Harvest

By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

WITH patience and the proper care, all living things grow. On my window hangs yellow orange blooms of my kalabasa (squash), growing on top of the cottonwood tree, hanging on a branch, thirteen feet above ground. I thought that because I cut most of the branches of the tree to prevent it from being mangled by typhoon Tisoy, the squash came down with them, but the vine clung to the remaining twigs defying death. It has become a curiosity for passersby, and I hear them saying, “How will that be harvested?”

Harvesting, so soon? The blooms are still enjoying the triumph over Tisoy, and it is sacrilegious to even think of harvest. They look like Angel’s Trumpet facing up, eager to bask in the sun, relieved that they are at an elevation unreachable by covetous hands that will surely want to cook them. From the window on the second floor, I saw two young boys picking kamote (sweet potato) tops, in a hurry, they almost uprooted the entire plant.

“Wala ng naiwan para sa nagtanim, huwag ninyong ubusin.” (Nothing will be left to the one who planted, don’t get everything.)

“Dagdag lang po sa Lucky Me noodles sa almusal namin.” (Just to add to the Lucky Me noodles for our breakfast)

“Bakit di kayo magtanim?” (Why don’t you plant your own?)

“Wala po kaming lupa.” (We do not have soil.)

“Binili ko yung lupa sa pasong yan.” (I bought the soil in that pot.)

As I ran down the stairs in an effort to stop further damage to the plant, I heard footsteps running away. I felt pity for the kamote, but happy that it was not totally uprooted and could survive. I could sense the anxiety in the other plants, especially the kalabasa. It will not be farfetched that the same boys can come back to yank the vine from the roots to harvest the flowers to add to their noodles for lunch or dinner, as poor families rely basically for noodles to sustain them. These are dangerous times. People feel “entitled” to anything they can get their hands on.

This incident reminded me of the fate of the insulin plant (costus igneus). A month ago, a fiftyish woman harvested most of the leaves, without permission, after initially asking for just two leaves. She said her husband was diabetic and they could not afford the prescribed medicines. I offered her a whole plant but she refused.

“Namamatay po lahat ng inaalagaan kong halaman. Hindi po ako green thumb.” (All the plants I cared for died. I do not have a “green thumb”.)

“Diligan mo lang naman.” (Just water them.)

“Wala po akong panahon.” (I have no time.)

At that point, I moved all the insulin plant in the backyard, including the one that has gone bald from her daily harvesting expedition. She was surprised to find them gone one morning, and she unabashedly asked me where they were. The feeling of entitlement was severe.

I plant for my own health and also to demonstrate to others that urban gardening is the next best thing to do to counter widespread importation. Each gardener has the responsibility to engage others liberate themselves from relying on commercial establishments for their nutrition and pharmaceutical companies for their medicines.

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