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PLANTINGLE

 Several sayote rootstock-- from Alfonso, Cavite where my third child was married in a garden wedding rite-- were planted in a muddy quagmire where pours water used for washing food ingredients, clothes, dishes, what have you. Planting site is a farm lot of a brother-in-law next to my one-hectare spread devoted to rare and endangered tree species.

Like swine getting ensconced in hog heaven, the sayote seedlings I planted myself thrived in that pigsty ground (even farm bumpkins in that farming area are averse to wading in cesspools or doing a bit of tickling the ground with a hoe, but I'm not); so sayote began shooting off a mesh of green foliage, flowers, and fruits after a time. My jaunts to an agro-forestry research facility in Puguis, Benguet had me acquainted to what sayote needs for robust growth and fecund fruition.
Sneeze at the myopic notion that it takes an entire village to raise a child-- those sayote babies I raised myself. And it just took the entire nearby village to feed upon whatever comestibles the sayote proffered as it thrived. Not a whit of tender tendril did my hands touch to bring home, maybe do some cooking with. Iisa ang nagtanim at nagsinop, isang buong barangay ang sisimot, 'di ba?
Did it occur to 'em to allow a few fruits to mature and provide fresh planting materials to keep a steady sayote supply on their tables? Is Pope Francis a Protestant? Is my penis the one-meter length of social distancing?
So I remember that native from the Cordillera region who leased a spread of sylvan terrain in the unheard of village, San Isidro in Antipolo fringe of Sierra Madre. He was welcomed with jeers and sneers, even as he turned the long-idled ground. Planted high-value crops. Snap beans (bitchuelas), sweet peas (sitsaro), cabbages (repolyo). And one man's toil touched off a miracle upon the land whose environs had a similar Cordillera nippy air and less than harsh temperatures conducive to the crops he coaxed to growth.
He had not foreseen the days of locusts descending upon the crops he had tended well and duly cared for. As it doesn't take an entire village to rear a child, only to arrest or murder its development, the entire village took liberties with the crops they haven't shed a wee drop of sweat or piss to grow.
So the miracle worker left. The land went idle anew-- because the land cannot crank out arms or tentacles or tools with which to turn the ground and tend to comestibles. A rare breed of people does that.
Sure, dear, all men are brothers. But let me affirm: I am Cain. He who had murdered and was told by God Himself to earn his keep and his bread by the sweat of his brow.
And unlike the celebrated author and National Artist Frankie Sionil-Jose (who won't know me from Adam), I won't bother banging out a book to explain to Filipinos, "
Why We Are Poor".

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