My friend Geronimo:
I met Geronimo two years ago when I took a delivery to his farm off of Highway 121. It was a large order of about 100 pressure treated posts and some wire. I had it all strapped down on the flatbed of the one ton truck. With big orders, we try to send two people, but on that day, I was by myself.
When I pulled in the driveway, three or four small dogs ran out towards the truck, barking and tails wagging. On the front porch was a little Hispanic lady. She was smiling and friendly, and motioned me to drive on up towards the house. She then walked beside the house and hollered in Spanish and waved to somebody, announcing my arrival. A few moments later a fellow walked out and pointed out towards the front yard, motioning for me to pull out there, then back into the back yard, beside the house. That was Geronimo.
Geronimo looked to be 75 or more years old, at least 20 years older than me. He was about 5 feet tall, with broad shoulders. He was tan, and in good shape. He looked like he had spent most of his days outside doing some kind of hard work.
I figured out pretty quickly that he didn't speak any English. He figured out pretty quickly that I didn't speak any Spanish.
I got the truck parked and started unstrapping the posts. The dogs sniffed my boots, and wagged their tails. One or two of them let me pet on them.
Geronimo and I pointed and waved at the posts and wire, as he showed me where he wanted them. We reached an understanding, and he smiled and turned and went back toward the back yard.
As I took my time unloading the posts, I could hear the chop chop scrape, chop chop scrape sounds Geronimo was making.
The wind changed, and I was surrounded by sweet smoke. It was one of the bests smells I can remember. My eyes followed the smoke to a huge iron pot over an open fire, next to a big metal table and Geronimo. On the table was what was left of a hog. Some of it was still recognizable, but most of it was already worked down into small chunks. Geronimo had a big Ulu knife in each hand. The chop, chop, scrape sounds he made had a steady rhythm as he processed and separated the meat on the table. The big iron pot had some meat in it, and Mexican spices. It smelled delicious. I'm not sure if this was sausage, or something for their supper. The sounds and smell of the meat cooking kept my mind busy while I worked.
Between Geronimo's table, and where I was working, was a big hog's head on a stump. It looked a lot like this one.
When the posts and wire were all where Geronimo wanted them, I walked over and checked out the iron pot, and the table, and watched him work. I smiled and made the kind of gestures you make when food is delicious, but you have a mouth full, and can't speak. (Or in my case that day, I just couldn't speak Spanish.)
His wife must have seen some of this, because she brought some food out and offered me something to eat.
They were very friendly and kind people. The joy they had in the work they were doing, and the life they were living, reminded me to be thankful.
It also reminded me of the old saying, "Bloom where you are planted." Or as Geronimo and his wife might say, "Florese donde estas plantado." (thanks Google translate)
Geronimo was also generous, and offered me a tip for the delivery, and the putting away of his posts. I politely declined, but he insisted, and I said, OK, and I thanked him. My observation is, the folks that, at first glance, don't seem to have a lot, oftentimes are super nice, and very generous to others.
Geronimo came in today to get some things for his farm. The cashiers called back here, like they always do, and said, "Steve, the old Mexican Guy, Geronimo is here." They know Geronimo and I are friends, and that I look forward to seeing him. They also know I can help him.
There is still a language barrier, but we are alike more than we are different. We smile and we figure it out. With a little effort, we understand each other. That's what friends do.