A Villagers Story-How Cooperatives Make Do

By now, you know the STORY of the Mother Letter Project. See the FAQs for more information.  Don’t forget to tell us if you are writing or donating.

As you know, I have been telling stories about the villagers who inspired the Mother Letter Project on Mondays.  Today, I have combined the villagers story with Ann Kroeker’s Monday theme, Make-Do Monday.  Make sure to visit Ann’s site every Monday, letting her know how you intend to make-do.

HOW COOPERATIVES MAKE DO

It was a pot-holey kind of dirt road, the kind that would produce morning joint pains if driven too hard. With the windows down you could smell fresh rain on the horizon; it was coming just above those spindly, fan-headed trees. We were driving to the planting fields out-lying the village. Southern boys knew about the blackness of Mississippi earth. This stuff looked more like Texas hardpan.

There were ten of us in the truck—six in the  cab and four in the bed—but the owner of our planting field was not among the number.  She was at home raising a slew of children. Her husband had either past, or had left, or was drunk, I can’t remember which.  The upside of advantage is hard to realize when the day-to-day tasks of child raising intervene. And so, the ground had lay fallow for years. 

Rusty had been to her home. He asked her what she needed to make a better life for the platoon of little boys wrestling outside, and she told him more money or more crops.  I have a nice little piece of dirt in the planting fields outside the village, she said.  It was just above the river.  There was no time to plant though and no seed money anyway.

There were two neighbors, Rusty said.  One has a bit of seed money and one has a husband with no children. A cooperative seemed like a good idea. She had land, another had money, and one had time and a husband willing to help hoe a row. The village mother smiled in agreement. A cooperative was good, she said. 

And that’s how the ten of us came to be in this truck. Four foreigners driving out for moral support; Lucky, the English educated native who bore his namesake well; two women, one husband, and the kid. Today was planting day.

When we arrived at the field, we slogged through a plot of land that had been well turned and well-watered from Mozambique’s rainy season. It had been plowed into rows by the woman with no children and her husband. The rows were straight and the man was proud.  Rusty kneeled and Lucky handed him a small seed. Soy, Rusty offered for my benefit and then offered a native explanation.  With the mothers looking down, Rusty pressed the seed slowly into the soil and quietly covered it over.  For a moment, the party looked intently into covered thumbprint as if a stalk would magically wind its way up from the dirt. Or perhaps, the action was somehow holy and deserving of reverence.  Either way, Rusty rose and handed the bag to the woman with no children. She smiled at the prospect of cooperative and began to plant seeds.

As we turned to walk away, Rusty spit a streamer of tobacco juice into the field and looked at me, saying nothing. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed as if to say, this is what the kingdom of heaven looks like.

 **********

This summer Amber and I are planting a small garden.  And perhaps, we’ll share the work and the harvest with some good neighbors.  While we poke seeds into store-bought topsoil, and wait expectantly for the fruit, when we walk down the rows with water cans, I will tell them the story of the three women, and one man.  And we will wait expectantly, because that’s how cooperatives make do.

Tagged as: A Villager's Story