My Grandmother’s Death and the Generosity of Planting Fruit Trees
I Have Not Been To My Grandfather’s Farm in Colombia in 20 Years
I bought happiness at the Kukui’ula farmer’s market in Poipu, Kauai, for seven dollars.
It only lasted a few minutes — maybe a dollar per minute. But it was enough.
The farmer didn’t even do much. I’m sure he did some back-end work. But at the moment the money exchanged hands, he only swung his machete to create an opening in my coconut so I could drink the water.
The water made me a kid again. It took me right back to my childhood. I zipped through a wormhole to when I would sit down on my grandfather’s farm and drink coconuts with him.
I can’t think of coconuts without thinking of my grandfather’s farm.
The farm’s entrance was adorned by a promenade of coconut trees — two rows of almost forty coconut trees.
In Barranquilla, Colombia, landowners live in the city but tend to their farms on the weekends. During the week, the ‘capataces,’ foremen, run everything from dawn to dusk in ‘la finca,’ the farm.
Every Saturday morning, my grandfather, Manuel, would pick me up and we would go to his farm.
