GRASS TRIMMING

“Grass Trimming”

Chuck Martin

Last summer Carlos Ortega moved twenty miles out east of town on a twenty acre farm up in the hills. He bought the property five years ago with an old house needing lots of repairs.In his spare time he worked on the house until he could move in. It had a good well, and a large lawn in front . There is no electricity, or telephone service out there, and Carlos gets by with a butane tank and a generator. He doesn’t have a cell phone, so when he’s at the ranch there isn’t any contact with the outside world. Carlos’ has never been married.

Carlos owns a prosperous restaurant in town called, La Taco Tia, named after a favorite aunt . He’s been in the U.S. for thirty-five years. He is short and stubbly built.. A black moustache hangs under a large nose on his brown, friendly face. Carlos’ has a big heart and I’ve never met anyone who could say a bad word about him.

“Carlos, why do you want to live so far out of town? That’s a long, hilly, curvy road to drive everyday?” I asked one day while sitting at the counter chomping on a bean burrito.

“It’s so peaceful, Chuck.” he said,. “I go relax.. No one around to bother me. It’s nice, real nice.”

Last week I went to the La Taco Tio for some breakfast. It was early, and not many had yet ventured into the restaurant. I sat at the counter drinking a cup of coffee. Carlos refilled my cup, “Hear what happen, Chuck?”

“What?”

“I got robbed a few days ago.”

“Here?”

“No, no, no, at my ranch, around, noon. I come to work, got a headache and drove home. When I come aroun’ the corner I see this big truck sitting in my drive way. A man comes out the house carrying something, and puts it in the truck. I watch. He goes back inside an’ I slowly drive in back of the house. I have my rifle with me an’ I grab it out of the truck. I stand outside and wait. After ‘bout a minute he comes out carrying a box. I point the rifle at him and yell, ‘Up with yer hands, senior!’ He looked surprised., drops the box,. an’ up goes his hands. I have him move out to the center of driveway. He’s a white guy, ’bout six feet tall an‘ mean lookin‘. Now I have a problem. Know what that is?”

“No bullets?”

“No. no, no, its’ I have no phone, no cell thing, no nothing to call the police. I have this guy standing in my driveway, his hands are up. I think, now what do I do with him? What you think I did, Chuck?”

“Shoot him?”

“No, no, I look around to find something to keep him occupied while I think what to do. I tell him to mow my grass. I keep a cover on him as he pushes the mower up the grass an’ down the grass. When he’s done I have him chop wood. He picked up the axe an‘ looks at me in a funny way. I fire one in the ground next to him, an’ tell him not to get feisty. He looks real scared. He must be thinking’ he has some nut on his hands, an’ chops the wood real fast. Then when he’s done choppin’ I have him put everythin’ back into my house from his truck. I finally figure out what I’m going to do with this crook. Guess what I did, Chuck?”

“Now you shoot him?”

Carlos refilled my coffee. “No, Chuck,. I let him go,“

“You what? Just let him go after he tried to rob you?”

“ Ah, but first I tell him to give me his divers license. He reach in his pocket, takes it outta‘ his wallet an‘ gives it to me. I tell him to get in his truck and get goin‘. He jumped in an’ took off fast in a cloud a dust. I drove back to town, called the police, and gave ‘um his drivers license.”

“Good thinking,“ I say, “Have they caught’em?”

“Sure, the next morning they got him at his house. He wasn’t too bright.“

I talked to the sheriff later that day and he said old Carlos was pretty sharp letting this crook go. "The guy is an x-con with a bad reputation. Getting him to mow his lawn, that was one for the books." The sheriff smiled, and added that before locking him up he had him do some yard work around the jail.

Grapes

“Grapes?”
Chuck Martin

“What ya figuring on planting on these ten acres, Vic?” I asked as he drove me around his families forty-acre ranch. There are two homes, one above the other, built on a hill with a beautiful view of the valley. One house is for Vic and his wife Nina and, one for his daughter and son-in-law. They have a lot of different varieties of fruit trees, a pond, and some horses. He was showing me ten acres of bottom land on the edge of the property. Vic’s was in his eighties then and, like me, a little hard of hearing.

