Ruby meets Pancho

The task: to distribute 20 varieties of tomato seed to the agriculture teacher, and manager of worm compost at the school between Banamichi and Huepac (the next town south).  A friend in southern Arizona who frequents this area entrusts us with the whole bundle to divide up as we please: some for us to grow, some for us to share with other farmers and gardeners in the community.  The idea is to see what does well here, and save those seeds.

Informative sign about worms at the school

A night at Canelo on our way back to Mexico from Tucson leaves us with dozens of small origami packages of tomato seeds which we label with things like amish paste and brandywine and green zebra and zapotec.

There is this thing that happens when I'm around Stevan.  He is our talker and I am the listening observer.  It happens because he is a native spanish speaker, and I am not, and while I have learned much from listening, and he has been helpful in so many situations, it obviously presents some challenges and patterns that don't really serve either of us.  There are many things about coming here and doing the things we are doing here, while in relationship, that have felt like some of the hardest things I've ever done.  It seems like what is happening as a result is my comfort zone is getting pushed and pulled to expand a much wider scope than it previously had (dare I say not the easiest process), and that its becoming clearer and clearer whats truly important to me.

Anyhow, between getting a roof on and windows and doors in, and the field watered, prepped, and planted before Stevan left, we've only managed to hand out one batch of seeds, and haven't yet managed to catch "el profe" at his house.  And we are getting into tomato season.

So, armed with some phrases I googled while sitting in the town square using the free wi-fi and watching the town start to come alive with "semana de santa" activity, I head to el profe's house with the envelope full of the 20 little origami packages of seed.

A dog barks fiercely in the yard, so I opt not to enter the gate and knock on the door, but yell a tentative buenas tardes from outside the gate.  I try to peer into the backyard, and am about to get back in the truck and leave when a young guy opens the door in his socks, and leads me around the corner of the house to the backyard after I ask, es el professor Sarabia aqui?

We walk through probably close to 100 chamomile plants, lining the pathways in bags of soil, that instantly put me at ease, as chamomile is so good at doing.  And there is the teacher, squatting over a garden bed in the far corner in shorts and a tee shirt and wearing sandals over his pulled up socks. He looks up at me, not registering who I am, under slightly disheveled hair.

I grasp clumsily for the pre-researched phrases in my memory, and reel them off slowly until I see a light of recognition on his face.  Ah! yes.  I remember you and your boyfriend that stopped by the school and bought some worm castings from me a month or so ago.

And then curiosity.  Who is your friend in Arizona?  Does he know me?  What are these seeds?

Meanwhile, we are standing over dirt.  Real dirt.  Good dirt.  We walk and he is describing things to me.  The plan for the garden; a plant here; that plant there.  Then I hear him say Beattles, and Creedence Clearwater, and I realize he's telling me what he likes to listen to when he is back here gardening.  It's dawning on me that the radio is on, and the usual raucous Mexican music of the area isn't coming out of it.

We look at a nest in a citrus tree with huge heavy fruit.  It's bigger than grapefruit, but I don't remember what he told me it was in Spanish anymore.  He shows me the peach tree, and remembering that he offered us one back when we first met him, points out the small tree coming up next to it that I can dig up if I want.

And then-- I know.  I know I have truly met a friend, simply because we are both squatting over his compost pile, mutually appreciating the pile of rotting garbage that is crawling with the biggest roly poly's I've ever seen, and worms, and some sort of snail.  To the untrained eye it is, well, garbage.  Garbage sitting on a tarp, full of bugs.  There are rinds and peels, and a volunteer potato plant coming up in the middle of it all.  But we both know and understood what it is in the process of becoming, and I feel so at home squatting there next to it with another appreciative soul.

On the porch he picks up a bird book and makes a quick whistling sound that sounds exactly like a bird, then points at the picture.  I realize he's telling me what sort of bird made the nest in the citrus tree.  He also tells me he records all his daily bird sitings.

Como se llama? he askes me as I'm getting ready to leave, and when we are standing by the front door with the ceramic sycamore leaf next to it inscribed with the family's name: Sarabia.

Ruby? He responds when I tell him.  I'm in a place where my name is truly difficult for the language.  Of course, it is a little tricky, period, but here people's tongues and lips just plain can't wrap themselves around the word Trilby.  At first I was indignant that I wouldn't change my name when Stevan suggested I might want to have another one handy that I don't mind people calling me, otherwise people will just give me any nickname they please--as nicknames are big here-- and it will stick.  But I'm starting to realize that just as the plants around here have another name in spanish, they are still the same plant, and I can go by different names too without it changing--or rather, limiting-- whats underneath.

Sarabia? I ask him back.
Francisco, he says, and smiles.  Pancho.

We smile at each other.  Pancho and Ruby.  I leave feeling victorious.  Like I accomplished my mission, and while maybe I didn't understand all his words, nor him mine, it seems like the meaning underneath was mutually understood.