When we first moved into the mobile home in 1983, the demographics
of the mobile home park was mostly working-class white. Over time the demographics changed to almost
all working-class Hispanic.
For at least the last ten years or so Dad and the guy across
the street have been the last white guys in the park. Dad had a prime lot with a big shaded side-yard
and the guy across the street has an end lot so that he has a neighbor only on
one side.
As far as I can tell, Dad got along okay with the Hispanic neighbors. He didn’t
hang out with them, but would return their greetings. In the past week of my daily clean-up efforts
several of them have come by to offer condolences and say nice things about
him. Some of them thought Dad had been
murdered and were incredulous that someone would want to hurt this quiet old
man.
One neighbor has been especially nice and helpful. Salvatore appears to be in his 60s and has an
infectious smile. In just a short time I
have learned that Salvatore lost a pet dog not long ago and that he has a hard
time working his new smart phone.
As part of my clean-up I started a pile of recyclable metals
that I could take to a recycler to responsibly dispose of and maybe get a
little cash. Salvatore asked about the
metal and I offered it to him freely. I
don’t really want to take the time to make trips to the metal recycler, and I’m
sure he needs the money more than I do.
Every day that I have been out at the mobile home I have
created small to large piles of metal that Salvatore has taken away for
me. His smile has always been warm and I’m
glad to see it in the middle of my sweaty work.
Salvatore has even taken some stuff from my trash pile to the dumpster. He says that he can take it all to the dumpster for me a little at a time, but
that he can’t fill up the dumpster with it all.
I had already realized that I didn’t want to put all my
trash into the dumpster as well, because then the residents of the park would
not be able to throw away their kitchen trash.
I’ve been bagging all the small to medium trash which I can easily put
it into my own curbside trash pickup. Today
I stacked most of the big trash and scrap carefully into the bed of my pickup
so that I can take it to a nearby landfill tomorrow morning at 7:00 am.
Salvatore offered today to weed-eat the side-yard. I told him that he didn’t have to do that,
but I later reconsidered. I saw a way to
get him a little more cash. On my way out this morning I offered to pay him to
weed-eat the yard. He smiled and push
away my hand. He was thankful for all
the scrap metal and glad to help out.
What a nice man!
This is in stark contrast to an incident that happened to me
when I lived in the park 30 years ago that has stuck with me all these years.
On
a dark and rainy night, when I was driving into the park, I managed to miss the
drive just enough that I put my left front wheel into the drainage ditch. My old ’76 Monte Carlo was good and
stuck. I started to walk to the mobile
home to call my friend Steve and ask him to drive all the way out from Alief to
pull me out.
But a neighbor, a young
white guy, in a similar large American car offered to help. I got a tow strap from the tool shed and we
quickly got my car out of the ditch.
I thanked the neighbor, but before I could disengage he
asked for compensation. “Hey aren’t you going to buy me a six-pack of beer for
helping you out?”
I was pretty disgusted;
never in my life would I expect or ask compensation for helping someone in
need. I gave him five or ten dollars for
his help, made note of the make, model and color of his car, and silently swore
to never offer him help if I saw him broken down somewhere.
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