Saturday, January 7, 1995
Friday night, 10:30 pm, in bed I'm reading by headlamp because the electricity is out. Every winter we have one killer storm. This is it. Up our street a few years back a tree sliced a cabin like a hatchet through a cupcake. Now rain is pounding; wind rushing; giant redwoods are bending over my house. We sleep downstairs, hoping the upper floor will act as a cushion.
In La Honda the power is always going out. The phones, never. Now it rings.
It's my ex-neighbor, Mark. He lives in the flatlands now. He says he just had a dream in which he was in the redwoods in a wild storm. He thought I should know.
When Mark tells you a dream, you better pay attention.
As I hang up the phone, I hear the snap, the sickening whoosh and crash of a falling tree. In a bathrobe with a flashlight I go out to inspect - in blackness, in pelting rain and rushing wind - and hear another snap and whoosh - which tree? Where is it falling? And which way do I run? Easy - I run back inside. My three kids are sleeping. Oil lamps are flickering and smoking. I listen to the wind, the branches striking the roof. I pray for no emergencies so I can stay safe, snug, dry in bed.
Saturday morning, a gentle rain. I survey the damage. Redwood branches litter the ground. An oak has fallen. My house, okay. Beside me, Mark's former house, okay. Below me, Marilyn's house lost another skylight. The one they sleep under. Nobody hurt, just freaked out. Another job. I don't wish for work among my friends and neighbors, but I'm there when they need it. I lay a ladder on her A-frame roof, spread a tarp. I'm lucky. Protected, somehow, by Mark's dream.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Funky Muck
Tuesday, January 6, 1987
Mama said there'd be days like this…
Rainy, almost freezing. I creep among mushrooms pushing forward with my elbows and the tips of my boots. I'm a worm. Sixteen inches separate floor joists from muck. Spiders stare at me with multiple eyes. There's the smell of rot, the suck of mud. I ooze through the crawlspace wearing a headlight like a miner, wrenches clanking, my breath puffing clouds in the beam.
The hours pass in funky muck. At last the job is done, pipes replaced. I peel off my crawlsuit and am just ready to start the truck when the tenant arrives, an acupuncturist. She steps in her cabin and screams. A pipe has burst in the kitchen. A flood. I've got to deal with it - quickly.
In the end it's a nine hour day. I'm soaked, slopped, chilled - and rattled. The broken pipe was a coincidence, not my fault, but it makes me look stupid. Next door I find Toby, the cabin's owner, in his basement editing film. He makes documentary movies. For pay he gets to trek in the wilderness filming antelopes, waterfalls, spectacular canyons and rivers. Upstairs I hear his wife, a singer, doing voice exercises, lovely. She'd be embarrassed if she knew I could hear.
"You okay?" he asks. "You look literally like shit." He sniffs. "Kinda smell like it, too."
"I want to go home and take a hot bath."
He writes a check.
I ask, "What are you working on now?"
"It's for PBS." He grins. "It's about appreciating water."
Mama said there'd be days like this…
Rainy, almost freezing. I creep among mushrooms pushing forward with my elbows and the tips of my boots. I'm a worm. Sixteen inches separate floor joists from muck. Spiders stare at me with multiple eyes. There's the smell of rot, the suck of mud. I ooze through the crawlspace wearing a headlight like a miner, wrenches clanking, my breath puffing clouds in the beam.
The hours pass in funky muck. At last the job is done, pipes replaced. I peel off my crawlsuit and am just ready to start the truck when the tenant arrives, an acupuncturist. She steps in her cabin and screams. A pipe has burst in the kitchen. A flood. I've got to deal with it - quickly.
In the end it's a nine hour day. I'm soaked, slopped, chilled - and rattled. The broken pipe was a coincidence, not my fault, but it makes me look stupid. Next door I find Toby, the cabin's owner, in his basement editing film. He makes documentary movies. For pay he gets to trek in the wilderness filming antelopes, waterfalls, spectacular canyons and rivers. Upstairs I hear his wife, a singer, doing voice exercises, lovely. She'd be embarrassed if she knew I could hear.
"You okay?" he asks. "You look literally like shit." He sniffs. "Kinda smell like it, too."
"I want to go home and take a hot bath."
He writes a check.
I ask, "What are you working on now?"
"It's for PBS." He grins. "It's about appreciating water."
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Hole
Wednesday, January 5, 1977
It's a cheapo stucco box, a six-unit apartment building in a low-rent section of Sunnyvale. Looks like a dump. (Sunnyvale in 1977 was half tech-boom town, half fruit orchards and honkytonk bars.)
