A mechanic finds his place in the garden.

By Bob Long, Colo, Iowa
July, 2009

It was love at first sight for my wife, Marilyn, and me when we found the perfect house in Colo—tall, two stories—with enough bedrooms for our four kids. Half an acre for them to play on.

Two blocks from the elementary school and a short walk from Grandma’s, all wrapped in a small-town central Iowa atmosphere perfect for raising a family.

“It’s just right for us,” I said.

Best of all, it had a freestanding garage set away from the house—perfect for my new business: Bob’s Paint and Auto Body Repair. Across the street was a brick home with a tidy lawn. “I hope the neighbors are friendly and like kids,” I said to Marilyn.

For years I’d worked two jobs to support our family. And I painted tractors, working out of my garage. That’s the work I really loved. All I wanted was to live a quiet life and support my family fixing cars.

And why not? Folks need to get their cars and trucks fixed. Out here in rural Iowa, you’d better have wings if you don’t have a vehicle.

We were still getting settled when Ray, the man who lived across the street, came over. I nodded hello, expecting a warm Midwestern welcome. But there was nothing cheery in his voice.

“I hear you’re gonna turn that garage into an auto-body shop,” he said. “That means dented and rusty old cars parked everywhere. The last thing I want is to look out on a junkyard the rest of my life.” Before I could reply, he turned on his heel and stalked back to his house.

A beat-up car can be an eyesore to some, so I could kind of see where he was coming from. That night I couldn’t sleep. Were we wrong about this house after all? I turned over and faced Marilyn. She was awake too.

“The shop has to be here,” I said. “We can’t afford a garage in town.”

“I’m praying on it,” Marilyn said.

I tried to picture the next 20 years—all I saw was a cold war with my nearest neighbor. Lawyers might even get involved and no one wanted that. My parents had always taught me, Love thy neighbor. How could I do that and support my family?

“What can we do?” Marilyn asked.

I really didn’t know. But I knew that somehow we’d have to make it work. Colo was our home now.

For a year I worked out of my garage, trying my best to keep the cars from piling up. But business was good and soon I needed more room. I drew up plans for a two-story shop that would fit alongside the garage.

The spring day we poured the foundation for the new shop, I got an idea. I’d always loved plants. Maybe I could plant some flowers, sort of camouflage the place.

I grabbed a shovel and dug into a pile of rich black Iowa earth on my lawn—the kind farmers around here use to grow their soybeans and corn—and spread it around the foundation. I planted a locust sapling I’d picked up from a nursery. Around it I put wildflowers. I glanced at Ray’s house and turned back. “Grow and turn out pretty,” I commanded.

Ray didn’t cross the street once that spring or summer, even as I added to my garden: lavender coneflowers, pink garden phlox, red roses, yellow day lilies, a purple iris—my late mother’s favorite—that I planted on Mother’s Day. Their scents filled the air.

After a day smelling paint fumes and blowtorched metal, it felt great to amble through my little garden. Marilyn would come out and join me. Soon she was planting in the garden too.

Occasionally we would see Ray on his patio. He never said a word. Wouldn’t cross the street. But I’d catch him watching as I weeded.

Winter came and went. At the first sign of spring I pulled out my trowel and loaded up my wheelbarrow with a fresh batch of saplings and flowers. Plum and crab apple trees, wisteria and a small ground-cover plant.

Neighbors began dropping by. Strangers asked if I’d show them around. “I think we hit on something,” I told Marilyn.

One evening I was weeding when I looked up and thought, I must be dreaming. Ray had crossed the street. He was coming over. “You have a way with flowers,” he grunted.

“A little bit,” I said. Ray just stood there. I permitted myself the subtlest smile. From him, those few words were like salve on a wound.

My garden is almost 40 years old now. It has close to 100 varieties of flowers, maybe half a dozen different trees—as well as manicured walkways, wooden benches and arched footbridges.

Okay, so I’ve gotten a little carried away. But I see it as a kind of calling too, like fixing cars. Ray wouldn’t visit often, but now and then he’d cross the street to see what was new in my garden. I could tell it brought him pleasure.

Love thy neighbor, the Lord said. Ray passed away 20 years ago. Still, each spring when the flowers bloom, I picture him watching with the angels from above. He was a good neighbor and made me a better one too.