Adobe Acrobat

Pauline Cushman was an actress, who, while treading the boards through the secessionist south of the Civil War, became a spy for the Union side, got caught by the Confederacy and was almost hung. In the nick of time, she was rescued and then decorated for her heroism by President Abraham Lincoln. Her fame got her a stint working with P.T. Barnum.

According to Wikipedia (so it must be true) “Major Cushman,” as she came to be known, eventually died, in poverty, of an opium overdose at age 60, and was buried in San Francisco with the honors befitting the hero she had once been.

Of course there are many interesting details of her life I have omitted in this condensation; her story is here because she once owned the adobe house we bought last Friday.

During the winter, my father and his wife, Dixie, bivouac at an ancient, grand adobe house in the middle of Arizona. Last month, I related my visit with them in a cleverly written column comparing the continuing snowdrifts of home to the cacti-spiked, sun-drunk deserts of the Southwest.

What I may have refrained from mentioning, as part of my colorful travelogue, was a walk we took around the tumbledown, tumbleweed town, and our serendipitous encounter with an old adobe, a bee’s nest and a “for sale” sign.

When Melissa and I discuss the next chapter of our life together, we usually fantasize about moving up to Vermont and growing facial hair. But for some reason, the sleepy, dog-eared streets of this old Arizona town triggered a long dormant, primordial enthusiasm that neither of were expecting on this trip.

I was willing to buy the property immediately based on price alone, but also because the family has deep roots in the hard-packed soil. Melissa passed on the opportunity to talk me out of it. It surprised me that she didn't even try.

Our renovation project on Rusty Hinge Road is just about finished, as is our tolerance of bi-weekly snow dumps and crinkled curbside fenders. Our jobs and history will keep us here for a while but, deep down, the lure of the west has taken hold.

The Cushman adobe abode is located behind the old boarded-up grocery store which is next to the old burned out movie theater. Besides the adobe itself, there are three other buildings on the property. The asking price was not that much different than the sticker price of a fully-loaded Japanese car. The condition of the buildings is disturbing. The report from the building inspection looked like the opening scenes of "Saving Private Ryan." And in spite of what we old, staid Real Estate moguls babble ad nauseum, this new place has nothing to do with "location, location, location." It is all about "potential, potential, potential."

Because "Fishbee Ranch" has been vacant for more than 6 months, we are unable to turn on the electricity, the water, the gas or –speed bump! - live in the place. Because the property had been grandfathered as residential zoning, it reverted to commercial after the last owners defaulted on their mortgage and moved away.

Small problems all, because we discovered, luckily, that we share a dream of fixing up an old adobe in the middle of the Arizona dessert and living out our lives as artisan, merchant, book-collecting banjo playing, reclusive, cat-farming, gold prospectors.

As I type this, a fellow named Carl, is crawling into the ancient, spider-webbed recesses of the buildings, "remediating" the termites that have been freely and gluttonously devouring much of the wood that holds the structures together. I have contacted a roofer to have a look at the strange foam roofing that adorns each structure.

Of the six bathrooms on the property, the inspector couldn't seem to cobble one functioning unit from the available parts. Hot water heaters are missing and those on site can’t be assessed with no gas, water, or electricity available.

The floors are spongy. The windows need glazing and most of the wood, which hasn't been eaten, has been baked to splinters in the relentless summertime oven that is characteristic of the locale.

Even so, there are far too many reasons to say yes than scream no. The price was right, all cash, and if one wanted to start over, wouldn't it be nice to start over without a mortgage? An adobe house, while capable of melting in the rain like the Wicked Witch of the West, is naturally cool with it's thick, clay walls. When it's 100° in August, which it invariably is, it can be as much as 20 degrees cooler inside (if you stand near an open refrigerator, assuming you have one).

The ranch-style house, built in the 1940's and the newest of the four, has a window made of colorful agate, a carport and a potentially charming kitchen. There is even a Virgin of Guadalupe sculpture protected by an upended and partially submerged bathtub out by the gate.

The smallest of the four buildings is rumored (by the realtor) to have been moved to the site from a nearby army base. The carpets are so frighteningly stained I am surprised there are no chalk outlines of former tenants remaining on the floor. Under your fully clad feet, you can feel the channels chewed along the grain of the hardwood floors, resting on stringers that I fear are held against the ground by nothing more than gravity and termite saliva. There is a very active bee-hive in the wall.

The fourth house is on the busiest corner of the property with a view of the vacant lot across the street and an old hotel that struggles to keep tenants in its newly renovated shops on the ground floor.

Join me dear readers as we start our journey together. We have not only bought ourselves a fascinating, historical property, we have bought an endless supply of material for this column.

And the termites tell me it's delicious!