Corn

Yesterday, my host family and I visited the village where my host mom grew up and where her parents still live. I really love village trips-- it's beautiful there; quiet and calm; you exchange friendly greetings with everyone you pass, strangers or not; there are more animals than I can count, grapes right from the vine to munch, and always a good meal; as a bonus, yesterday, there was work to be done. I love when we have work to do, because when everyone's keeping busy, and none of us have a whole lot to say, I'm really not too different from any other adult there. I may have the language capacity of a toddler, but in most other respects, I'm about up to par with the adults.

The task for the morning was to clear the cornfields of dried stalks. Though I've never worked in a cornfield at home (I've played in them, but I hardly think that counts for anything) I imagine that American farmers have some sort of tool that deals with this particular task-- something large, highly mechanical, and motorized. Moldovans have a tool for it, too. It's called a sickle, and it works beautifully, but not without some serious elbow-grease.


When we arrived, my host mother had everything all planned out. She and her brother, my host father, and my host grandfather would work in the field, my 8-year-old host brother and I could go for a walk or watch. I could sunbathe if I pleased.


Now, it's not the I don't enjoy a good walk, and the sun was gorgeous up on the hill, so if I'd had a book with me, I may well have consented to just finding a soft grassy spot and relaxing. Frankly, though, I've done far more relaxing since I arrived at my permanent site than I've ever desired to do. (Most of you probably know that I'm someone who tends to thrive on being too busy, if anything.) We walked out to the field, and when we got there, my host brother grabbed up one of the extra sickles, wanting to try cutting the corn stalks down. He didn't have much success with it, but his attempt meant that I, too, could get away with giving it a shot.

This looks about like what I started with.

I grabbed a sickle with an old wooden handle, and I started in on some corn stalks. This got little more reaction than an "Oh, you'd like to try it?" and I, of course, smiled and said yes, the looks that were passed between my host mom and her brother were no different than the smiles they'd exchanged when the 8-year-old wanted to have a crack at the manual labor, and my first couple swings were, admittedly, a bit embarrassing. The first stalk, I basically sawed off with the clunky blade, and I rapped myself in the shin going after the second a bit more forcefully. My host grandfather stepped in, though, and showed me that the trick is to swing a bit upward (the part I'd been able to observe) and at the space between where two segments of the stalk joined together (the part I'd been missing).

I set to work and was just getting the hang of it when my host father stepped in to help my host mother with a particularly green, thick stalk, borrowing the sickle she'd been using. She, then came over and asked to take mine off my hands, telling me she was more rested now (because she'd been without a tool for all of thirty seconds), and I, of course, agreed and handed it over, then headed back to the edge of the field to see if there were any tools left. Sure enough, there was one laying by the tree, still, and a little sharper than my first with a handle grip and everything-- definitely more comfortable to use than the one I'd just given up, so I lucked out.

A definite improvement, even if that little black grip
did keep sliding right off the handle.

Before long, I was working my way very quickly up a row. Swish, swish, swish, hacking off a few stalks. Fumph, adding them to a heap between the rows. I passed up my host mother and was easily keeping up with the men, much to everyone's surprise. They let me know I didn't have to help, and I said that I liked it. My host mother eventually remarked on the tremendous lead I had on her, marveling at how fast I was at this new job.

"Did you do this at home?"

"No, it's new to me."

"Costel (host brother), get Cassie a pair of gloves."

No one wants to think they're making the American, the guest, do work. On the other hand, no one's stupid enough to turn down enthusiastic help. We plowed through the field in less time than they'd expect, and went home to my host grandmother's delightful cooking, followed by a picnic in the woods in the afternoon, and all day, my family told people about how everyone helped to cut corn in the morning.

It felt pretty great to be included in everyone.

Another little victory.