The old farmer

It was shortly before noon when I passed. The farmer sat outside the small stable in what was supposed to be sunshine but seemed more to be sunshade on this humid and clouded spring day. It was a small stable, inside there were 5 chickens. Just the right amount to support the farming family. Her clothes were baggy and washed out, the shoes in soil-covered rubber boots. Her feet tell she is a farmer, her legs never cross, her toes never rise. Her feet were standing firm on the soil even though she was sitting, parallelly to each other, relating to the earth. She was slightly laid back, with her hands laying crossed in front of her stomach. She sighted.

We greeted each other, Buondì. I asked her, so she told me that today she already planted her own beans and fed the chicken. Now when she goes home, she will wash some linen and cook lunch. Better to have something to do, she said as her eyes wander along the horizon. Always better to be busy. I followed her glance over the landscape lying in front of us. Small gardens, small vineyards, high mountains, precious agricultural terraces. Soon, in May, it will all be green, she told me. One day we will wake up, and it will all be green.

Listen, I said, do you think we can organize the work for tomorrow for the community garden? We will have the volunteers here, and I hope they can be of some help. Bo, was all she said, which is a generally vague expression that can fit for anything in life. I have been here long enough to know what she mean then. She meant alright, you do you, I will be here. So I continued to speak. Alright then, so I tell everyone to be here at 8.00. It is not hot yet, so we can start late. We cut the potatoes already for seeding, I put the beans in water, and I put the hoe in the water to make the wooden stick swell into the iron tool, and I tell everyone to come equipped. I will be here at 7.30 so we can collect everything and have a coffee before we start. She nodded. Don’t worry, she said, I will bring the coffee.