THE POSTPONED DILEMMA
My Grandpa Juan Cancio, in the month of January every year, would begin the work of preparing the small plots of land for that year's corn harvest. There were three small plots that he called: El Arado del Guamo, La Vega, and La Huerta, which was behind the little house where we lived.
My grandfather Juan Cancio and I would begin the work by gathering the cow dung and the horse manure from the two horses he had, plus what the neighbor gave us from his own animals. We piled it up in mounds and then went out to the woods; he would take out his Incolma-brand machete and start cutting ferns, which we then carried to the plots where the dung was.
Then, Grandpa would make piles with the ferns and burn them to collect the ash and mix it with the dung, the manure, and a large amount of fallen leaves. That's how he got his natural fertilizer, because he was a sworn enemy of chemical fertilizers. I witnessed heated arguments with my uncles, who told him that chemicals were best, but he never changed his mind. Now I realize he was absolutely right; if everyone had thought like Grandpa, the land today would be a perfect niche for agriculture, because, as he used to say: "Chemical fertilizers do nothing but spoil the land."
After having the fertilizer, Grandpa, with nothing but a hoe, would prepare the earth like a mother's womb to receive the seeds. With a basket and a dibble, he would open small holes and place three or four grains in each. That's where the miracle began to happen.
In four months, those small plots would dress themselves in green, and on their stalks you could see beautiful ears of yellow corn, tempting even to the eye.
And that's where the test of the "postponed dilemma" began for me. It happened that my grandfather Juan Cancio was a person totally detached from material things; he felt a great love for his fellow human beings and couldn't bear to see anyone in need, so he would come to their aid, even though he wasn't very well-off financially; he shared what he had. When the corn was ready, some people would pass by the edge of the plots and ask Grandpa to give them some ears, and he, with his generosity, would pick them and give them away.
But here comes the hard part to resolve: my grandmother Ana Rita, who was a person with her feet more on the ground, would analyze the situation, get angry with Grandpa, and say to him: "Juan Cancio, for God's sake! How can you give away the harvest? If you keep giving it away, what are we going to store in the granary for the rest of the year until the next harvest comes? Don't be irresponsible, Juan."
And there lies the crux of the problem: who was right? I haven't been able to decide this in 67 years, and I don't know who will resolve it, because I haven't been able to figure out who was right.
Perhaps the value of this dilemma isn't in resolving it, but in safeguarding it. In the end, both acted out of love: he from love of neighbor, and she from love of her own. Inheriting my grandfather's sensitivity sometimes hurts in this modern world, but remembering my grandmother's warning teaches me to protect myself. I leave this dilemma in your hands, dear reader, so that you may judge which side of the scale life weighs more heavily on: the generosity of the soul or the safeguarding of survival.