The Neighborhood…

We live in the old neighborhood. It isn’t pretty… it’s comfortable, like an old, ruddy slipper. HOA is not particularly picky, so some lawns are in need of mowing, and some fences are in need of repair. I go for a walk every morning, fortified by a cup of coffee. I snake through the streets slowly, enjoying the morning life that ceases by afternoon as the Texas sun proclaims its dominion.

There is a seventy-six-year-old lady, we’ll call her Mrs. Santa Claus, as she looks much what I’d imagine: a kindly, creased face, glasses perched on her nose, her white hair in a bun. She carries a black umbrella “in case a dog attacks or if it gets too hot,” she says. I imagine her umbrella to be something like Hagrid’s umbrella, shooting out spells when necessary. Dogs and heat seem too prosaic. I do prefer my version better.

There is a biker who works on his motorcycles, which are lined up like soldiers, in front of his garage. One morning, it wasn’t one of his bikes that occupied his attention but what looked like a construction project, patio furniture, “for my stepdaughter. She is in college. I hope she likes it.” A few weeks later, when I saw him again, I asked. He nearly teared up and searched his phone to show me his handiwork, saying that his stepdaughter indeed loved it.

There is Mr. Tree. He has two dogs, and somehow, our conversations often go to trees: types of crape myrtles, how to trim them… or not, what a storm did or didn’t do. His peach trees are not producing, but his pear trees seem to have too much.

There is a young man with a dog that cannot stand the sight of me, and he cautiously switches the side of the street (or I do) if we happen upon each other. “Good morning,” I say. “Good morning,” he answers. His dog growls ferociously, and he hurriedly says, “I’m so sorry. I just don’t know what it is.” Neither do I.

There is Mr. Hobbit. He speaks little or no English, and we communicate in the language of plants. He is a gardener. Aren’t all Hobbits? He is short of stature, from somewhere in South America, and has the most manicured flower beds and a beautiful lawn. His face is weathered by the sun, and he smiles broadly. Sometimes, he sits on his small chair, gazing at his garden. Occasionally, I see him bent so low, nearly lying on the ground, and I’m convinced he is talking to his flowers. What’s more, I’m convinced they are listening.

There is a gentleman who likes to water his lawn, walking in his PJs, with a cup of something… hot, coffee, I imagine. His beautiful Mountain Laurels smell heavenly. They are lovely to look at when in bloom, purple clusters hanging like grapes, but deadly. His pear tree is begging to be relieved from all the pears. He invites me to harvest them. I might.

There is Ms. Hairdresser. She is from Germany and used to own three Dashhounds. I see her walking, speaking into her phone in rapid German. She is down to one Dashhound now, and he is old. She plans to move back to Germany once this one passes away, or she may wait until her grandchildren are older.

 Every morning is the same. Every morning is different. Old and new. Life.