4+3=1

4+3=1 means that the Basqueland in Spain was made up of 7 provinces, 4 in Spain and 3 in France. The Basque were fierce warriors who protected that little strip of land from boundaries being made and insisted that the area was One and no one was going to divide it. I read something the other day about how people are now more than ever trying to find out where they come from. The article likened it to the need for people to feel centered since technology has most people speeding out of control. Can't wait to pull over to text? Have to have that argument on an interstate highway going 80 mph? Crash and die after having to text that message about what size shoe Jr. needs. Oh, I am guilty of talking on the cell phone but not texting. I justify it with claiming I can multi-task. Well, it's malarkey and I know it but I am part of the impulsive sorts that aren't as disciplined as some of our more rule bound, sensible, smart, mindful types. If so, I would eat soy and tofu and all organic. These are areas I am trying to address......spend $10 on a cauliflower that is "organic" versus .99 for a burger at Wendy's. So we spend a lot of time trying to stay alive, fear dying, and continue doing stupid things that can kill us and eating poison. Who can figure our complexity and our incongruousness? Well, I think we spend most of our breathing time trying to do this by educating ourselves, bettering ourselves, re-creating ourselves, improving ourselves (don't the self-help books know it). But my dad didn't. My Papi originated from Basque, Spain. My dad spent his breathing time improving his golf and bowling game. I am not kidding. He was Basque, he was the world, something Basque are known for. I would talk the psychology to him, the social work stuff to him, and spiritual stuff as I tried to make sense of the events going on in the world. Dad's look in his eye became blanker and blanker as he became blinder and blinder. He would politely listen and then he would say, "hey, can you get me my electric shaver, I need for you to clean it out for me". That's what counted for Papi, cause if that shaver got clogged, it pulled the whiskers out of his face. It never stopped me from getting on my podium with him because he did LOOK like he was listening. I spent about 6-7 months in all in Los Banos, California before my Papi died. He was getting sicker and sicker so my husband secured a travelling nurse assignment there so I could be close by to help my dad out at the assisted living place. Help out meant cooking as he hated the "American" food. Dad said, "it tastes like shit". I would say, "how do you know what shit tastes like", he would say, "I do". The end of my curiosity there. So the more he complained, the more I cooked. I cooked his enchiladas, his pinto beans, his flour tortillas, his green tomatillo pork, his Spanish rice, his Po sole, his red chili, his tamales and he was satisfied. Los Banos which means "the baths" was named after a natural water spring that feeds the wetlands in the San Joaquin Valley. Los Banos is located next to coastal ranges and mountains and hills. Los Banos means "bathroom" in common Spanish but don't let the locals get going on that. Los Banos also sits on the edge of extensive national and state park game refuges. It has a long history of Portuguese and Basque immigrants. Ernesto "Che Guevara", Manu Chao, and Francis Xavier are all people of Basque. The population is approximately 35,000. So we lived in our 29 foot 5th wheel in a trailer park while Ernesto as my dad called my husband worked. I jokingly used to refer to myself as his trailer trash wife. So I cooked day in and day out for my husband and dad. I am not leaving mom out because I cooked for her, but she was easier. She liked sweets and I bought them at the bakery. My mother was the COOK and anything my sisters and I make that she used to make never measures up. She would paw at her Spanish rice with her fork fiddling around and I say to her, "ma, why aren't you eating" and she would look at me with those big Italian eyes and very quietly say, "I guess I didn't teach you to make this right". Dad would pipe in, "eat it M. J., it don't taste like shit". sigh. The word Basque word "gure" means "our", our people, our home, our village. My dad's veins coursed with these Basque genetics. His whole life, his world was his wife and his daughters, his home, his food and golf and bowling and when he could tinkering on his old Peugeot car that eventually died but not that long before him. Dad was cheap. I used to call him, "cheap ole man". His voice was low and gruff and he would say, "you pay, you are the rich one". I made him a fleece Xmas blanket one year of a Snoopy pattern and I tied $1 to $20 bills all over it and boy you would of thought he won the lottery! I'll add the sequential opening of that gift with pictures soon.