John, the owner, looks like an old wino with uncombed hair, red eyes, beard stubble. He lives in one of the units, rents the other five. He says he's a retired elementary schoolteacher.
John says the building has a few problems. The partner of the man who built it is now in jail; the building inspector has been fired for accepting bribes.
In fact, the entire building is atrocious. They cut corners in silly ways, like by using putty instead of wax to seal the toilets to the floor - saving maybe fifty cents per toilet for a total of six toilets. Why bother being so cheap? All the plumbing leaks, every unit. Floors are rotted. The building is about fifteen years old.
John's unit is the worst. His decorating style might be described as post-tornado, except this is California. Post-Big One. You walk among piles: envelopes, magazines, garbage bags, newspapers, books. There's a rotten hole in his bathroom floor big enough for a basketball. Through the gap you can see - and smell - the damp clay of the crawlspace.
"Fix all the drips," he says. "Each unit."
"And the floor?"
"It'll have to wait."
I'm the cheapest plumber he could find, charging my rookie rate of seven bucks an hour which is practically minimum wage, and he thinks I cost too much.
I persist: "Gotta fix that hole, John. Somebody could come in here and fall right through. Break a leg."
"Nobody comes in here. Are you kidding? Look around."
"Or you, some night, sleepy, maybe a little boozy, fall in. See that nail? Castrate yourself."
"Might be a good idea," he says, peering down the hole. Then he covers it with a piece of cardboard.
I go unit to unit, fixing faucets and toilets. Most of the tenants are transient car culture types. One guy is a Vietnam vet, crippled, bum legs, chain-smoking in a ratty old chair in the dark. One woman advises me to "pad the bill." A kid orders me, "Hey mister, carry my bike up the stairs." (I say I'm too busy). A young woman living alone talks to her cat, curtains drawn, and watches reruns of Medical Center on TV.
In the only clean unit, I find an immense brown lady with lovely white leather furniture, a giant Holy Bible prominent at the center of the room on a coffee table. As I repair her faucets and replace her angle stops, countless teenaged and grown children keep coming and going, all respectful, all courteous. She's the matriarch.
She offers me some juice.
"No thank you," I say.
"You will have some juice," she says.
"Uh, yes ma'am." I sit on the immaculate sofa, sipping orange juice, taking a break. She asks about my family. I ask about hers. She has me beaten in the children competition. At this point I have one child. She has fourteen. And six grandchildren. She couldn't be a day over fifty.
I return to John's unit and repair his kitchen faucet while he worries about a runaway kitten. At one point some kids are playing outside his front door. John opens the window and shouts "Fuck you!" through the screen. The kids run away.
He's staring at me. "You an outdoor person?" he asks.
"Yes."
"I could tell. You have that look." He lights a cigarette. "Me, too. I hiked almost the entire John Muir Trail."
"You gonna finish? Hike the rest of it?"
"Nope."
"Why'd you quit teaching?"
He scowls. "Didn't quit," he says, and he walks out the front door. I don't see him again.
When I finish, I leave a bill and a self-addressed envelope on top of his toilet seat, the only uncluttered spot in his apartment.
Two days later, I receive the check.
It's a cheapo stucco box, a six-unit apartment building in a low-rent section of Sunnyvale. Looks like a dump. (Sunnyvale in 1977 was half tech-boom town, half fruit orchards and honkytonk bars.)
John, the owner, looks like an old wino with uncombed hair, red eyes, beard stubble. He lives in one of the units, rents the other five. He says he's a retired elementary schoolteacher.
John says the building has a few problems. The partner of the man who built it is now in jail; the building inspector has been fired for accepting bribes.
In fact, the entire building is atrocious. They cut corners in silly ways, like by using putty instead of wax to seal the toilets to the floor - saving maybe fifty cents per toilet for a total of six toilets. Why bother being so cheap? All the plumbing leaks, every unit. Floors are rotted. The building is about fifteen years old.
John's unit is the worst. His decorating style might be described as post-tornado, except this is California. Post-Big One. You walk among piles: envelopes, magazines, garbage bags, newspapers, books. There's a rotten hole in his bathroom floor big enough for a basketball. Through the gap you can see - and smell - the damp clay of the crawlspace.
"Fix all the drips," he says. "Each unit."
"And the floor?"
"It'll have to wait."
I'm the cheapest plumber he could find, charging my rookie rate of seven bucks an hour which is practically minimum wage, and he thinks I cost too much.
I persist: "Gotta fix that hole, John. Somebody could come in here and fall right through. Break a leg."
