Coffee Hour
Coffee hour on the porch has become one my many favorite
parts of the day. I have several
favorites and can’t choose among them for top favorite. In contention are getting up at five and hearing
the mad jungle bird calls joining with the roosters outside, buying tortillas
and cuajada cheese from people who make them in town, making dinner, reading
and listening to music at night. How
coffee hour works is this: at around 5 o’clock I stop working and start the
water boiling, rustling around for bread- -masapan or sweet picos-- while
Candida, who already had her coffee
earlier gets two plastic chairs to the porch. We sit there companionably,
reading (she, her Bible and me something in Spanish, right now an autobiography
of Nicaraguan poet Ernesto Cardenal) or talking about whatever comes up like
the mental development of a girl who passes in the street or the family
relations of folks who live close by or the degree of poverty experienced by someone
who earns 1000 cordobas per month for a family of three, all topics that came
up this past week. It’s still hot at
five o’clock but by six or six thirty it has cooled appreciably. Other people sit out, too, or stroll past,
or, if they are kids, play in the street. It’s as pleasant a way to spend an hour
and a half as I can have up here in my site.
Today we were joined by Celia,
Candida’s younger sister who is, I’d guess, 65 or so. She is a tall dignified woman, a retired
school teacher and a pillar of the Catholic Church, a kind of lay assistant who
speaks from the pulpit and does the gospel readings. Today she come over to sit, wearing a longish straight skirt and a T shirt
that says on the front “I like good boys” and on the back “But I love bad boys”.
The shirt does not do damage to Celia’s dignity because neither she nor anyone
else knows what it means. To her credit,
if she did, she would laugh. But she
might not wear the shirt again. She
doesn’t ask and I don’t tell.
Candida and Celia have something new in common. Candida’s beloved granddaughter, a fat
unattractive woman of 25, is pregnant and her baby is due this week. The new mom has three months maternity leave,
but then must return to work. Who will watch the baby? Her own mother, Candida’s
daughter, works and it’s certain that no men in the family are going to
babysit, although the granddaughter’s own father doesn’t work. You guessed
it. Candida, the great grandmother, will
take care of the baby. Similarly, Celia, who used to live alone, now cares for
a six year old grandchild. Celia’s
daughter lives with her husband and the boy’s sister in a small community where
it is believed the elementary school is inferior. So the boy stays with Celia so that he can
attend the town school and be tutored by his well educated grandmother.
I asked the two of them tonight how they felt about the changes,
actual and anticipated, that having children in the house made. I anticipated
some dissatisfaction because both are retired after long, hard work lives and
appear to enjoy the lives they lead. Celia said she like having little Freder
in the house. He goes back to his
parents on weekends and she thinks that works out well. Candida has second thoughts. She is looking forward to cuddling a baby
(I’m hoping to get some cuddle time, too), but she hopes the child won’t cry
all the time. She is worried about the
impact a baby will have on the business which she relies on for a good part of
her income.
But neither said no. That’s the way family works here in
Nicaragua. People pitch in. It’s not heroic; it’s what you do, always do,
at least if you are a woman-- take care of family. It’s also a part of the individual vs. the
community theme—you are defined by family and community. Your individual self isn’t that important. Or rather it’s very important, but not in the
self assertive way we norteamericanos are used to. Rather, in the supporting others way.
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