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I began writing this book on a rainy night in August 2015, eight months to the day from the historic speeches of these two Presidents, signaling a thaw in diplomatic relations after fifty-six years of Cold War enmity. It was almost three months after my return home from an eleven-month stay in Cuba with my spouse, Kim. December 17, a date stuck right in the middle of our stay, could well prove to be one of Cuba’s most celebrated dates, establishing its place in the history of a Caribbean country whose calendar is already filled with many red-letter days. We could not have chosen a more interesting or significant chunk of time to be there, given the tremendous changes that the completely unexpected December announcement began to unleash.
With all the stories of the year still percolating in my mind, like strong, fresh roasted Cuban coffee grounds brewing in a stovetop cafetera, I finally resolved on that August day to go home and start pouring them out onto the page (the computer screen, to be more precise). I turned into the driveway in the late afternoon and got within shouting distance of our home on The Old Place, our name for the plot of Appalachian mountain land that has been in my family for generations. As it turned out, shouting distance was as close as I could get. Three large trees lying over the road hindered further progress.
