Memories of a farmer’s child

by Letricia Cadette-Trimble

He pulls his boots off to a corner and puts his cutlass behind it, he checks his dehnding knife.  As he runs his fingers over the slightly darkened blade, I watched in amazement wondering why it didn’t cut him like the time I tried to peal a grapefruit and slit my finger.  I remembered, then, how my mother put the brown plaster on it, she had gotten at the shop.  He picked up the second one, did the same and put it aside.  The third one, though more worn than the two others, he scrutinized more closely, muttered something incoherent, a bit out of my earshot and placed it aside.  Daddy then gingerly got off the front step where he had been examining his tools of the trade and with a low groan walked to the kitchen. That rough and tumble house of rusting galvanized and wood with the dirt floor just a few feet off the steps of the house. A make-shift dish draining contraption attached to the front side.  He then came back with what looked like a shiny stone which he placed on the top step.  Securing it between his left hand and the wood beam of the door, he then picked up the one curved knife he had placed apart from the others with his right hand and rubbed it over the shiny stone. With every stroke the darkened edge started to look kind of silver. This magic stone was making this one old curved knife new again.  He lifted it up to eye level after a while, examined it, gave it a few more strokes, rolled his thumb over the blade; nodding his head as if to say “good” and placed it to the side.  He did the same with the two others in quick succession, much quicker than the first.

Later that afternoon, my brother came calling “daddy, I brought the boxes”.  Everybody seemed to be preparing for a special occasion.  Banana day was the following day!  I had seen this joyous occasion many a time, but this time was different. It was summer vacation from school, and I would have to go with mammy when they left early the following morning.  Morning had broken, but I wasn’t in the best of moods when I peeked between the boards on the side of our house and realized it was still a bit dark.  Then from what seemed like a distance I heard it again…. My eyes fluttered shut in slow motion, “C’est leh pou lavay zafant”. I remember being annoyed and ignored the voice once again, shutting my eyes and relaxing in the moment.  Then again mammy’s voice cut through the semi-silence of cricket chirps and nothingness.

 “Lavay, lavaymasai carban ou c’est leh pou mwe kitay kai la” By then she was right over me, face serious and bright. I rolled over, got to my knees and waited for my mind to meet my body halfway… Still slightly annoyed! Picking up the old mattress and pachiwokblanket, I put them away, took off my nightie and walked to the window where I would brush my teeth and wash my face! My watered-down coffee (mac café) was waiting next to the fire-stone with a piece of bread and butter; the butter that I really liked… The one that came in the tin can that mammy would put in a dish of water so it would not melt. My demeanor changed instantly at the sight of my bread and butter and coffee. “vit, vit came mammy’s voice from behind the kitchen where she had been packing a bag with all sorts of stuff that I assumed she was going to take with us. There was no daddy nor brothers in sight. I finished my breakfast as quick as I could, savoring my bread and butter as much as I could.  As soon as the last piece was in my mouth, my mother appeared with a plastic canvas bag, the one she had bought when she had gone to Roseau for Christmas. The red, blue and white one she always folded when she was done using it and hid under the table. She handed it off to me. Her head was tied in the usual way, a piece of worn madras was also tied around her waist with a triangle tip on her right hip. I wondered for a moment if that cloth was meant to hold her belly or she just liked it there. I wondered for just a moment.  She was gathering up supplies, I noticed two gallon pails some other things I did not recognize, a roll of soft looking green paper which she quickly admonished me NOT to touch when she saw my gaze roll over it and my brow squinch together in a questioning manner.  Everything was ready and off we went. Disappearing in a footpath that ran from behind the kitchen to my father’s banana field.  When we were adjacent to my uncle’s house, the whiff of fresh coffee permeated the air. I could see his window open, so I knew he too was up and about. 

