compost from food scraps, coffee grounds, eggshells, and bring over cow or horse manure from nearby ranchos and mix it all up as top dressing. We loaded wheelbarrows and dumped it in the garden to fertilize the sand. That's all the soil we have here up in the mesa, where what grows normally is a whole lot of cactus and creosote with no help at all.
If you are serious about your garden you start getting ready about a month before spring. That's when it begins to look like winter's gone butisn't yet, because on any night you might get a frost that will kill everything you just put into the ground with such loving care. Loving care is what I try to bring to whatever I do—otherwise why bother? “This year I'm planting three different types of tomatoes,” I told Jesse, “because Gabo loves his tomatoes. He eats them like fruit.” Jesse stopped raking and gave me a peculiar look as if up until then he had thought tomatoes came from cans.
“Well, that is because they
are
fruta,” said Gabo, who I have noticed is becoming kind of a know-it-all as his sixteenth birthday approaches. I gave him one of my looks and he went back to his nailing. Seeing him hunched over I remembered exactly the time when Rafa taught him how to hold a hammer. Gabo was about eight years old. “It's heavy,” I said to my brother. “He's too chiquito to hold up such a heavy tool. I'll do it.” I rushed to help. My brother put his palm up, while insisting that the child draw back the hammer with two tiny hands. Concentrating, Gabo's boquita was all puckered like an old man's. And then,
bam,
he got the nail square on the head. “¡Eso!” Rafa shouted, lifting up his son in the air and swinging him around. Gabo never let go of the hammer.
All summer crop dusters will fly low, spraying pesticides on the nearby farmlands, not to mention on the workers. A neighbor here on the mesa whose house is hidden by big pines sunbathes in the nude. The crop dusters, she says, circle over her property when she's out there. I don't care what they see as long as they don't accidentally spray any poison on me, or my plants. This year I'm thinking of joining a farmers’ market and taking my pesticide-free vegetables to sell.
Miguel told me about a cooperative of indio coffee-bean growers in Oaxaca that ended up making a prosperous international business just because they couldn't afford pesticides and produced organic coffee. I hadn't thought of myself as an organic farmer until Miguel put it that way.
One day me and him drove down to El Paso again. We drove up and down the street of los coyotes. We never saw nothing. What were we going to see? The window blinds were down on the house. Doors shut. No sign or nothing to give us any clues about what to do about mi her-mano.
While we cruised around I did get to hear all of Miguel's life without asking. He just went from one subject to another on his own. It didn't even seem to matter that I was there. Miguel just likes to hear himselftalk. From organic farmers and his concerns about the environment to what he thinks about the immigration issue. He talked like he was in front of his classroom. Me, with my hands folded on my lap, I looked like the pupil. When people talk that much around me I tend to get inhibited. And irritated. It comes from living with Mamá all my life. Who put the nickel in the nickelodeon? I used to say to myself about her.
“What's wrong?” Miguel asked.
“That cat got my tongue.”
“What cat?” He smiled. My friend was teasing me but I didn't know it. Not knowing when you're being teased also comes from being alone for inordinate amounts of time.
“You know?
The
cat,” I said. “I'm not a teacher like you, with always something clever to say on the top of your tongue.”
Miguel corrected me. “On the tip of your tongue.”
“See what I mean?” I said and then I shut up for a long while.
So Miguel kept talking, telling me all about his comunidad and all that they do to clean
If you are serious about your garden you start getting ready about a month before spring. That's when it begins to look like winter's gone butisn't yet, because on any night you might get a frost that will kill everything you just put into the ground with such loving care. Loving care is what I try to bring to whatever I do—otherwise why bother? “This year I'm planting three different types of tomatoes,” I told Jesse, “because Gabo loves his tomatoes. He eats them like fruit.” Jesse stopped raking and gave me a peculiar look as if up until then he had thought tomatoes came from cans.
“Well, that is because they
are
fruta,” said Gabo, who I have noticed is becoming kind of a know-it-all as his sixteenth birthday approaches. I gave him one of my looks and he went back to his nailing. Seeing him hunched over I remembered exactly the time when Rafa taught him how to hold a hammer. Gabo was about eight years old. “It's heavy,” I said to my brother. “He's too chiquito to hold up such a heavy tool. I'll do it.” I rushed to help. My brother put his palm up, while insisting that the child draw back the hammer with two tiny hands. Concentrating, Gabo's boquita was all puckered like an old man's. And then,
bam,
he got the nail square on the head. “¡Eso!” Rafa shouted, lifting up his son in the air and swinging him around. Gabo never let go of the hammer.
All summer crop dusters will fly low, spraying pesticides on the nearby farmlands, not to mention on the workers. A neighbor here on the mesa whose house is hidden by big pines sunbathes in the nude. The crop dusters, she says, circle over her property when she's out there. I don't care what they see as long as they don't accidentally spray any poison on me, or my plants. This year I'm thinking of joining a farmers’ market and taking my pesticide-free vegetables to sell.
Miguel told me about a cooperative of indio coffee-bean growers in Oaxaca that ended up making a prosperous international business just because they couldn't afford pesticides and produced organic coffee. I hadn't thought of myself as an organic farmer until Miguel put it that way.
One day me and him drove down to El Paso again. We drove up and down the street of los coyotes. We never saw nothing. What were we going to see? The window blinds were down on the house. Doors shut. No sign or nothing to give us any clues about what to do about mi her-mano.
While we cruised around I did get to hear all of Miguel's life without asking. He just went from one subject to another on his own. It didn't even seem to matter that I was there. Miguel just likes to hear himselftalk. From organic farmers and his concerns about the environment to what he thinks about the immigration issue. He talked like he was in front of his classroom. Me, with my hands folded on my lap, I looked like the pupil. When people talk that much around me I tend to get inhibited. And irritated. It comes from living with Mamá all my life. Who put the nickel in the nickelodeon? I used to say to myself about her.
“What's wrong?” Miguel asked.
“That cat got my tongue.”
“What cat?” He smiled. My friend was teasing me but I didn't know it. Not knowing when you're being teased also comes from being alone for inordinate amounts of time.
“You know?
The
cat,” I said. “I'm not a teacher like you, with always something clever to say on the top of your tongue.”
Miguel corrected me. “On the tip of your tongue.”
“See what I mean?” I said and then I shut up for a long while.
So Miguel kept talking, telling me all about his comunidad and all that they do to clean
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