[186 Cayuga St., St. Paul, Minnesota: 1958]

Ernest Brandt, who was my mother’s boyfriend for about forty years, discovered my secret when I was eleven, back in the summer of ’58, in St. Paul, Minnesota. He had about half an acre of land in the city, and a big garden and he gave me a little section to grow carrots.

Well, I was grateful, so I tried to imitate it by planting my seeds in several rows: not too close to each other, not too far apart, and I would weed, water my garden plot, etcetera, etcetera; but my carrots did not grow like his: but my envy did.

Well, we lived next door to each other; a vacant lot separated the houses. In any case, it wasn’t a long walk to his garden: just a short walk across the field and a simple jump over his fence.

So from time to time I would go and check my garden to see how my carrots were doing and they weren’t doing very well, not compared to his anyway. So that day, a summer day, in 1958, my mother had just come down to visit him (he could see her walking from our house to his), and I knew then that she would not return to the garden for the rest of the night. . They took turns going to each other’s houses, but as time went on and I got older, she seemed to prefer her house, maybe because of my grandfather and her bad temper.

In any case, Ernest came into his house and I got to look at his garden, comparing it to mine, since they were right next to each other, and he had a lot of different vegetables growing in his garden, but somehow he was more interested in how his carrots were growing. The tops of his carrots were as round as my writings, and mine were as round as my thumb: this was not fair, not fair at all, so I felt, and envy washed over me, like white on white. rice.

So I looked here and there, especially the back door that led to a wooden deck, an open porch of sorts, to see if Ernie was coming, and he wasn’t. I carefully dug around a large carrot of hers, pulled it out, from the back row by the fence, surely I thought, I wouldn’t miss this single large carrot among so many. I then put the earth around him so he wouldn’t expect any dirty deeds to be done to him (but life is never that sweet and simple, is it: what goes around comes around, and when it does, it often hits you).

So the deal was done, and I went home to watch TV with Grandpa. I hid some apples on the side of the couch like I used to so Grandpa wouldn’t see them, because he was sitting across from me, looking at me like always. , like a hawk, and watching television as usual, a western as he liked more often, and when he saw my fruit, he said: “When are you going to stop eating?” the pipe half removed from his mouth, as if it were going to fall to the floor at any moment, half lit he would leave it in the ashtray burning slowly, he would lean back in the armchair again, he would concentrate on his western again.

Consequently, I hid the rest of my fruit, and he thought I was eating my first apple or orange all the time, and that was it, and he wouldn’t notice my little ploy until I was brave enough to get up. and I go to the kitchen I open the noisy refrigerator, and who could hide that farce, it would still be my fifth or sixth.

Anyway, around 9:30 pm, my mom came home with Ernie, he always walked her home, and they were in the kitchen. My mother asked me to come into the kitchen for a moment, and every time she asked me, she knew she was in trouble. And I was in trouble, and I went to the kitchen. Ernie was there with a big carrot in his hand, for a moment I thought it was just some vegetables from his garden that he used to bring home for my grandfather or my mother, and he said:

“Does this look familiar to you?”

“No,” I said, “Why?” (But of course it looked very familiar.)

“I think so,” my mother said, a hawk eye piercing me.

“Well,” he said, “Ernie found this in your garden and for some strange reason it didn’t seem to belong there with all your little carrots.”

He had planted it again, you see, thinking how proud he would be to show it off later.

“Yeah,” I said (I knew I couldn’t help but speak), adding, “I, I didn’t think taking a carrot would matter, I mean you have all the big ones, I only have the little ones.”

Maybe a bit of logic to my statement, but surely no justification for the theft and I guess that’s what it really was. Looking back now, I think they were trying to contain the humor of the situation, but they were stealing anyway and had to be dealt with. Little white sins, or distortions or deletions, they all add up after a while and become big white sins, and then who knows where it might go, or where it might lead, and I’m sure that’s what my mother was thinking. . But I would never have made a thief; I got caught all the time, that is, the few times I tried to get away with it.

“Didn’t it seem obvious that it would stand out?” asked my mother (I think envy blinded me). I just shrugged, I wasn’t thinking logically.

He seemed a bit anxious about being caught; I guess he was more sorry about being caught, less about taking the carrot: in any case, I said, “I never thought of that.” And that was the truth.

