His house was old-old, adobe style, high up in the Andes, way in the deep back woods of the township called, 'The 9th of July,' with its high uncountable umbrella like eucalyptus trees shading the old winding dirt roads, clustered all the way to the cemetery, a half mile away. It had a faint miasmal odor which clings about houses that have stood too long. We all thought his house dated back to the days prior to or shortly thereafter those days Catalina Huanca, no joke, somewhere along 1624 A.D., thereabouts. The old man, Juan Pablo was never too glad to see a visitor, or for that matter, a trespasser, although we had a curiosity relationship-he and I- myself being a poet, and he liked poetry, and being a gringo, and not of the area per se, although the Poet Laureate of the township. Plus I always brought him a bottle of Chicha de Jora.

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