The Big Carrot (A Minnesota Short Story – 1958) Reissued 3-2009 (in English and Spanish)

[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 large garden and he gave me a small section to grow carrots.

Well, I was grateful, so I tried to copy it by planting my seeds in several rows: not too close to each other, not too far apart, and I would pick the weeds, water my patch in the garden, and so on; But my carrots didn’t grow like hers, but my envy did.

Well, we lived side by side; a vacant lot separated the houses. In any case, it was not a long walk to his garden: just a short walk through the field and a simple jump over his fence.

So every once in a while, I’d go check my garden to see how my carrots were doing and they weren’t very good, at least not compared to his. Therefore, this summer day in 1958, my mother had just come to visit him (I could see her walking from our house to hers), so I knew that I would not go back to the garden for the rest of my life. the night. They took turns going to each other’s house, but as time passed and I grew older, it seemed that she preferred her house, perhaps because of my grandfather and his bad mood.

In any case, Ernest walked into his house and I started looking at his garden, comparing it to mine, since they were next to each other, and he had many 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, it was not fair by any means, so I felt, and envy washed over me, like white over rice.

Consequently, I looked here and there, mainly at the back door that led to a wooden deck, a kind of open porch, to see if Ernie was coming and not. I carefully dug around a large carrot of hers, pulled it out, from the back row next to the fence, surely I thought, this large and simple carrot would not be lost among so many. Then I surrounded him with dirt so that he wouldn’t expect dirty deeds to be done to him (but life is never that sweet and simple, is it? What is given, turns around, and when it does, it often crashes into ti.).

So the writing was done, and I went home to watch TV with Grandpa; I hid some apples on the side of the sofa like I used to do so that Grandpa wouldn’t see them, because in front of me he sat, looking at me as usual. , like a hawk, and watching television as usual, a western as he liked more often, and when he saw my fruit, he would say: “When are you going to stop eating?” the pipe half out of his mouth, as if it were going to fall at any moment to the floor, half lit he left it in the ashtray burning slowly, he sat back in his chair, he returned to concentrating on his western.

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

Anyway, around 9:30 PM, my mother came home with Ernie, he always walked her home and they were in the kitchen. My mother asked me to come to the kitchen for a moment, and every time she asked me that, I knew I 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 often brought home for my grandfather or my mother, and he said:

“Does it look familiar to you?”

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

“I think so,” my mother said, with a hawk eye, looking right through 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.”

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

“Yes,” I said (I couldn’t get out of it, I knew it), and added: “Yo, I didn’t think having a carrot mattered, I mean, you got all the big ones, I only got small ones.”

Perhaps a bit of logic for my claim, but surely it is not a justification for the theft and I suppose that is what it really was. Now that I look back, I think they were trying to contain the humor of the situation, but it was a robbery anyway and had to be fixed. Little white sins, or distortions, or deletions, they all add up after a while and turn into big white sins, and then who knows where it might go, or where it would lead, and I’m sure that’s what my mother. But he would never have been a thief; They caught me all the time, those are the few times I tried to get away with it.

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

He seemed a bit eager to be caught; I guess I was more sorry for being caught, less for having taken 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 my mother’s lover for nearly forty years, discovered my secret when I was eleven years old, back in the summer of 1958 in San Pablo, 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 it by planting my seeds in several rows, not so close to each other and not so far apart either, and I would remove 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 that separated the houses. In any case, it was not a long walk to his garden; just a short drive across the field and a simple leap over his fence.

That’s why every so often I would check my garden to see how my carrots were doing and they weren’t very good, not compared to his, anyway. So, this summer day in 1958, my mother had just come down to visit him (he could see her walking home) and so I knew that he would not be back in the garden for the rest of the afternoon. 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 my grandfather could mischaracterize him.

In any case, Ernesto entered his house, and I kept 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 is what I felt, and envy took hold of me, like my shadow.

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

Then the fact was given and I returned home to watch television with my grandfather – I hid a few apples on the side of the sofa, as I usually 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 you often liked it, 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 moment, he would put it on the ashtray half lit burning slowly, and he would sit back on his couch focusing on his western movie again.

Consequently I was hiding the rest of my fruit, and he thought that I was eating my first apple or orange all the time, and did not discover my little ploy until I was brave enough to get up and go to the kitchen to shelter 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 accompanied her back home, and they were in the kitchen. My mother asked me to come to the kitchen for a few minutes. Every time she asked me this I knew she was in trouble. And he was in trouble, he ran away with a kitchen. Erni was there with a large carrot in his hands, for a mementoought that it was just some vegetables from his garden, as he repeated he would bring some home for my grandfather or my mother, and he said:

“Does this look familiar to you?”

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

“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 seemed like it didn’t belong there with all your little carrots.”

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

“Yes” I said (I knew I couldn’t get away) adding “Yo, I don’t think that taking out a carrot would matter, I mean you have all those big carrots, while I only have a few small ones”

Maybe it was a bit of logic to my claim, but for sure it was not a justification for the theft and I suppose this was actually. Now that I remember, I think they were trying to hold back laughing at how funny the situation was, but it was robbery no less and had to be treated as such. Little white sins, distortions, or deletions, they all add up after a while and into huge white sins, and then who knows where they might go, or lead, and I’m sure that’s what I was thinking. But I would never have become a thief, I was always caught, that is to say the few times I tried to get away with something.

“Wasn’t it obvious 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 concerned that he had been discovered; I think he was more sorry for being discovered and less sorry for having picked the carrot; In any case, I said, “I never thought of it like that.” And that was the truth.

Written in San Pablo, Minnesota on February 24, 2005. Revised in 2009 deck.