Dad died nine years ago this Thanksgiving. I miss you, dad.

Dad came to the United States when he was 18. He had three uncles over here, already working in the hills as sheepherders, and he hoped to make some money like they did. There just wasn’t so much opportunity in the Basque Country at the time. He’d quit school when he was 14 to try to help out the family, but there just wasn’t much work in the area. The family was large (dad was the oldest of eight kids) and the family farm, or baserria, just wasn’t enough to support them all.

The summer before he came, he worked on the road between Munitibar and Bolibar. His amuma Justa would make a big tortilla for him every morning which he scarfed down during his break at 10. His amuma was the main cook for the family and that tortilla was his favorite thing she made. Though he did like dessert too, which was typically either an apple they baked with sugar in the middle or rice pudding.

As seemingly every Basque I’ve ever met, including myself, his amuma was pretty stubborn. She had a heart condition, but she couldn’t sit still and insisted in working in the fields with the rest of them. But she would quickly tire and have to take a lot of breaks. The only other thing that would keep her from going crazy was playing cards. Every Sunday, the neighbors would come over and play. Or, if it was raining hard, they would pop in to the baserria to take a break, have some wine and cheese, and play cards. Any excuse to play cards. Twice, dad helped to make cheese.

When he came to the United States, dad came with nothing. Only some clothes and a little bit of money. And a contract. He had a three year contract with sheep man Jon Archibal, who picked him up at the airport in Boise and drove him out towards Homedale. There, a foreman met him, took him to buy some clothes, and set him up for his time in the hills. Back in 1962 when dad came to the US the first time, he made $225 per month, with room and board paid for.

For his first band, he was partnered with his uncle Santiago. They went from Homedale to Silver City, which is about 50 miles. They had a set route that took them through several pastures. The round trip was about 9 months, which was spent entirely in the hills. Every 10 days or so, someone would come and bring them supplies. Besides his uncle, the only company they had were their three dogs, three horses, and three mules. Dad’s job was to maintain the camp while his uncle took the sheep out to graze. As they moved around, dad set up the camp, putting up the tent and the like, and made the food. When his uncle came back to eat, dad would look after the sheep. He did this for three years before going back to the Basque Country. But the economic draw of the United States pulled him back again. He returned for another three year contract, but this time he stayed in the main camp, out of the hills.

Dad didn’t know a lick of English when he came. That really wasn’t much of a problem, as everyone he worked with was Basque. Once in a while, they would have run-ins with others. One time, in Silver City, a cowboy came in to the restaurant or bar and complained about those Basque bastards and their sheep. However, they were on good terms with the local miners, as they would give them meat from the band.

Thanks to Lisa Van De Graaff for encouraging me to record dad and his stories when I could. Lisa took the photo at the top.