Mr. Hahn's Lawn

Mr. Hahn’s Lawn

            Nothing could grow in our town—until Mr. Hahn arrived.  In our little town of Sinvida, New Mexico the lawns were mostly rocks and dry dirt that swirled from the winds during the summer.  The calluses on our feet were as thick as the soles of shoes.  The road was paved, yet you would not know from the dust that settled over it.  Mamá would go outside in the mornings to sweep the walkway with her besom broom, only to be driven inside by a dust storm.

“Rápido, rápido,” Rico would shout as she rushed back inside, cursing God for sending another sand storm. There was dessert for miles, and the well often dried up and left us parched with thirst.  The chickens were even laying eggs without shells.  It was my job to retrieve these eggs before they left more of their stench on the town.

            “He be a damned fool,” Mamá said, the day Mr. Hahn came into town with a pickup truck full of sod and manure.  His face was worn from the sun, which was protected very little from the straw hat tipped on his head.  His overalls were cuffed up to reveal a pair of canvas shoes that were probably once white, but now held the brown shade of dirt.  The children gathered as he spread the manure across the wasteland, one shovel at a time, carefully covering his dust.

“Looks beautiful,” he said before hunkering down in his dilapidated little adobe that had probably been made with the same type of manure that he now spread across his land.

The next morning he took the sod from his truck and rolled it out in perfectly straight rows, leaving a foot around the house and on either side of the path.  Again the children of the town came to watch the summer sun beat down on him.  Eventually the women came out and sat near their adobe, cooling themselves with homemade fans of paper or cardboard.

When the sun began to set, he stood at the edge of his lawn and said, “Looks beautiful.”

The next day, Mr. Hahn’s pickup truck was missing.  Everyone in the town stared at the green, tickling grass with envy.  A few small children dared each other to touch it.

“You go,” they would say before pushing each other closer. 

“No, you do it.”  It had become a game until Rico walked straight through the horde of children and placed a soiled hand on the grass.  There was a hush.  I could hear the whispers from the children.  After that everyone came to touch the green grass, even Mamá.

“¡Dios mío!” They all whispered as the grass spread between their fingers. I watched as tears trickled down Mama’s face and washed away some of the dust on her face to reveal a smooth silk.  After everyone had their fill of grass, they sat and waited for Mr. Hahn’s return.

That night he came with bright red, yellow, orange, pink, and purple flowers.  We watched as he set out the flowers in their places.  Careful not to place the same colors next to each other, he worked under the haze of the moon.  I stared out my window and watched, as he’d set a flower down, then take a step back before moving it to a different location.  The constant assessment of positioning took until the sun rose.  As the first rooster crowed, he stepped back to the street.

Wiping his forearm across his brow to reveal a tuft of white hair, he whispered, “Looks beautiful.”

 He shuffled back into his adobe.  The bright colors of the flowers began to slowly sparkle under the sunlight.  As people woke, they made their way to Mr. Hahn’s lawn.  Their hushed voices were not necessary, even the deaf could understand what they were saying.  Eyes darted from flower to flower, examining the beauty and strength they had. 

Mamá was the first to step onto the grass.  I had not seen her bend down for anything since she had Rico, but there she was, hunched over a bouquet of flowers.  Her fingers dug into the moist dirt.  They all gazed as she created a small hole in the ground and carefully placed a tiny pink flower in it.  Then, with precision, she mounded the dirt around it.  As soon as she finished the first flower, Rico was next to her with hands in the dirt.  They sent some of the children to the well for water to shower over the freshly planted flowers.  With the entire town of thirty people helping, it took us until lunch to plant the delicate flowers and nourish them with our precious water.  We all stood back, bare feet in the grass, to examine our work.

“Looks beautiful.” Mr. Hahn was standing in the doorway of his adobe with his hat in hand, white hair sticking out in all directions, and a grin on his face.  He was right our town looked beautiful.