When Spring comes around and it’s time to get dirt under my fingernails again, I can’t help but think of him.
Virgilio. He was the salt of the earth.
He would work for us once a week. He always looked the same: a woolen Irish cap, a clean but threadbare button down cotton shirt and broadcloth trousers tucked into heavy rubber boots.
Every Saturday morning, I would patiently wait for his arrival. When Virgilio rang our doorbell, I would come out straightaway to greet him. His face would open up in a smile. Silently, he would set out his tools, roll up his sleeves and begin to work.
I would follow him around all morning as he dug out the weeds, pruned the bushes and trees and washed my father’s car. Occasionally, he would take a break, wipe his face with a handkerchief and sit in the shade with me.
He would then tell me a short fable of Tío Coyote and Tío Conejo, the coyote and the rabbit. Every one of these tales had a moral to it. My appetite for them was insatiable and sometimes Virgilio had to improvise and make them up as he went along.
After a long illness, Virgilio passed away in 2003. I visited him one final time, when he was already bed-ridden and barely holding on.
Every time Spring comes around I remember Virgilio. And I can feel him smiling down on me as I walk into the garden with my tools ready and cap on my head.
