Our house on Rusty Hinge Road is nothing if not reliable for its creaky floors and arctic drafts, typical to a house of its vintage and locale. And we have spent years attending to the various weatherizing needs our New England environment requires.
So, adjusting to our new life in the Arizona desert has been full of surprises for Melissa and me. The first time we strolled down Pyrite Street in our new hometown of Lake Polvo and peered through the wavy, antique glass windows of the adobe house we would shortly afterward, unexpectedly own, I remember chuckling haughtily at the hardwood floors. Termites, a phenomenon with which I was only vaguely acquainted from my Realtor days had gnawed great random paths in the floor.
That was the last time we considered not buying the property, knowing the potential damage that can be wrought by the little buggers. But we were in love, and love is blind so after being assured by a local, well-recommended exterminator named Berle, that he would remedy the situation, we bought the joint.
There are three wooden buildings and a historic adobe house on our Lake Polvo property so Berle had his hands (and it, appears his lungs) full solving our termite problem.
We have started an art gallery in the adobe and our first show opened on Thanksgiving weekend. Since we aren't there full time, we have to plan everything from a distance and slap it all together when we arrive.
We arrived a week early to get ready. The first order of business was to clean things up. Our adobe was built with a flat roof in the 1870s. It was constructed of layers of saguaro cactus spines, laid over wooden rafters and planks finished up with a layer of dirt.
Around the turn of the last century, when commercially milled lumber became available, a peaked roof with cedar shingles was installed, leaving the flat roof intact. Over the years, the dirt and debris from the old , flat roof has sifted through the ceiling and dust has accumulated behind everywhere below. In order to rid the premises of said dust, shop vacs were wielded and the whole place was cleared of possibly a century of cobwebs and filth. The windows required gallons of Windex and elbow grease to free them of wind-blown crust.
But the floors, mostly intact, needed my special remediation. The sections that had proved so delectable to the termites had to be ripped out and replaced with unchewed planks that were carefully removed from another house on the property that was even more devastated by the little cellulose lovers.
This, like so many projects upon which I had previously embarked, proved to be far more time consuming than I had expected, and took me most of the first three days to accomplish my goal. I had to rip up the chewed planks and carefully replacing them with intact boards. I am not getting any younger and this sort of labor, repeatedly squatting and standing, not to mention wielding a hammer around the clock, left me stiff and sore and barely able to walk upright. My obsession with the project prevailed, however, and when I was done, we got out the Murphy's oil soap and mopped the whole expanse several times until the floors revealed a respectable luster and warmth.
The place shined. It had a whole new feeling. When we had finished, we recalled our first encounter, we found ourselves staring through the spotless pane of glass on a freshly re-hung door across the vast expanse of pristine oak; what a difference a little cleaning made. The Southwest sun reunited with the surfaces, now freed from the obscuring grimy glass, bathed the shining floors anew with light, as the air circulated through the open doors and windows. Our basking moment was brief for we had a show to mount.
This opening show would consist of an exhibition of mobiles, made from rusted metal by my 94 year old father Pedro, whose home and studio was two blocks away. The delicate quality of the artwork required us to hand carry each piece across the town's Main Street, one by one.
The show was a success insofar as it set the tone for future shows. Townspeople, friends and relatives came together for crackers and wine and freshly mopped floors lit by candlelight, as my father, set up on the long front porch, assembled a mobile for the amusement of curious patrons.
When it was over, we put everything back where it belonged to await our next visit. Carefully, using a burning hank of sage, we smote any evil spirits that we may have roused, drank in the beauty of our labors and headed back home.
We’re now planning a show in February. I often find myself in bed, unable to sleep as the chores that lie ahead caffeinate my bloodstream. We need electrical work and a shower and hot water and a working stove. The flat roof should be removed and the peaked roof should be replaced. One house has no foundation and another is missing floorboards. When we return we intend to set up camp and sleep our first night in the old adobe with its unknown creaks and vague history stirring in the dark as we try to get cozy with the spiders and the ravenous termites.
And continue to adjust to life in the desert.
Scorpion? Where?
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