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And so it was done that morning, as it had always been done since the first kernels were laid upon the gray, black volcanic rock of central Mexico and ground into the moist, white, life giving paste, Masa. The muffled grinding of the petate, being used to prepare the water and lime soaked corn for the days’ worth of tortillas, drifted out of the small adobe structure, mixing together with the cries of roosters and the distant bellow of a hungry animal.  
From the top of the little building, smoke rose from a rusting, tin chimney in a straight line up into the cool October air, high above El Rancho, La Felicidad.

The red, golden-yellow light being birthed on the eastern horizon had not yet cut the darkness of the shadows of the shed interior. The sole occupant, a dark skinned, handsome women, yet still, looking older than her thirty years, pulled and pushed a stone bar across the worn surface of a stone grinder. She bent at the waist in scrub board fashion. Her once blacker then black hair, now peppered gray, was split into three parts and woven into a long ponytail that stretched down her back to her waist. A thin, pink, scarf-like reboso covered her head. She wore it crossed in front with one end hanging down and the other swept back over her left shoulder. A sky blue, puffy skirt with a multitude of pleats that gathered around her slim waist covered the women’s legs to her ankles. The collar of her white blouse could be seen beneath a black, wool sweater that was dotted with embroideries of small, yellow flowers.   
In one corner of the tiny room a wood fire danced nervously inside a rectangle-shaped, mud stove caressing the underside of the comal; a large, round, tire size, flat metal plate; it’s dark, oiled cooking surface full of round, thick, browning tortillas. The pungent aroma of the corn and lime mixture permeated everything, sliding through the air like butter across a hot piece of bread.

The main house, constructed from the same naked, brown, two foot long, sun dried blocks of mud, animal dung and straw, appeared to sprout from the earth like a natural occurring geologic feature. Amazingly enough, most of its curved, warped, red terracotta tiles still clung on with stubborn defiance to the swayed roof of the single story structure. There were a few that had given up to gravity still laying in pieces where they had crashed upon the hard, rocky ground. The single story home was comprised of three rooms placed side by side: the kitchen, a bedroom and a bedroom. All had but one door each which entered out onto a long covered, patio, its floor made of concrete, its entrance gated to keep the farm animals from wondering in.

The only window in the entire house was in the kitchen above the washbasin offering a view of the road and the cornfields to the west. There was no indoor plumbing. The well was the only source of drinkable water with a bucket and ladle for the thirsty. For those whose modesty required it, there were a few scattered trees and bushes as well as a twelve-foot high patch of prickly pear cactus that lined the edge of the reservoir, bordering the ranch to the north. The reservoir’s turbid waters supplied the irrigation for the meager crops that were the life’s pulse of the tiny farming community of perhaps fifty homes and ten families. 
    
    The thick, stockade-like, wooden door of the middle bedroom opened slowly. Its thick iron strap hinges creaked with a mild complaint as the first rays of sunlight escaped the horizon. One large, chocolate-brown eye crusted at the corners with sleep, peered out squinting at the brightness. Another was hidden behind a small fist that was rubbing away the sand of dreams. 
    “Teeko, Teeko donde estas,” said the little girl at the door dressed in a well-worn but clean, pink sweatshirt with matching sweat pants. On the front of the sweatshirt Pooh was dancing with Piglet, Tigger and Eeyore. “Teeko, where are you Teeko?”
    
    The little girl disappeared from the doorway then returned holding a pair of well-worn sandals made of hemp and cowhide.    
    “Teeko what am I going to do with you?”

The six year old walked purposefully from the room with sandals in hand, her bare, dark brown, callused feet not bothered by the chill of the concrete floor. Her small but strong hands pulled herself up onto one of three pine chairs that had at some time long ago been painted gloss white. The chairs were positioned around a square pine table of the same aging color. On the wall above the table in a frame without glass was a wrinkled, hand colored picture of Christ. His lips and cheeks were a bright red. Just below the picture on a small shelf was a blue, white and gold statue of the Virgin Mary. Toward both the little girl crossed herself quickly.  
    
    She slipped on her sandals with one finger on the back straps not bothering to undo the buckles. Her small legs were not able to touch the floor. Jumping down from the chair she ran out the gate of the porch across the yard, stopping here and there, looking for Teeko. Around her she saw the strong, colorful homes of her ranch. She also saw the green lush bountiful gardens between each dwelling full with vegetables and fruit. She saw her own home strong and secure against the land, within her community. With her eyes she also saw beautiful flowers in the yard, many chickens and pigs in the pens. The sky above her was a brilliant blue, cloud spotted pallet of red, gold and yellow spanning an incredible arch from horizon to horizon.

Just outside the doorway of the small utility shed where the tortillas were being made a medium sized, mixed breed dog was intently eyeing the grinding process. Its terrier-like muzzle was drooling on the gray stone pathway that led along the side of the porch of the main house to the shed.
“Teeko, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” The little girl bear hugged the dog’s neck, her presence having little effect upon the concentration of the animal. At that moment a baseball size wad of corn masa flew out of the doorway of the shed and was quickly snatched by the waiting dog.  “Dejaló pues hija.  Dejaló el pero a comer.” “Leave it daughter. Let the dog eat.” said the women inside the tortilla shed.

The houses of La Felicidad varied in color and size. Some were earth brown while others were stark white. Some were shocking pink or blue and others displayed the Green, white and red colors of the Mexican flag. Most, however, lined the dirt road that meandered its way over the length of the long, wide, barren, flat valley bordered on both sides by weathered, gray peaks of extinct volcanoes. 
Via Hemenez, the closest town and the closest market lay a half a day’s walk away to the west. However, there were few if any visitors to La Felicidad. Maybe because it was known or maybe it was only felt.  The ranch was alive, as alive as any animal, tree or person. It was a jealous entity, protecting its joys, its sorrows and even its most unthinkable terrors possessively, cautiously allowing few outsiders to pass within its boundaries and fewer yet to know its secrets.

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