Patricia’s Bio:

Patricia Sands lives in Toronto, Canada when she and her husband are not off on one of their jaunts to other parts of the world. She has degrees from the University of Waterloo and York University. With a happily blended family of seven adult children and, at last count, six grandchildren, life is full and time is short. Beginning with her first Kodak Brownie camera at the age of six, she has told stories all of her life through photography. Much to her surprise a few years ago, she began to write and her debut novel The Bridge Club will soon be published through iUniverse. Patricia joyfully admits the writing muse has possessed her and looks forward to a long and satisfying career as an author. She is particularly drawn to the rewarding friendships of women and the challenges many embrace once their families are grown. It’s never too late to begin something new she enthuses. As Nike says, just do it! Her website is under construction but you will soon be able to visit www.patriciasandsauthor.com. Everyone has a story. What’s yours?

Notes from a Rooftop in Andalucia

By Patricia Sands-Anis

She leans on the warm iron railing. Wasps lazily circle in the mid-day heat, aimlessly grazing the sun-drenched, terra cotta roof. Angled precisely, in spite of their rustic imperfections, the tiles climb to the peak of the restored olive mill. Covering other rooftops for perhaps centuries, many of these tiles were recycled yet again, as are other materials in her bright spacious home that was a tumbled-down mess not so long ago.

Mesmerized by the earthen shades of rust, tan, red, and ochre that create such a pleasing blend, her mind wanders. Twenty years, she thinks, these rooftops have held me for twenty years. My camera lens captures them in the soft wash of early morning light, in the afternoon’s burning heat, and in the slow-moving evening shadows. They are irresistible. Raising her favorite digital SLR to her eye, the shutter clicks again and again. Her art sustains her in every way.

In the ancient ruin next door, tiles crumble in a frozen cascade. Roof meets earthen floor. Wooden beams lie in tangled disarray. All are beckoning subjects for a wandering artist or simply a passerby with an eye. She was a young woman on holiday when they took possession of her.

Gazing over housetops, she treasures glimpses into secluded courtyards in this village where dwellings abut narrow streets. Built for donkeys and carts, today residents navigate vehicles through the maze with a precision one can’t help admire. Shuttered windows and beaded curtain-covered doorways help deflect heat and discourage flies and prying eyes, keeping what lies inside a surprise. From her perch, the vivid colors and fragrant perfumes of lovingly tended private gardens are her secret reward.

Spilling out from where the rooftops end, songbird-filled campos surround the village. These plots, large and small, have been worked for generation after well-remembered generation. The histories, good and bad, are equally recalled con gusto and passed along by family elders.

Throughout the countryside tales are told in the staccato of heels and clapping of hands, the rich melodies of guitar, and the emotional songs of fantasy and local folklore. The vibrant history of flamenco, with its roots in the Middle East and North Africa, is a traditional part of this province. One stumbles upon it in the bars and celebrations of villages as much as the advertised city productions. Each village has its annual fiesta along with a plethora of others honoring assorted saints, foods, or whatever else sounds like a good reason to party. Laughing out loud, she recalls some of the many happy times.

She learned the language, respected the traditions, and the community embraced her.

Her eyes drink in the rich abundance of fruit-laden trees bearing olives, oranges, lemons, pomegranates, persimmons, apricots, cherries, figs—ah, the figs! Cacti abound. Date palms gracefully fill spaces. Grapevines provide a sweet harvest. Vegetables and herbs thrive in the fields still irrigated by the acequia system established by the Moors over a thousand years ago. Even through frequent drought conditions, the Andalucian sun teases the best from the growing seasons.

She pictures the older women still shelling almonds by hand, gossiping and chortling, as they fill the baskets that surround them. Grinning, they call to her.

Framing her rooftop portraits, the foothills of the majestic Alpujarras gently climb, their peaks visible on crisp, clear days. Snow-capped in winter, this day they stand sentinel over the verdant valley with the windmills of Don Quixote replaced by Spain’s ongoing commitment to harness wind energy.

These foothills unfold as far as her eye sees. She imagines Moorish horsemen in flowing robes riding hard across the landscape, carrying news from the coast to inland settlements. Ruins of this powerful culture are scattered throughout and evoke memories of inhabitants that peacefully occupied the south of Spain from 700 to 1100 A.D. Their legacy is alive and well today. She feels it.

Further north towards Jaen one cannot see an end to the olive groves, but in her Lecrin Valley, the hillsides offer a treasure trove of winding hiking and riding trails. Whitewashed villages are scattered high and low, sparkling like jewels on velvet backings of beiges, taupes, grays, and greens. Local bars proudly offer tapas as afternoons slide into evenings. She is warmly welcomed and knows she belongs.

She moves from the heat of the afternoon sun to a refreshing breeze on yet another terrace. Still there are views to seduce her. As she captures the images, so they do her. Forever.

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