eating me?

After our lunch, we headed off to one of the locals' farm. I really didn't know what was going on, as we were basically just playing follow the leader. When we arrived, I realized I was with some pretty important people. We stood at the doorstep of one of their guest cottages, and my friend told me, "You see those mountains over there in the distance? That's on their property too."

Several of us went on a nature walk, and we spotted herds of deer, wild mountain goats and even two wild boar. I was in hog heaven. Sorry.

This is an abandoned building that the deer have taken over.

It was beautiful and relaxing. The terrain here in Murcia is so different from my native longleaf pine forests, dogwoods and azaleas. Our friend's farm has acres of peach and other fruit trees that are now in bloom. This was the first time I have seen something that approached home, and I realized a thirst in my soul.

Pig Pickin' Spanish Style

9 March, 2014

Eighty-six percent of the world's population eats pork. I excluded Muslims and Jews, which comprise about 1 billion of the 7 billion people in the world. America is more beef-centric, but we still consume our fair share, but pig is the preference of Spain.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my experiences at the home of Pedro and Victoria, local owners of a restaurant landmark in La Alberca. During that meal, the jubilates, or retirees, challenged the jovenes, or young people to a wager. I was involved in the wager, as both sides wanted a strong American ally. My daddy always told me, "Son, old age and treachery will beat youth and inexperience every time." That usually came right after he finished a wrestling match against me by using the reach-around maneuver, which left me incapacitated, clutching my nether regions and rolling on the floor. Experiencing a twinge of nostalgic pain in my cajones, I quickly sided with the jubilates. I could see the sparkle in a few of the old men's eyes, which told me they knew about the reach-around.

Since their Spanish was so heavily accented, and my Spanish was so poor, I really had no idea what the bet was about. All I knew was that I was in for €20 and that we were going to kill and process a pig. At that price, I knew it couldn't hurt too bad, and I am fascinated with anatomy, so what the heck?

The appointed date was March 8, so I duly noted it in my calendar, as it was about a month into the future. Yesterday finally came, and at 7:30AM I went with Pedro and my new friends, whose names I do not know, out to a country home of somebody else, whom I do not know. It was a gentlemen's farm, about 2 acres, with a little one room cabin, named La Casica, which means little house, with a Murcian twist on the spelling. Pedro showed me around the gardens. It had rows of many of the fruits and vegetables that Murcianos love. Much of what we ate that day passed straight from the garden to the table:

• Lechuga, lettuce
• Aho, garlic
• Alcachofas, artichokes
• Apio, celery
• Naranjas, orange trees
• Judías, which literally means "Jews", but is a kind of bean. Nobody knows why.

 As we waited for the honored guest, the pig, to arrive, we gathered at the outdoor bar, which was furnished with a full cappuccino machine. We set up several tables for processing and made a fire in the outdoor cooking area. I was the youngest guy there, at 43 years old. There were a few other men about my age. The rest of the group was a bunch of seasoned veterans. The obvious leader of the merry band, obvious because he plopped down a set of knives that would make Jason Vorhees shriek with delight, was a grizzled old fella of 80 years. He had massive forearms, his shoulders resembled lumps of granite and he was missing his left thumb, probably because he bit it off when he was a baby. In a bar fight or zombie apocalypse, I'm on his side. He knows pig. 

The pig arrived at 9AM. It was already dead and cut in half lengthwise. I was a little disappointed about that, because I really wanted to kill the pig. For any sentimentalists out there, I'm sorry, but pigs, chickens, goats, deer and cows are food. I do not want to abuse any animal, but killing any of those foods is totally appropriate. If you don't agree, we can talk about it over a big T-bone steak at the restaurant of your choice.

We unloaded the "food" from the truck and plopped it on the table, which was a big, sturdy, old kitchen/dining room table that would seat 8 people or one pig. Edward Scissorhands and his son commenced to butchering up both halves. They moved with the technical precision of coroners performing an autopsy. 

Age: Approximately 2 years

Time of Death: 24-48 hours

Cause of Death: Severe laceration to the throat

Possible Motive: Hunger

While the doctors of death hacked away, everybody else milled about or lingered near the fire. I was rapt, transfixed on the process. There is nothing I enjoy more than seeing professionals at work. That's why I was born for management. They sectioned off the pig into different categories:

• Meat
• Meat with fat
• Fat with meat
• Fat
• Bone

As soon as they had cut off some nice pieces of loin, we threw them on the grill for breakfast. Another guy took the head, and dropped it in a pot of boiling water. They eat everything but the oink over here. 

Once we had some material to use, we started grinding up some of the fatty meat for use in different things. This is the part where my mama always says, "Don't tell me what's in the sausage."

One of the specialties in Murcia is murcilla, which is basically 

• Boiled onions, about 5 big bags full
• Fat, about 2 pounds
• Pig's blood, about 1 liter
• Spices

They pack it in a casing and boil it for about 30 minutes. It's actually very good. Even Susan likes it, as long as she doesn't think about it too long. The trick is to get the spice mixture just right, which is difficult to determine, without tasting a sample. You add the spices before you stuff the mixture into the casings, which means you have to sample it raw. Yes, that's right. R-A-W. Hackmaster's son invited me to try some and comment on what they needed to add. At first I thought he was joking, but then he took up a big pinch first, so I was obliged to join in. I told them I thought it still tasted too much like onion and needed some more salt, much to their approval. I also sampled the salchicha, or link sausage, and sobresala, raw.  It was like a scene straight out of Lord of the Flies. This was my initiation. "Kill the pig. Cut his throat. Drink his blood!"

I am now a member of the Old Boy's Club. I am also thankful that I am able to write this blog today, without any ill effects from consuming raw pork. 

I also finally know what the bet was. The Octogenarians wagered they could cook for everybody cheaper than the Twenty-somethings could provide beer and wine. That was a most foolish gamble on the part of the little ones. They literally drank themselves out of the bet, and everybody else helped them as well. The cost of food prep for about 50 people was €150, with enough pork left over for several days. The beer evaporated in the hot Spanish sun. Score one for old age and treachery. The ancianos did a reach-around and found the youngsters' wallets.