I only was with her for half a day, touring her tobacco farm in Cuba. Well, not really “her” farm, but the land she farmed in some kind of quasi-ownership relationship with the Cuban government. Not sure what.

We, my family and I, walked through the rows ploughed in the fields by donkeys pulling an anvil. The land was rocky and didn’t look too fertile to me. It looked dry. Hard work to produce just even tobacco leaves to fill 3-4 barns for drying. There were several empty barns waiting for a better crop year.

Clara stayed at her house, waiting for our return where her husband showed us how to roll our own Cuban cigars. We did it poorly, but were allowed to return our failed attempts to the common bowl.

Then Clara slowly handed us each a cigar she had rolled. She showed us how to puff just so, like a true Cuban. She took extra delight in teaching my handsome, nineteen year old son how to do it. Watching the two of them puff back and forth was the joy in watching people connect when they seem to have little else in common.

As we waved goodbye, I turned for one last look and saw Clara leaning on her window sill. She looked content with her cigar. Her world.