Written in St. Paul, Minnesota, 9-24-2005/Revised 3-3009

Spanish version

The Big Carrot

[Calle Cayuga # 186, San Pablo, Minnesota: 1958]

Ernesto Brandt, who was in love with my mother for nearly forty years, discovered my secret when I was one year old, it was the summer of 1958 in Saint Paul, Minnesota, United States. He had about half an acre of land in the city and a large garden and he had given me a small section of it to plant carrots.

Well, I was very grateful and so I tried to imitate him by planting my seeds in several rows, not too close to each other and not too far apart, and I would pull the weeds, water the garden patch, etc.; but my carrots did not grow like his, but my envy did.

Well, we lived close to each other; with an empty lot separating the houses. In any case, it wasn’t a long walk to his garden; just a short walk across the field and a simple jump over his fence.

That’s why every once in a while I would go check on my garden to see how my carrots were doing and they weren’t doing very well, not compared to his at any rate. So, on this summer day in 1958, my mother had just come down to visit him (he could see her walking to her house) and so I knew that he would not come back to the garden for the afternoon restaurant. They took turns going to each other’s house, but as time passed and I grew up, it seemed that she preferred to go to his house, perhaps because of my grandfather and his bad temper.

In any case, Ernesto entered his house, and I was looking at his garden, comparing it with mine, since they were next to each other, and he had many vegetables growing in his garden, but somehow I was more interested in seeing how his carrots were growing. The tops of his carrots were as round as my wrists, while mine were as round as my thumb; this was not fair, not by any means, that’s what I felt, and envy took over me, like my shadow.

So I looked here and there, mostly to the back door that led out onto a wooden platform, some kind of open terrace, to see if Erni was coming, and he wasn’t. I carefully dug around one of his big carrots, and pulled it, from the back row of the fence. He thought that surely he would not notice this single large carrot among many others. Then I filled in the hole with dirt, so he wouldn’t know someone had played a dirty deed on him (but life isn’t always that sweet and simple, it is: what comes, comes and goes, and when this happens it often collides right into your)

So the fact was given and I went home to watch TV with my grandfather-I hid a few apples by the side of the sofa, as usual I did so that my grandfather would not see them, because he sat in front of me, looking at me like a hawk like always, and watching a western movie like he often liked, and when he looked at my fruit he said “when are you going to stop eating!” his pipe almost half out of his mouth, as if it was going to fall to the floor at any memory, he would put it on the half lit ashtray burning slowly, and lay back on his couch focusing on his western again

Consequently I would hide the rest of my fruit, and he would think I was eating my first apple or orange all the time, and would not discover my little ruse until I was brave enough to get up and go into the kitchen to open the refrigerator. noisy, and who could hide that charade, although it would be my fifth or sixth fruit.

In any case, around 9:30 at night, my mother came with Erni, he always walked her back home, and they were in the kitchen. My mother asked me to go to the kitchen for a few minutes. Every time she asked me this I knew she was in trouble. And she was in trouble, and she ran into the kitchen. Erni was there with a big carrot in his hands, from a memory he thought that some of them were just vegetables from his garden, since he often brought some home for my grandfather or my mother, and he said:

“Looks familiar to you?”

“No” I said, “why” (but of course this one seemed very familiar to me)

“I think it is,” my mother said, hawk eyes piercing me.

“Well,” she said, “Erni found this in your garden and for some weird reason it didn’t seem like it belonged there with all your little carrots.”

I had replanted it, you see, thinking how proud I would be to show it off later.

“Yeah” I said (I knew I couldn’t get away) adding “I, I didn’t think pulling out a carrot would matter, I mean you have all those big carrots while I only have the little ones.”

Perhaps it will be a bit of logic to my support, but it certainly was not a justification for the theft and I suppose that this was in reality. Now that I remember, I think they were trying to hold back their laughs at the funny of the situation, but it was a robbery nothing less and had to be treated as such. Little white sins, distortions, or deletions, they all add up after a while and it’s sure to be huge white sins, and then who knows where they might go, or lead, and I’m sure that’s what my mother was thinking. . But I would never have become a thief, always flu discover, meaning the few times I tried to get away with something.

“Didn’t it seem obvious to you that this one would stand out?” my mother asked me (I think my envy blinded me). I just shrugged my shoulders, I wasn’t thinking reasonably.

He seemed a little worried about being discovered; I think he was more sorry for having been discovered and less sorry for having taken the carrot; in any case, I said, “he never thought of it that way.” And that was the truth.

Written in Saint Paul, Minnesota on February 24, 2005. Revised March 2009.