“We’re thinkin’ about grapes,” he answered as we drove in his electric golf cart to the edge of a small pond.

“A friend a mine, in the grape business for forty years, says there’s too many people planting grapes. He says one a these days the bottom’s goin’ ta fall out and growers will be left holdin’ the bag,” I informed Vic.

“How many geese ya see over across the pond?” he asked.

“Four.”

“Should be five.”

“It seems like golf would be the thing to put in,” I said. “Pretty popular around here.”
Vic pointed, “There’s the other one. That makes five.”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“We miss counted, or he was under that bank over there.”

“No, I mean about the golf!”

“Been tryin’ to figger out how to get the moss out of this pond,” Vic stated off handedly.
An idea flashed through my mind, “You could do it with just one putting green, with eighteen holes, and different colored and numbered flags.”

“I don’t care how many holes you drilled it wouldn’t drain the pond to get to the moss!” Vic stated.

“No, I mean golf. You could have eighteen driving greens, all lined up in a circle, and each ending on the one putting green. You could tee off and when you reach the putting green find your particular hole to shoot. It’s different. It’s brilliant, and you could make a lot of money. What ya think?”

Vic lifted his straw cowboy hat, scratched his bald head and asked, “About the moss?”

“No,” I stated impatiently, “the ten acre golf course.”

“Grapes, we’re plantin’ grapes.”

“Oh,” I muttered.

Pretty Paper Flowers

“Pretty Paper Flowers”
Chuck Martin

One night, a few years back, I sat having a beer in the local tavern. In semi-darkness the regulars sat at tables, or stood at the bar talking. A small Mexican lady walked through the door, with a withered, wrinkled face, her body slightly bent. Her old muslin, white dress , had faded red and blue flowers at the hemline, her shoes covered with dust. Carried under her right arm a wooden box filled with handmade red paper flowers, each wrapped around thin wire. Walking to the center of the room, she held out her box, and in a low hesitant, heavy Mexican accented voice asked, “Pretty flowers for sale?”

Conversation stopped, and every eye turned toward her, but no one answered. They all wanted to ignore her, a little embarrassed for the old women, and upset that she had interrupted them. “Lady,” the bartended said, “we don’t allow solicitors. Go on outta’ here and peddle those elsewhere!”

In the back corner of the bar, sat an old man in tattered clothes. His cowboy shirt thread bare and filthy, a crumpled, cowboy hat was tilted sideways. His face was tanned, wrinkled and sported grey stubble. He was sitting alone in a corner drinking his beer. A couple hours earler I saw him panhandle a few dollars in front of the bar. In a loud voice he asked, “Cuanto, missy?”
Everyone turned to see who had broken the silence, and saw ol’ Dan, the alcoholic who was always begging for drink money. He had been thrown out of every bar in town.

“Who is he to ask?,” someone whispered, “he has nothing to give anyone. He is just a beggar.”

“Twenty-five cents, Senior” she answered.

Ol’ Dan walked over, searched his pocket and pulled out his change. He smiled, a twinkle in his eye, and asked, “Would you take twenty-two cents, senora?”

“Si Senior, I would, gracias,” she said handing him a pretty red flower.

Dan stuck the flower in the brim of his, worse for wear, hat, and handed her his change. “Might I escort you to the next establishment?”
She nodded and smiled, “Gracias,” and taking Dan’s offered arm, they ambled out the front door.
The patrons shook their heads, mumbled their disapproval and went back to their drinks. I was little ashamed that I hadn’t piped up, “Yeah, I’ll take one.“ But, sadly, I sat there like the
rest and said nothing . There’s an old cowboy saying that anyone who shows kindness to
others will also find happiness, and favor with the Lord. Why didn’t I think of that?