Plowed Under
He brought in greenery from wherever he could. If he saw a plant sitting in the alley he’d put it on his land. Iglesias had no money. He lived in the barest of surroundings. But he gradually created his neighborhood’s most eccentric garden.
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Every day Iglesias would be out futzing with his hutch, hoeing some dirt, or babbling into the air. He talked to everybody, whether they understood him or not. His English was poor, and his Cuban-accented Spanish far too fast for even a native speaker. “I can’t understand his Spanish,” says one guy from the neighborhood who’s known Iglesias for nine years, “and I’m Mexican. I have to ask him to say everything twice.”
“I like to take my children outside,” he’d say.
The next day, Iglesias stood in his garden, dazed.
All day people visited the garden.
“When I got here it was garbage and broken glass. I spent one week tearing it up.”