A small platform was cleared just at the end of the footpath and what I assumed was the door-of-sorts of my father’s banana plot. I could see my mother’s friend standing just off to the side of two long wooden shelves that rose from the ground to almost chest level.  As we drew closer, I could see footprints in the dew ladendirt and the usual pleasantries were exchanged.  I said, “Good Morning” and my mother’s friend responded “Morning. Ouvenir fait ansbaytan?” She always called me ‘ansbaytan’, so as usual I paid her no mind in any case you did not dare answer or stare your elders in the eye. I stood as far off as I could from the two ladies after putting my load down. They rearranged the area quickly, a sing-song conversation in creole ensued punctuated with a hand on the hip or gales of laughter. By then I had already started to get restless, shifting from one leg to the other and eyeing a nearby guava tree. Just then my mother called out for me to come over, I darted over expecting to get a good chore to do away with the boredom that was already setting in.  She pointed to a crocus bag and told me take the jerrycan in it to go fill it in a tin drum that had been placed to another section of the tin roof juppa that daddy had built for rainy banana days. I quickly did as I was instructed. I would make that journey several more times to fill up a basin they had used to wash away dirt, dust or other things off the bananas that had been separated from the bunch by my father and brothers and brought to the platform where my mother and her friend prepped and placed the bananas in brown boxes.  Edging away quietly, I found myself at the trunk of that guava tree I had been eyeing. Up I climbed perusing the branches for fruit. I was slim and limber, perfectly poised for the task of moving from branch to branch in search of my treasure. Before the day was over, I would climb many other trees in the vicinity. I picked my fair share of grapefruits from a tree in the distance, searched every inch of a fatpoke tree, every wild raspberry bush and played with a couple tree-frogs. Boxes of bananas, two sometimes three at a time were hoisted onto the shoulders of the men who walked a short distance to the main road where they would pack them awaiting transportation to the depot later that day. In the waning light, supplies were once again packed up and we trekked down the footpath to home.

At the house, boisterous chatter ensued about the joys and challenges of the day. On this late Thursday afternoon there was still time for men to get cleaned up and go down to the main village shop where most farmers would assemble for a drink, a game of dominos and continued talk of what happened throughout the day and what was expected the following day… The last banana day.  The Friday came and the hustle and bustle of banana day continued from dawn. The village was alive with movement as we moved from one plot, one single farm holding to another, I saw men whistling speaking animatedly to each other and promising to stop and give a helping hand if they were done in their own fields early. The community was awash with boisterous, soulful laughter.  Bananas, bananas farmers family friends. Tired from the day’s work, but satisfaction etched on faces darkened by the day’s sun now loaded pickups with the last produce for the depot. For me, it was home time, holding onto mammy’s arm we passed the hub of village activity, the village shop; got our fresh bread and slowly walked the three-quarter mile slop to our home atop the hill. As I sit here reminiscing on those good old days, the only days I recall being happier is on banana paydays. Even we, the children, looked forward to that day. I recall the brown envelope that daddy or my brother would bring home full of money. Daddy would sit on the table, count it out and separate it. I would stay close by watching him count it. I had become quite adept in counting and had mastered keeping track of the red paper dollars. It had become the norm to stay close because daddy would sometimes give up the coins or on some occasion a crisp red paper dollar bill, but only if we were around when he counted it. Today, as he counted it, he smiled rubbing two paper bills between his fingers; he called out to my mother. She entered, wiping her hands on her mooshwey, that washed out madras square she often wore around her waist. “Yo hossay pwefig la, oui” was all he said, and she responded “mwe tay dit’w, mwe tan ca assou radio’a, ou pastay kwe mwe?” His brow furrowed, he eyed the three piles of money he had counted, pointed to them “maytay ca la bar ca monde la” and he went back to the brown envelope. He turned it upside down, there was a clanging and a few coins poured out into his open palm.  He handed me a big shiny fifty-cent piece. Oh, how I loved banana payday; I too had been paid. I darted across the yard to show my cousins my big money.

As my thoughts drift to that wonderous time of being raised a farmer’s child, I can’t help but smile but alas that smile fades quickly as new thoughts emerge behind my mind’s eye. It is often said that smells evoke the most vivid of memories. The smell of burning seasoned water falling into the stove broke that memory quickly, I moved over to the stove lowered it and stirred my pot.  My smoked meat Braff flavored with fresh celery, seasoning pepper and cilantro was almost done. I walked back into my perch at the window and looked out into the yard. This time though, agitated by my new thoughts. Thoughts of going past the Woodbridge Bay Port on a Friday afternoon with cleared roads and not a vehicle in sight loaded with banana boxes. I could feel the fury inching closer to my collar remembering going to the market to buy a hand of banana,six members strong for five dollars.

The days of bananas being king now a distant memory, in its place a new commodity: my sovereignty. The once proud farmers relegated to taking on security duties for foreign dollar businesses. Those who have not left the village in pursuit of city jobs sit aimlessly waiting for the day when relatives can send home some renumeration. In the place of pride and smiles; sunken cheeks of despair, alcoholic stupors and broken spirits are all that remain. There are no more boisterous laughter of independent men working their fields to support their families. No regular banana payday, not even any dominos at the village shop.