"Nobody comes in here. Are you kidding? Look around."
"Or you, some night, sleepy, maybe a little boozy, fall in. See that nail? Castrate yourself."
"Might be a good idea," he says, peering down the hole. Then he covers it with a piece of cardboard.
I go unit to unit, fixing faucets and toilets. Most of the tenants are transient car culture types. One guy is a Vietnam vet, crippled, bum legs, chain-smoking in a ratty old chair in the dark. One woman advises me to "pad the bill." A kid orders me, "Hey mister, carry my bike up the stairs." (I say I'm too busy). A young woman living alone talks to her cat, curtains drawn, and watches reruns of Medical Center on TV.
In the only clean unit, I find an immense brown lady with lovely white leather furniture, a giant Holy Bible prominent at the center of the room on a coffee table. As I repair her faucets and replace her angle stops, countless teenaged and grown children keep coming and going, all respectful, all courteous. She's the matriarch.
She offers me some juice.
"No thank you," I say.
"You will have some juice," she says.
"Uh, yes ma'am." I sit on the immaculate sofa, sipping orange juice, taking a break. She asks about my family. I ask about hers. She has me beaten in the children competition. At this point I have one child. She has fourteen. And six grandchildren. She couldn't be a day over fifty.
I return to John's unit and repair his kitchen faucet while he worries about a runaway kitten. At one point some kids are playing outside his front door. John opens the window and shouts "Fuck you!" through the screen. The kids run away.
He's staring at me. "You an outdoor person?" he asks.
"Yes."
"I could tell. You have that look." He lights a cigarette. "Me, too. I hiked almost the entire John Muir Trail."
"You gonna finish? Hike the rest of it?"
"Nope."
"Why'd you quit teaching?"
He scowls. "Didn't quit," he says, and he walks out the front door. I don't see him again.
When I finish, I leave a bill and a self-addressed envelope on top of his toilet seat, the only uncluttered spot in his apartment.
Two days later, I receive the check.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Mad House
Monday, January 4, 1993
In the back yard of a house in Mountain View I've converted a garage (without permit, as it wouldn't be sanctioned) into a living quarters and darkroom for Howard's teenage son, who wants to be a photographer. Howard good-naturedly calls it "the Mad House." I've done several garage-to-teen-den conversions, and it's always a stepparent/stepchild issue.
Today I'm to install a furnace. The son has been living there for months already, but space heaters just aren't doing the job. As I arrive, a teenage girl is stepping out the door. She's startled, seeing me. She has blue jeans, a pony tail, and yet, and yet…
"I'm here to install a furnace," I say.
"Warmth," she says. "A good idea." She's one of those subset of teen girls who can look so wise, so serious, so much older while still so young. How do they do it? Teen boys can never escape looking like teen boys.
"I'll try not to be in your way," I say.
"No problem. I'm leaving forever."
Inside, the air is thick with the damp smell of bodies and mildew and the residue of darkroom chemicals. Nobody is home. The concrete floor is buried by clothes, books, a pile of camping gear. The window is steamy. A furnace will definitely help.
In one corner there's a mattress, a sleeping bag, and on top a note written with a feminine hand, circles over the i's: "Thank you for a wonderful weekend of skiing that I will remember for a long time."
You pop in and out of people's lives; you get a snapshot, sometimes a blurry one. A little drama. Whatever it means.
In the back yard of a house in Mountain View I've converted a garage (without permit, as it wouldn't be sanctioned) into a living quarters and darkroom for Howard's teenage son, who wants to be a photographer. Howard good-naturedly calls it "the Mad House." I've done several garage-to-teen-den conversions, and it's always a stepparent/stepchild issue.
Today I'm to install a furnace. The son has been living there for months already, but space heaters just aren't doing the job. As I arrive, a teenage girl is stepping out the door. She's startled, seeing me. She has blue jeans, a pony tail, and yet, and yet…
"I'm here to install a furnace," I say.
"Warmth," she says. "A good idea." She's one of those subset of teen girls who can look so wise, so serious, so much older while still so young. How do they do it? Teen boys can never escape looking like teen boys.
"I'll try not to be in your way," I say.
"No problem. I'm leaving forever."
Inside, the air is thick with the damp smell of bodies and mildew and the residue of darkroom chemicals. Nobody is home. The concrete floor is buried by clothes, books, a pile of camping gear. The window is steamy. A furnace will definitely help.
In one corner there's a mattress, a sleeping bag, and on top a note written with a feminine hand, circles over the i's: "Thank you for a wonderful weekend of skiing that I will remember for a long time."
