![]() Cooper's rusting ploughs and threshers rising against the parchment sky like the skeletons of ancient animals. From the cold ground where I crouched, I could see Mr. Cooper, next door-were filled with dried cornstalks and lines of purple cabbage. The soil was dark yet crumbly, like rough ground coffee, from a lack of rain, and the gourds and clumps of cilantro and sorrel I'd tended all summer were yellowing stiffly. ![]() And it was what I was thinking as I squatted in my kitchen garden, picking the last of the herbs for the fish soup I was making for Shwe's evening meal.Īlready October was ending. I'd said it to my husband, Shwe Thant, many times during the four years since the Lutheran church workers had taken us from a noisy Burmese refugee camp in Thailand and settled us here in Pine Grove, Wisconsin. I always said this was a beautiful country, a good country.
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