¡Buenos Días!

 

“¡Buenos días!” The morning greeting rang out, floating into the blue sky, fading into the lifting fog.

            Where was I? Mexico? Costa Rica? Spain?

            Nope, just here in my neighborhood, the North and East of Richmond, California, where at least half my neighbors are Spanish speaking.

            This morning, as I head up my street, I can’t quite tell where the greeting is coming from. I stop for a moment on the sidewalk, glance behind me. Nope. No one there. Stare over across the street toward Rosa’s house. Nope, she’s not out. And, then, I hear the musical rapido of Spanish, too quick for me to decipher, especially if I’m not next to the speakers.

            It’s the guy who’s been weed eating my neighbor’s three-foot-high grasses for the last 2 hours, a short, elderly hombre with glasses, a plaid jacket, sagging blue jeans, and a ramshackle red trailer, the sides covered with weatherworn artwork of Chinese horses and their trainers, seascapes with rowboats floating near docks, a wooden flat sculpture of a golfing beaver.

            A woman is chatting with him. Taller than him, clad in a flowery red moo-moo, she’s nodding and smiling as the Spanish rattles on. I’ve never seen her before. Not a neighbor from my block. But Weeder Man’s truck I’ve seen before, parked down Roosevelt and 27^th street in front of a high walled cement house with the flag of Guatemala flying in front.

            I’m tempted to go over and practice my Spanish with them, but my speaking is so muy malo, and I do want to get my walk in before the UV gets too high, so I walk on past them, not even waving.

            The morning is the same as always. Bright blue sky, mocking birds singing, a light breeze blowing, the same dogs barking at me as I march past: “RRRUUUUFFF RUUUUFFFF RUFFFF!”

            “ZOE! STOP IT!” shouts her owner.

            Zoe never does. I’ve gotten used to her barking, and depending on my mood, I’ll either hurry on by, or mutter, “Fuck you, Zoe.”

            Today, as I stride through my usual route, up 31^st street, down McBryde to 33^rd, and then to Barrett, I’m lighter than usual. I’ve got a break from work and it’s delicious. I don’t have to review or respond to any essays for an entire week! So, when I head back home up 30^th street and Whispo, the grey tabby boy, comes bounding out to me, I’ve got some extra time to hang out with him. He obliges. Rolling over on the sidewalk. Rubbing his chin on my shoes. But then when I start to head home, he insists on following me.

            I remember when I was a kid living in Hacienda Heights, my cat, Didi would try to follow me to school. Sometimes, she’d get as far as Colma Ave, a big four lane highway. I’d have to shout at her, stomping my feet, “DIDI! GO HOME!”

            She’d stare at me for a moment, big golden eyes unblinking, before turning and running back down the hill to Lonecrest Drive.

            Today, I try these methods of discouragement with Whispo, but to no avail. I’m in front of his house and hear a shuddering of the gate at the end of his driveway. I’ve never seen any people at his house, so this ruckus is unusual.

            Suddenly, bursting through the gate is a bushy blonde haired wiry man with a rainbow beanie on and two yappy little dogs on leashes. Whispo goes running up to them, completely unafraid.

            “I’m glad to see you,” I say. “Is this your cat?”

            “Yes.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “Acatmeow.”

            “Acatmeow?” I repeat, thinking what kind of name is that?

            “That’s right,” he grins at me, his tan face reminding me of surfers I knew is Santa Cruz with their weathered laid-back vibe.

            “He doesn’t seem afraid of the dogs,” I comment.

            “Nah, they all get along,” he’s trying to keep the dogs from scurrying away from him while Acatmeow stands in front of them, trying to block their progress.

            “That’s so cute,” I say.

            “Hella CUTE!” he proclaims before finally letting the dogs pull him out onto the sidewalk and away from me.

            As I make my final way home, back down 32^nd street, the Spanish speakers are gone, but a woman is walking toward me with a little black dog. She’s about my age, 50s 60s?  A White middle-aged woman with strawberry blonde curls poking out of an olive-green baseball cap. I know she’s my new neighbor that moved in a couple of months ago, but I just haven’t ‘run’ into her yet.

            Today, we stop, smile at each other, “Did you just move in?” I ask.

            “Yes, a few months ago,” she nods, friendly, open.

            “And who is this?” I ask, bending down to the little dog.

            “This is Merlin. He’s a rescue.”

            Why do people always tell you that their dogs are rescued? Is it a source of pride? A citizen doing good for the likes of our four-legged friends? I like that people are rescuing dogs, but do I need to know this? I’m never impressed by it if that is the intention.

            “Hi, Merlin,” I pat him on the head. He’s a little skittish, but not ferocious.

            “I’m Carol,” I say.

            “Oh, I’m Lucinda.”

            “Nice to meet you,” I nod.

            “Do you live here with your partner?” she asks, probably having seen Ian coming and going.

            “No, he comes to visit, but I live alone with my wild orange tabby, Clara. Do you live here with your partner?” I ask.

            Her face falls, almost imperceptibly, before replying, “No, I’m a widow. So, no, I don’t live with her anymore. I live alone….”

            “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I offer, cuz what else can I say? I don’t know her, but her sadness is palpable. And to introduce herself as a widow exaggerates the emotion. I think of my mother, a widow too, and the sadness she must feel every day missing my dad, her husband. I have no idea how widows go on. If I ever lost Ian, even though we’re not ‘married’ I would be destroyed.

            Yet, the widows go on. Walking their dogs. Meeting their neighbors. Smiling at the day.

            I leave her to head out to hers, crossing the street, Murray the Mockingbird trilling a greeting. “¡Buenos días!” he sings out.

            Really? A Spanish singing bird?

photo, Ron Dudley

            Only in my neighborhood. Only in Richmond. Only in my brain.