Ceja Vineyards

It was late afternoon in a small village in Mexico. Warm sun illuminated the narrow winding streets. Church bells were ringing as if announcing the arrival of good news.

One child clinging to each leg, Pablo Ceja shuffled awkwardly across the room and plopped his heavy load of presents on the polished kitchen table. Juanita, black eyes shining, smiled a warm welcome. Shouts of glee rang out as the children tore into the packages, scattering paper and ribbon everywhere.