Nacho is a man who will stop to smell the roses. Or any other kind of flower, really. The garden outside his home in Chicago Heights is bursting with flowers, all the product of his caring cultivation. In time, he needed more room, so he crossed the road to assume control of the outer edge of the Joe Orr Woods, trimming some lower tree branches, clearing some scrubby bushes, and planting a mix of pink and purple flowers (look, you don’t come to me for expertise on matters of flora) along with some tomatillo plants. He took me over to the latter to show the small, green tomatoes that were coming along nicely.
I had almost passed by Nacho completely. The walk from Schererville had been delayed by the remnants of Hurricane Beryl, which caused flash flooding in the region overnight, dropping 4-5 inches of rain in some places. With a shorter walk and a day off tomorrow, I knew I could operate with less urgency, so I stayed in the hotel until 7:15, allowing the worst of the rain to pass by before setting forth. The ADT’s route opted for circumference over radius, climbing to the north-by-northwest before eventually looping back down to the southwest. I know enough now, though, to understand the rationale behind this–instead of being stuck on busy roads through suburban sprawl, this trajectory took advantage of rail trails (the Pennsy Greenway and the Old Plank Road Trail) and trail trails through Thorn Creek.
The combination of overnight rain and weekday morning made for empty trails, so I spent hours plodding along with effectively zero human contact. The route managed to largely avoid restaurants, groceries, and mini-marts, too, so freed of that temptation, I just walked and walked, almost unthinkingly.
Somehow, a shout finally cut through that haze–”Water? Agua?” I turned back to find that Nacho, as he would introduce himself later, wasn’t even waiting for an answer. He instructed me to sit in his plastic chair on the edge of Joe Orr–”you need a break”–as he marched into his house, returning moments later with two bottles of ice cold water.
Nacho explained that he has been living in this house in Chicago Heights for almost 30 years, raising four sons–and a garden–over that time. “I first crossed into the US in Texas,” he said, “in 1985. Then, the second time, into California.” He came originally from Guanajuato. “The momias!” I practically shouted, recalling the creepy naturally mummified bodies displayed in the state capital. He smiled, but noted he hailed from outside the city.
“It’s sad today. The places that westerners would go, they’re still ok, but the rest of it is terrible. The cartels.” He made smashing gestures with his hands to convey what language couldn’t. The loss of life, of control, of stability.
It’s hard to raise a family, or a garden, when tomorrow is uncertain. Both are acts of dedication and faith, committing to the work over the long haul, while trusting that conditions will facilitate growth and security. Nacho had to uproot everything in order to find a place where that might be possible. Having succeeded, it’s no surprise that he spends his days now smelling the flowers and enjoying what has blossomed.
