Essays

Saturday, September 12, 2026

After a lovely morning at the Santuario de la Virgen del Rocio and the ruins of Ingapirca, we stopped for an extraordinary lunch at a nearby hacienda, Posada Ingapirca. The restored two-hundred-year-old property was something out of a storybook, with white adobe walls and uneven wooden floors.

There was a crispness in the air that evening in late October. As we stepped off the back porch, Mama wondered aloud, “You think we need to carry a sweater with us?” It was the first change in the weather that we’d felt in a long time.

It was an ordinary Friday morning in July. As we made the turn off Grange Hall Loop into the long shell driveway that circled the house, we could already see the cars parked near the side door at Alva’s place.

When we opened the back door at 7 am, it felt like opening the oven. Mama had woken me up early so we could take advantage of the incoming tide. Everything was ready on Grandma’s back porch.

The reservation read: meet at Myrtle Terrace, 6 p.m., Friday, April 10th.

The tourists—myself included—arrived ten minutes early. Small talk filled the sidewalk in front of the house: Where are you from? The weather is glorious. We couldn’t ask for a better evening.

It was late Sunday morning when we left Riverview, heading north on Highway 301 toward Zephyrhills. A little more than an hour later, we crossed the railroad tracks and turned onto 8th Street, a quiet, oak-lined street where Spanish moss hung from the branches like icicles from a Christmas tree.

“Wake up, Jacob. It’s time to get up, sleepyhead.” Mama sang in my ear as she gently shook me from a deep sleep. “Remember, Denny, today we’re going to Grandma’s to help clean out the two old trailers that are in the field.”

As I rounded the first curve into downtown Atenas, the morning sun caught the white tile tombs of the municipal cemetery.