There is a hole in our lives.

 

There is a hole in our lives.

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There aren’t many of us here on the rancho. Not all of our houses have their people. But the last several days, we  who are here, me, Nancie, Julie, Lani and Ariel, Tom and Janet, frequently found ourselves running up against, no, not a wall, but a hole.

This hole has a specific size and shape, exactly the size and shape of Leo. Leo helps all of us with gardening, planting, pruning, mowing, cutting, watering. But Leo is more than a gardener. He has helped all of us, at one time or another, with translating, with information, with getting necessary services, with business, with appointments, with shopping. He can be kind of a catch-all.

For most of us, he has become even more. He’s a friend, a son, may I say, a grandson?

Leo was out with Covid. We all ask, “How did he catch it?” I’d say it caught him.

The last ten days of October are the annual Festival, a time of celebrations, parades, community dinners, all manner of festivities. Everybody in town has relatives who work in the States. There is a lot of travel back and forth, especially during Festival, followed by The Day of the Dead. Many residents work in Guadalajara, back and forth daily. Opportunities to cart around viruses abound.

In addition, last week Leo took care of his nieces while his sister worked. They were home from school, sick with flu. What kind of flu? Nobody went to the doctor to ask, “Is this Coronavirus?” When school kids are sick, and whatever the flu, and, it laid out the entire class, the mothers did what we all know to do. Tuck them in bed, plenty of fluids, a basin, warm water and wash cloths nearby.

Where he got it or where it got him matters not. He got it.

Out came our masks, our polite distances, our test kits. We all had had contact. Out came our anxiety.

By the second day of Leo’s absence, we were learning how much we depended on him, in ways we didn’t think about often. By the forth and fifth day, the hole left in the shape of Leo, had become distorted to giant-sized.

For me, gardening is only part of the picture. Even I can do enough to keep the whole mess from outright dying. Mostly. No, it was more the little things. Leo stopped by most of our houses daily, “Need anything?” or just, “How are you doing?” He’d sit, drink a glass of water, eat a cookie, chat a while, catch us up on the news in town.

Meanwhile, underlying our dependence, is a strange current of dichotomy. We tell him, “You are young, you have a university education, you are smart, you have skills way beyond pruning plants, valuable skills. You need to be thinking about your future.”

Then we follow that with, “But, we would miss you. What would we do without you? We couldn’t cope. We love you, our dear Leo.”

We talk out of both sides of our mouths, sincerely.

We want to see this young man do more with his life, get ahead, whatever that means. At the same time we don’t want to lose him.

Consider this: maybe, just maybe, it is we who have grasped the wrong end of the stick.

When Leo decided he didn’t want to teach school, that he wanted to work outdoors, with plants, with people, maybe our young friend, has found his life’s work.

Maybe he is smarter than we are. Maybe his genius, his gift, is in working with elders. Maybe we should be going to Leo for advice. Maybe pruning and planting are merely his tools, disguising his real work. Maybe.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

November here we are!

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