All About Juan (Per His Request)

After reading a piece of my writing to Juan the Gardener recently, a fidgety sort of expression crossed his face.


"What?" I asked.


"Nothing," he said.


"No, really, what? You don't like it."


"It's not that...it's just - "


"Just what?"


"It's just not about me."


A few days ago, packages arrived from San Francisco, from Juan's family. There was an enormous wonderful mug from his grandson, Oliver, painted green on the inside and inscribed "Yeh Yeh," which is what he is called. It's perfect for his morning beverage: half and half with a splash of coffee, or for soup, or chili, or stew. Then I opened mine and discovered a beautiful white tea pot with some yellow splotches around the top which remind me of sun rays; there was a tea cup as well, with an interior orange glow. Now, whenever I drink tea from the special cup, I will think of Maggie and sun. The packages were wrapped with hand-painted green and red paper.


"Your painting is nice," Juan commented, "but, mine is better."


"Better?"


"Yes, mine is quite brilliant."


"I think mine is equally brilliant," I countered.


"Okay," he said in the sort of condescending-merely-humoring-me voice that made me want to wash his face with handfuls of snow.


"Are we competing over the paintings of four-year-old twins?" I asked.


Without answering he said, "Your tea cup is really beautiful. You can make me my tea in it."


So, Juan the Gardener is not, as my cousin Adele erroneously imagined, a poor Mexican immigrant who, having wended his way North of the Border, found himself in Vermont caring for me and my family.


He does enjoy gardening, and describes his beloved bonsai plants in glowing terms as "short and muscular," which may (or may not) be a projection.


He makes perfect raspberry crepes with blueberry sauce for breakfast, when he wants to.


His grandson believes him capable of superhuman feats of strength, like lifting a canon bolted with iron to concrete above his head. He is incredibly powerful, so when his hand clamps down on the clicker like a steel trap, it makes prying it from his fingers close to impossible when I want to watch a movie. 


He is a masterful storyteller, especially when it comes to long tales about witches hiding in trees; he lies on the floor to do puzzles with his grandkids, and makes a perfect foil.


Occasionally, he surprises me by offering to accompany me to the gym, but it's really an excuse to watch football on a larger screen.


He encourages me. Earlier this morning when I boasted about a 13th follower adding herself to my blog, he commented, "Yeah, you're really bursting onto the literary scene."


Yesterday, "we" decided, it being the first day of the new year, to clean the house; we were also expecting house guests. When the house guests begged off, one of us lost interest in cleaning with amazing rapidity, although he did unpack his suitcase, which had been lying on the floor of the bedroom for two weeks.


"It's just so hard," he said.


As I finished making the bed, he flipped over a corner of the quilt and gave it a small tug.


"Wow, thanks," I said.


"Well, I mostly made the whole bed," he intoned.


He is sartorially splendid. See above.