Neighbours

I was walking to the store to get yogurt to make laisse, and I passed the most extraordinary house in my neighbourhood. It's being cultivated from fence to fence. It's lush and beautiful, and you can tell that decades of care and planning have been put into the garden.
I'd been meaning to talk to them since I moved into the neighbourhood. Today the sun was out and the woman was tending her seedlings. I thought of walking by and getting on with my laisse and laundry, and leaving her to her busy work, and then I remembered my time spent with Bruno.

I figured I'd like Bruno from the moment I met him. He picked my friend Aaron and I up from the train station wearing black jeans and a puffy black jacket, and he had his long gray hair pulled back in a pony tail that went well past his shoulders. He had a massive smile strapped onto his wide face, and a day of stubble coated his neolithic jaw. His paw stretched out to crush mine.
- Salut! Ca va? he said, and I bumbled that I was doing well. My French was far from fluent and Bruno spoke almost no English.
We got in his van and Bruno threw on a reggae mixtape and began jabbering excitedly - I could only catch about half of what he was saying, but his enthusiasm was captivating. He couldn't wait to show us his farm. When my mind tired of translating, I let my eyes drift outside the windows to watch the sun set on the magnificent Vienne landscape while Aaron tried to make sense of Bruno's Argo slang.
Watching Bruno work was one of the simple joys of life. We were excavating the side of his house to install drainage, and he had a small shovel on tracks that he would drive around with the same manic energy he had radiating from him constantly. The shovel would jerk and lurch along the path between the gravel pile and the trench, billowing clouds of pot smoke flowing from the windows, and Bruno would be shouting at us from his perch - Yess-ai! La Force Canadienne! He thought Aaron and I were a marvel, working in t-shirts in February. We told him that coming to France and digging trenches was a Canadian tradition. He laughed his hearty laugh and clapped our backs solidly.
Bruno was the happiest person I've ever known, full of life and humour, with a huge love for food and wine and friends and laughter; he was generous and hard working and had limitless energy.
Bruno would wave at everyone who passed by his farm. Everyone. He would shout Allo! at cars as they sped through the countryside, and greeted guests at their car with his burly smile and an offer of coffee. His personality emanated from his farm, and it was a hub of activity and cheer. People flocked to see Bruno because his easy laughter lifted weight from peoples' shoulders and inspired people to enjoy life more, and his boundless energy showed everyone what was possible in a day.
It all started with a wave and a smile.

I waved at the woman examining her arugula, and bellowed a hearty Allo!, for Bruno. She looked up and smiled. - Y'wanta blooberry, ou a raspaberry? she asked, gesturing at containers. I asked her to show me her garden. We walked through the rows, and I met her husband in the backyard on the second half of the tour. They were old but vital; they seemed to feed off the growth around them.
- Wha's you'w name? he asked.
- John
- Johnny, okay, Johnny. Alfredo, he said, extending his hand. - Y'likey fig?
They sold me one of their old containers to plant my tomatoes in, and I asked how many they thought I could put in the barrel. - One? Two?
- Five! he said, almost outraged, moving his hand over the barrel and making a clucking sound with his tongue where he thought my plants should go. - Look, look, he said, brushing his hand through a bunch of lively young greens growing in a barrel, - Looka 'ow much is 'ere. His broken English made his assertiveness charming and impossible to argue with.
- Y'know dis? he asked, pointing to some short leafy greens.
I plucked a leaf and rolled it between my fingers and held it to my nose.
- Parsley?
- Si, Si, y'wan?
- Sure, yes, thank you.