fiction
from his pocket, rolled a cigarette. I lighted his cigarette and my battered corncob with one of my few remaining matches. We departed with handshakes and smiles. His young daughter held back for a moment, her head bowed, her flashing eyes exchanging quick glances with mine. The man walked a few paces, then stopped, and exchanged whispers with his daughter. She had tugged at his sleeve. I soon realized—his pointing to his mouth helped—he was inviting me to his home for dinner. He gestured toward a rutted way that twisted toward the foothills, and walked two fingers on the palm of his left hand. The girl smiled from behind
“blushingly” ended the evening with a song. I was told it was about love. Then we sat under a large tree in the moonlight—under the watchful gaze of her parents, aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters—and tried to carry on a conversation, but mostly laughed. I regretted not knowing more Spanish. I’ve much to learn of these kind and generous people and their customs, traditions, and language.
I spent the night sleeping in my blankets on the wide La Carpinteria beach, Consuela’s image and laughter mingled with my dreams and the gentle sounds of the sea.
At dawn my CARPINTERIA VALLEY MUSEUM OF HISTORY ARCHIVE PHOTO
two eager traveling companions prepared to take their rested horses and pack ani- mals north through Santa Barbara and
her father, her waist-length black hair swirling in a sudden breeze.
It was a wonderful evening spent with good food and new friends, songs, the strumming of guitars, and, for me, rare glasses of red wine made from my host’s few grapevines. It had been a long time since I’d had a home-cooked meal. His name was Santiago. He had been a soldier at El Presidio in Santa Barbara, he said. The daughter’s name was Consuela, who
the Gaviota Pass. “You coming?” they asked. I thought for a moment, and then shook my head.
“No. I think I’ll stay right here for a while. You go find your gold. I think I may have found mine ... here.” I also had thoughts of a dark-eyed senorita.
This journal was discovered in the imagination of Jim Williams, South Coast resident and longtime member of Writers’ Way, a Carpinteria writers’ group.
His email address is
bigjimwilliams2@cox.net
114 CARPINTERIAMAGAZINE
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