You pop in and out of people's lives; you get a snapshot, sometimes a blurry one. A little drama. Whatever it means.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Cleo, the Piano
Saturday, Jan 3, 1987
I met Cleo a year and a half ago - in July, 1985 - when she moved into a newly constructed problem house. The builder, she said, was "an arrogant little creep." When Cleo pointed out that he had painted the exterior with interior paint, hooked up the air conditioner in reverse so that it cooled the outside, left all the outlets dead in one room, messed up a sink trap and neglected to install an air gap for the dishwasher, he told her, "Shut up! This house is perfect!" When she further pointed out that the kitchen drawers had nails sticking out, he said, "Just don't put your hands in the drawers."
This is my niche: cleaning up the messes that the big guys leave behind. Rather than deal with lawsuits against arrogant creeps, a lot of homeowners would rather pay me, get good service and be done with it.
Cleo's husband was an obstetrician, but I rarely saw him around. Occupational hazard. Cleo had no children. Her husband was probably 20 years older than her. Second wife, I assumed, though I never asked. Cleo was a kind woman, warm, outgoing, very pretty with black hair and light brown skin. She had a way of making you feel comfortable.
Cleo designed and sewed her own clothes. She had the eye for style. On a Sophia Loren frame she somehow combined modesty and flash, and she always looked fabulous.
One day, cooking hamburgers (and yet dressed as if she were about to step onto a runway), she offered me lunch. Sitting on a bar stool at the kitchen counter, I joined her 17-year-old nephew who was visiting from New Jersey. His name was Earl. To my surprise Cleo served me two hamburgers, big ones. And two for Earl. Apparently Cleo was accustomed to men with big appetites.
"I want you to talk some sense into Earl," Cleo told me. "He's been here two weeks and gotten two speeding tickets. The last one, he was doing 95 on the Dunbarton Bridge."
Earl groaned, realizing that the hamburgers were a trap even as burger grease was dripping down his chin.
"Earl," I said, wiping my own grease, "don't try to be the fastest guy on the road. Be the second fastest. That way, the other guy gets the ticket."
Cleo frowned. This wasn't the advice she was hoping for.
"We done here?" Earl said. And he was gone. I saw a black car lurch out of the driveway.
"Sorry," I said.
"I mistook you for a grownup," Cleo said.
But she continued to hire me for projects, and now - we're back to January, 1987 - she has called to say that they are selling the house and moving into a condominium. It's in Los Altos, an upscale town, but the condo is clearly a step down for them. I don't ask why. There's some tension in the air as I build shelves and install lights. It's a day of drenching rain.
When I finish, she asks if I want a piano. For free. It's a beaut, but they don't have room for it in their downsized condo. My daughter, age 8, wants to learn the piano. This would be great. Thank you.
Then suddenly it's awkward. It's time to present the bill. They've just given me a like-new $2500 piano. How can I bill them for $400? It seems ungracious. But I can't afford not to - we've had a bad winter, financially - and I wouldn't have taken the piano if they'd asked $400 for it. Still, it's awkward. And for once, Cleo doesn't put me at ease.
A few days later, I stopped by their condo. My daughter had drawn a picture of the piano with a big "Thank you!" My wife had baked four loaves of bread. A country-style thank you from our home in the mountains. But nobody was there. I left the picture and bread at the door.
I never heard from them again.
I met Cleo a year and a half ago - in July, 1985 - when she moved into a newly constructed problem house. The builder, she said, was "an arrogant little creep." When Cleo pointed out that he had painted the exterior with interior paint, hooked up the air conditioner in reverse so that it cooled the outside, left all the outlets dead in one room, messed up a sink trap and neglected to install an air gap for the dishwasher, he told her, "Shut up! This house is perfect!" When she further pointed out that the kitchen drawers had nails sticking out, he said, "Just don't put your hands in the drawers."
This is my niche: cleaning up the messes that the big guys leave behind. Rather than deal with lawsuits against arrogant creeps, a lot of homeowners would rather pay me, get good service and be done with it.
Cleo's husband was an obstetrician, but I rarely saw him around. Occupational hazard. Cleo had no children. Her husband was probably 20 years older than her. Second wife, I assumed, though I never asked. Cleo was a kind woman, warm, outgoing, very pretty with black hair and light brown skin. She had a way of making you feel comfortable.
Cleo designed and sewed her own clothes. She had the eye for style. On a Sophia Loren frame she somehow combined modesty and flash, and she always looked fabulous.
