I grew up in Holland during the fifties and sixties, a time of small-scale neighborhoods, of family meals and daily shopping; of  seasons that were distinct and well-defined, when strawberries belonged to early summer and mushrooms to fall; a time when the bicycle was the main means of transportation, and vacations were few and far between. I recall the summers as hot and the winters as cold. Argentina in 2006, reminds me a lot of my childhood.

I am not sure that weather has changed that much, only that in many places its harshness has been mitigated by central heating, air conditioning and improved construction. In Colorado, where we lived since the 80s, many times colder than where we live now, I seldom wore a coat, not even in winter. I moved from a heated house to a heated car to heated offices. Stores and businesses were toasty warm, as were busses and airports and theatres. Here in Argentina I experience the coldness and coziness of my childhood. Our old farmhouse has thick stone walls, but no insulation; a vapor barrier protecting the house from moisture rising through its foundation is absent; both omissions create a constant sensation of damp chilliness. Wind creeps though the window cracks, under door ledges, and cold seeps into my bones. When I step outside it is often not that chilly; on a sunny day I can sit with a book in the vegetable garden by early afternoon, enjoying the peaceful quiet and the warmth of a low-hanging sun.

During the house renovation we removed the customary low-slung ceilings made of chalk-covered cloth; we opened walls to create bigger rooms; we removed doors and laid ceramic tile all in the name of beauty, airiness, and light. At times I saw people frown their eyebrows, wrinkle their foreheads; few however questioned our decisions but unmistakably a silent warning was signaled which we chose to ignore. We remodeled the place in the heat of summer as if there was no tomorrow, certainly not a cold winter to come. We are the proverbial city dwellers coming to live in the country, bringing our city habits, city tastes and city expectations. Fortunately I remember some tricks to deal with this damp cold. Curtains now hang in front of windows, blankets cover the drafty openings where once were doors; rolled up towels are placed in the windowsills and against door ledges; a roaring fire lights the fireplace, a pot of soup sits on the stove, and the oven bakes cookies on a low heat. Rooms are heated one at a time but the combined efforts create a cozy house where we find a measure of warmth and comfort. If only the chores did not take the best part of a day!!!   

As our farmhouse in cold times reminds me of my childhood, so does townlife. Stores are small, often family-run businesses with a wide array of articles stacked high along walls, heaped in storage bins or displayed on a variety of racks. Shopkeepers start the day with a sweep of their sidewalk and place their wares on the street in plain view of all who happen to pass by. At times one trips over an errant broom, a wayward fruit. Fruitsellers with handdrawn carts are stationed on many corners and fruits are weighed with a handheld scale. Mate* vendors on bicycle go from store to store, filled thermos flasks placed in baskets hanging from the steering wheel. During siesta streets are swept and waste pails emptied by groups of walking workers, broom in hand, trailing a wooden cart to dump the dirt. At night I have even seen horse-pulled buggies completing this waste removal. Only once did a compacting garbage truck pass me by. Despite it all, the town has a look of disarray.

* mate = the national brew of strong tea

A wide variety of stores exist all specializing in the sale of one thing or another: bread, pastries, meat, vegetables, fruits, hardware, glass, cleaning stuff etc. Bakers sell bread by weight, potato chips by the ounce. Butchers cut meat while you wait and saw bones for the dogs. Dietary stores peddle dried herbs, medicinal teas and dispense advice when asked. Pharmacies make potions, salves, and tinctures according to specification as long as they have the ingredients. Bandages are sold by the meter and pills can be bought individually. One can find about everything if one knows where to look, which of course we do not. Little by little though the town releases its secrets, it is a matter of asking and trying many different places. More and more trees show through the forest.

Farmlife is yet of another era, a generation or two before my childhood. The neighbor once proudly told me how self-sufficient his family is, no need for much shopping, they are sustained by the abundance provided by their finca. We see how this is done when we are invited to a carneo, the butchering of farm animals and the preparation of their meat for winter. The carneo we attend is a two-day affair, of which we unfortunately miss the first, the day that the animals are slaughtered, in this case five pigs and a cow.  When we arrive on the second day we find a barn full of people, all relatives and neighbors, bend over long wooden tables busy cutting and slicing meat. The people at each table have a different task to do: grinding grease to make lard for cooking; scraping meat from pigs’ heads to be used for head cheese; chopping organ meat to be ground for sausages. Huge quantities of ground meat sit ready in large wooden troughs. The woman of the house sprinkles fresh herbs from the garden and a variety of different spices over this meat, which is subsequently mixed with a quick slapping hand motion. Outside a fire is tended with the trunks of large poplars. Over the fire two huge kettles with boiling water serve a variety of purposes: tough skin is cooked tender; fat is melted to a soup like consistency which will harden to lard when cold; and stuffed stomachs are boiled to head cheese. I help the women with chopping and slicing, using a borrowed butcher’s knife which everyone is supposed to bring. By noon most of the meat is ready for its final preparation, but first lunch is served at long tables; every one joins. On the menu is barbecued meat from the just slaughtered animals, green salad, home-made wine and bread, soup as a second course. I find out that a carneo is always held during the early part of winter, when cold will avoid spoilage. I learn that the attending families are all living in a two-mile radius, each helping the others during these carneos; they have already completed five, this is the last of the season. I am shown pictures of parents, grand parents, children and grandchildren and am informed that the families are mostly of Spanish descent, some Welsh and Italian influences. After a leisurely lunch we are back to work; stuffing ground meat in cleaned intestines; filling pig’s stomach with chopped organ meat, sowing the openings shut with twine. By late afternoon many sausages hang under the rafters in the barn for drying, others are boiling. Ten hams are salted and stored in large wooden boxes to age. We break for a home brew of herbs with lemon and sugar accompanied by thick slices of a sweet bread. People get ready for the home stretch, still enough work to keep them busy till late evening. Arn and I are cold and tired and ready for home. We gather our uninvited guests, two three-week old puppies, who we find with overstretched bellies, barely able to move. We say our goodbyes, then, leave with a bag full of home-made sausage for our own parrilla. We will need to invite many guests, for which we will soon have an opportunity; the world soccer championship is scheduled within a week. No need to go shopping; this life of hard work has its own rewards!