GRANDDAD AND MR. LOPEZ © Phil Ward, 2019

Authors note: These stories are presented to the best of my recollection or as they were told me by the principals. The names are occasionally changed to “protect the innocent”.

We all have them—those moments in childhood that frame our thinking for the years ahead; those things that stick in our memory and become a part of who we are. One of those for me was the day Granddad met Mr. Lopez.

It was a typical Oregon winter day—grey, windy, and wet, with the rain pelting down sideways. Granddad was out working in the machine shed– a long three-sided building open to the elements on the east with an overhanging roof that kept the weather from reaching the farm equipment inside.

The task for the day was servicing tractors and Granddad was on his back underneath the International when he heard someone clearing their throat as if to catch his attention. Surprised, he crawled out to find a Hispanic man, hat in hand, standing just inside the drip-line of the roof. “Good morning Mr. Ward” the man said slowly in heavily accented English, “My name is Frank Lopez”.

When Granny and Granddad built the “new house,” they built it just across the lane from a small place owned by Grannies’ good friend and her husband. These neighbors, however, perhaps motivated by the Wards new home or the proximity of the Wards themselves, eventually decided to build one of their own a little ways up the road. That left the house and two acres next to Granny and Granddad vacant.

It was this property that was on Mr. Lopez’ mind when he walked into the machine shed that day.

“Mr. Ward” he continued respectfully, my family would like to move to the house next to you,” he said, motioning that direction with his hat, “but, I wanted to know,” and here he paused, “are you OK to live close to Mexicans?”

A look of mild surprise crossed Granddads’ face and there was a long pause while he used a shop rag to wipe the oil and grease from his fingers. When he got them clean he shook his head slowly, looked up, and stuck out his hand. With a slight grin and in typical Granddad fashion he said: “Mr. Lopez, if you can stand living next to us, we can darn sure stand living next to you”.

Mr. Lopez took the offered hand and nodded, as the two men stood quietly for a moment, eye to eye. Then he replaced his hat and headed back out into the weather.

And that was that.

When the Lopez family moved in a few weeks later, Granddad helped unload their rigs. Granny baked a “welcome to the neighborhood” pie. In my observation, it didn’t matter a bit what their surname was, the color of their skin, or where they hailed from. They were just a family moving in next door.

The Lopez family lived on that place next to Granny and Granddad for a number of years. They were good neighbors. Mr. Lopez would help Granddad on the farm when the need arose. Granddad always worked up their garden plot in the spring. My sister and I rode the school bus with their kids.

Eventually the family moved on, and we ultimately lost track of them. But I am thankful for the time we spent as neighbors, and for one unsophisticated farmers response to a question no man should ever have to ask.

Author: Phil Ward

Phil Ward is a 5th generation Oregonian who over the course of a 40 year professional career has served as a high school Agriculture Instructor, Executive Vice President of the Oregon Farm Bureau, Director of the Oregon Department of Agriculture and Oregon Department of Water Resources, and State Director of USDA’s Farm Service Agency. He lives with his wife Pam on a piece of the home farm south of Independence, near the Willamette River. View all posts by Phil Ward