My father wrote:

2 March 1977
Chinchero

We passed a quiet day watching the rain and mud. I managed to get a couple of hours in practicing doing a Loraypu with both hands, that is picking up from either side towards the middle. When the sun finally began to shine, we sat out by the church and did textile things; some Huaman kids showed me how to do a new hakima “ocho-ocho” in the tanka ch’oro threading and Abby had her first lessons in weaving a cata.

I remember that as if it were yesterday; maybe better, in fact. My warp was yellow and black, the string tied heddles synthetic navy blue as were the selvedges and my weft. I also remember the days that followed and every mistake I made on that piece, that older girls picked out and had me do over. I was as determined to get that right as I was to be able to read without having to ask for help with words. I had two skirts to wear then, and the outside one was blue and shiny and I loved it. I remember the feel of that weaving in my clumsy hands and using a ballpoint pen for a shedsword. I remember how the blades of grass felt tickling my calves while I sat, and the change in temperature every time the sun went behind a cloud, and asking if soon I could have a needle for my hat since now I was a weaver. My nose was sunburnt and scabbed. My hair was tangled and so very very blonde. And my hands on this keyboard right now look so very unexpectedly old compared to the hands I remember having then. But they are the same.