the angels

i.

A man and his wife walk through my neighborhood and they are looking for work. I've talked to them before.

They do all sorts of yard work for some the folks that live nearby.

I am writing when he knocks on the front door, his wife is sitting on the curb, and I wait a few minutes before responding, doing some clicking and some thinking in the meantime.

I do some math using the calculator that pops into existence when I click on a tiny picture of a calculator.

The tiny picture of a calculator floats harmlessly on a type of teevee screen that does not require a cathode ray tube to work. It uses crystals, instead. When activated, it does all sorts of things with numbers.

The doorbell rings and this time I stand and walk to the door, which I open.

The clouds are drifting by. A few birds are still hanging around and singing their songs in the trees. Only a few leaves have fallen and it is breezy.

The man wants to know if they can help with the back yard.

I kept that yard, where I live, for nearly 8 years. Then the rheumatism got me; some days I'm still good for some yard work or a hike. Some days.

The front yard was cleared and xeriscaped this past spring. That was a relief, but it makes the place look sorta austere, I reckon.

The back yard is another story, part of this story.

I planted large vegetable gardens there in the past. Rose bushes too. There's a very shady and comforting apple tree in one corner of the yard and the place is full of life.

This year I let it transform itself into a jungle, as an experiment. It saved me some money on the water bill. I ceased to worry about activating the antibodies in my system that occasionally play havoc with my ability to navigate the earth that I had, in previous years, trod and crawled upon vigorously.

Now it is the second weekend in October and that jungle is receding back into the earth.

ii.

Miguel Angel and Rosa have been plying their trade in these parts for a couple of years now. They've built a loyal customer base, though neither has a car or a phone. They walk through every few days, asking the people they know if they need anything done and politely asking to be recommended to others. Miguel keeps his tools in the shed next door.

They are reserved, those two, but seem to know the earth well and are meticulous, tending to the trees and plants and ground as one might a favorite pet or anything beloved.

I speak a crazy kinda Spanglish to them. They laugh at its awkwardness. I tell them I've got an extra fifty bucks and Señor Angel says they can work until the sun goes down.

Later on, I bring out some lemonade and ask if I can write about them and take their picture. I explain why and they are intrigued. Rosa wonders if it will get them more business. I say that I am not sure.

They came up here from Veracruz. There lives are much better now. They do not have to struggle so much; Miguel found a job working as a parking lot attendant and plenty of people up and down my street need help with their yards.

We talk a little bit about politics, though I am notorious about confusing the issue, due to my poor Spanish grammar.

Finally, I blurt out “Obama”. Miguel smiles and nods his head. Rosa laughs and says “McCain”. And Miguel replies, “I hope she's still your friend, after that”. She tosses some leaves at him and they continue working.

Back inside, while S. makes tea and the dogs grumble restlessly responding to the activity in the back yard, I sit down and look out the window and then at the LCD screen.

Through one I see happiness and struggle, the winter advancing with each falling leaf.

On the other there is this.