My old man was like no other.

Don't get me wrong he wasn't perfect, but he was a good guy. My old man was a poor farmer in Cajamarca, a small province of Celendin, Peru. Farming was all he knew, well that and religion.

My father was a very religious man. He made sure we were raised properly. By the time my brothers and I were three, we all the power of the belt, and my father's stern hand.

My old man used to wake up every day at three in the morning and go up to the chanche, our farming plot. Every morning he'd wake up and work on the land in order to ensure that we, his family, would have enought to eat. Sometimes while up at the chanche, my father would be working so long and hard that the night woudl sneak up on him unannounced. On days like these my father would spend the night in a little straw hut that my brothers and I had helped build. It wasn't much for sticks and straw, but it was a sturdy little piece, good enough to get him trhough those nights.

Every week my father would pick one of us, his sons, to go along with him to the chanche and work the fields. He used to say it would help build character, make us understand the importance of work and the responsibilities it held. We didn't like it, but we didn't question.

Work at the chanche was never really fun, but it's been were we've learned our life's lessons. Not one of us didn't bring back something from the chanche, my father made sure of that.

"Never say you can't. Just grit your teeth and do it."

Each and every one of us had heard it, mostly at times when it was least appreciated, but despite our grumblings and irritation, and even though not one of us will admit it openly, it was what always got us through.

My old man was a good guy; he was tough,never backed away from anything in his life. He was a man of faith; he used to say thatlife was good because God was on his side.

I remember one time while up at the chanche,it was just before harvesting and everything had to be tended with extra care. It was one of those nights where we took shelter in the hut. It was late, and my father shook me awake.

"Get up, you must pray".

As my consciousness let go of the dream world which had held me ever so peacefully, I slowly became aware of the chaos in the reality that surrounded me. The wind was whistling past our little hut, and the sky was exploding with a storm.

What was going on? It was just a storm. Why was my father so concerned?

He must have seen the confusion on my face, for at that moment he grabbed me and told me to listen. All I could hear was the wind and the thunder that surrounded me.

"Concentrate", my father said.

And it was then that i heard it, in the distance... Crack...Rumble...Splat.

The chanche was along the coast, where the land was most fertile, allowing for good crops. The hut was built near a beautiful waterfall; it was close to the chanche and provided us with a means of drinking water and bathing. But being near the waterfall had its dangers. Up at the top of the waterfall were huge boulders and stones, which during heavy storms had the habit of tumbling to the land below. This happened to be one of those days, and so the boulders were launched and our little straw hut in the center of their target.

As the realization spread across my face, my father grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me out of bed and brought me to kneel beside him.

I was eleven years old and terrified.

"My son you must pray, for when children ask of him, God listens."

And so for the next hour while the rocks shook the ground beneath us, I prayed. I prayed to God that the hut would not be squashed, that our crops would be saved. I prayed that I'd once again see my brothers and my mother. I prayed for all it was worth.

It must have been a sight, a father and his eleven year old boy, down on their knees in a straw hut, praying side by side while the world around them caved in. But sure enough, an hour later it was all over. Our lives were spared, and the storm had passed.

I'll never forget that night; it was the first time I had prayed and truly spoken to God. I had never really understood God. Up until then I only knew that he was of great importance to my father,and that if I used his name in vain,the belt was suer to follow.My father had a bible in every room in the house. But growing up we were never allowed to touch them; the word of God was not for the hands of children.But somehow that night I knew everything about God. I knew i wasn't alone and that I was speaking to a being of great power.

The next morning, I awoke at around six o'clock. Fearing my punishment I leaped out of bed.

"It's all right, rest".

As I looked into my father's face I noticed the wrinkles on his forehead and the gray hairs on his head that had not been there before. It was that day that I realized that our trips to the chanche weren't just about character building; the truth was my father was getting old.

It has been twenty years since the night I sat in that hut praying. I now have my own family, a lovely wife and two young boys. We live in a small house in Connecticut, nothing too fancy, but it's more than I had growing up. Every summer my family and I make the long trip to Cajamarca. I want my boys to see where their father grew up;I want them to appreciate what they have.

But this summer when we arrived at the airport, I found my father changed. He was standing there alone and waiting, his face wise from the long journey of his life. I saw him from afar, and I realized how different we are, we were raised in different times.

My old man now walks a slow pace, each step with great care as if acknowledging the wind. His eyes are strong, but his body is heavy, for he carries time on his shoulders.

My years are new and hold a future;his years are few and limited. My old man is my blood;I am his silence and his time.

He has a history that time will never touch, for he lives on in me.