Sunday, March 8, 2009
This afternoon, we drove to nearby Pedra. It's named for a huge bald rock that predominates the horizon, on top of which is a small chapel where the devout make pilgrimages on their knees. There is a river of wax from the altar to the floor, from countless votives over the years. We didn't visit the chapel. We met more family; an uncle, aunt, and a little cousin. Plus their cows. The smell of hay and manure brought me back twenty years or so. Any time that smell wafts my way, I'm reminded of spending hours on a neighbor's field, playing with action figures as my brother and father fly remote control airplanes with the neighbor. On the drive home, I kept the window down and was tempted to let my head out into the wind, like a dog, to feel the rush of a country night at forty clicks.