Today I want to talk about our Spanish-speaking neighbors to the South. Not Mexico, the literal neighbors that live next door to us on our southside. They have lived there ever since we moved into the house nearly 10 years ago. 

The adults don’t speak much English, but they’re nice, and we have had a pleasant time living near them. Both the husband and wife work two jobs. Wife is a cook at a Chinese and a French restaurant. I asked her what her favorite food is and she said the kind she makes.  Fair enough. 

The husband is an electrician. He works during the day and then when he comes home, he fixes cars for our other low-income neighbors in his drive way. Having several cars out front is a little bit unsightly, but once he was able to fix our muffler too.

They host get togethers on the weekends for their friends and family. It is often with live music, both traditional mariachi and modern bands with electric guitars and drum kits. Sometimes they go late. It’s usually loud. They often invite us over. If we stop by, they give my husband a Modelo beer and my kids play with their kids on video game consoles. I get to eat from trays of delicious food while learning who’s related to whom—last time there was about 40 people.

We have gotten into a bit of a trade war with them. It started when our chickens laid more eggs than we could eat, so I left a dozen on their side stoop. They reciprocated with a box of macarons from the French restaurant. Ever since then it has escalated. Sometimes they rake our leaves or mow our lawn we’re out.

Not everyone is as lucky as us to have Mexican neighbors, but if you do, good for you. Don’t ruin it.