It was early afternoon, they, Joseito, his eleven year old son, Lee and his wife Rosa, they arrived in a taxi, to the old dirt, and dusty road that led down a shadowy lane to Jose's mother's adobe premises: along this walk were tall adobe thick walls used for fences, and inside these walls were folks getting ready to plant for the season, and would harvest sometime in April through May, in this rural Peruvian landscape outside of the city of Huancayo, Peru. Jose like the writer and poet Lee, had quiet drinking, Lee twenty-four years ago, Jose, had about one year of sobriety, but in that short time he had turned his life around most dramatically.
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