One day, cooking hamburgers (and yet dressed as if she were about to step onto a runway), she offered me lunch. Sitting on a bar stool at the kitchen counter, I joined her 17-year-old nephew who was visiting from New Jersey. His name was Earl. To my surprise Cleo served me two hamburgers, big ones. And two for Earl. Apparently Cleo was accustomed to men with big appetites.
"I want you to talk some sense into Earl," Cleo told me. "He's been here two weeks and gotten two speeding tickets. The last one, he was doing 95 on the Dunbarton Bridge."
Earl groaned, realizing that the hamburgers were a trap even as burger grease was dripping down his chin.
"Earl," I said, wiping my own grease, "don't try to be the fastest guy on the road. Be the second fastest. That way, the other guy gets the ticket."
Cleo frowned. This wasn't the advice she was hoping for.
"We done here?" Earl said. And he was gone. I saw a black car lurch out of the driveway.
"Sorry," I said.
"I mistook you for a grownup," Cleo said.
 |
| The piano, 1991. My daughter, age 13. |
When I finish, she asks if I want a piano. For free. It's a beaut, but they don't have room for it in their downsized condo. My daughter, age 8, wants to learn the piano. This would be great. Thank you.
Then suddenly it's awkward. It's time to present the bill. They've just given me a like-new $2500 piano. How can I bill them for $400? It seems ungracious. But I can't afford not to - we've had a bad winter, financially - and I wouldn't have taken the piano if they'd asked $400 for it. Still, it's awkward. And for once, Cleo doesn't put me at ease.
A few days later, I stopped by their condo. My daughter had drawn a picture of the piano with a big "Thank you!" My wife had baked four loaves of bread. A country-style thank you from our home in the mountains. But nobody was there. I left the picture and bread at the door.
I never heard from them again.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Hat Rack
Monday, January 2, 1984
It's one of those shingled mansions in Professorville, the old-style section of Palo Alto. My friend Tom meets me at this castle because his son had a sleepover at my house in the mountains.
Tom's son and mine are best friends, age ten, though they now live forty miles apart. When my power went out, as often happens on the dark wet days of winter, his son and mine played Dungeons and Dragons by the light of the fireplace.
Now Tom and I have met at the halfway point, Professorville. His son climbs out of my truck. Tom eyes the mansion. He says, "You're working here? Man, who are these people that can buy these houses? I sure missed out somewhere." And then he rumbles off to San Jose in a beat-up behemoth station wagon while I belt on my tools and go to work for "these people." Nice people.
I fuss with downspouts, patch a basement wall, hang a mirror, replace a window, install a curtain rod, rescreen two doors.
My employer is Mrs. Seeker, a pleasant and efficient woman. On this day her two children are repairing bicycle brakes and heading off to the airport, returning to college on the east coast, packing skis and bright woolen scarves. Mrs. Seeker tells me she has just one more chore for me to do: tighten up a hat rack that is wobbly on the wall.
Mr. Seeker, who has been wordlessly frowning at me all day, finally speaks: "Leave it alone. I'll take care of it."
Women hire me to do the chores their husbands never get around to. The husbands feel emasculated by my presence. Mr. Seeker installed that hat rack and, by golly, he's going to fix it. Some day.
"Honey, will you bring my checkbook?" Mrs. Seeker asks. "It's in my purse in the kitchen."
Mr. Seeker complies.
Quickly Mrs. Seeker nods her head toward the wall. Quickly I pull the screwdriver from my toolbelt and remove two screws.
"I can't find it," Mr. Seeker calls from the kitchen.
"Oh, I forgot. It's in the bedroom."
I poke two plastic anchors into the plaster, then rehang the hat rack with two screws.
Mr. Seeker returns, checkbook in hand. "Thanks, honey," Mrs. Seeker says with a smile. She turns to me. "Now what do I owe you?"
It's one of those shingled mansions in Professorville, the old-style section of Palo Alto. My friend Tom meets me at this castle because his son had a sleepover at my house in the mountains.
Tom's son and mine are best friends, age ten, though they now live forty miles apart. When my power went out, as often happens on the dark wet days of winter, his son and mine played Dungeons and Dragons by the light of the fireplace.
Now Tom and I have met at the halfway point, Professorville. His son climbs out of my truck. Tom eyes the mansion. He says, "You're working here? Man, who are these people that can buy these houses? I sure missed out somewhere." And then he rumbles off to San Jose in a beat-up behemoth station wagon while I belt on my tools and go to work for "these people." Nice people.
I fuss with downspouts, patch a basement wall, hang a mirror, replace a window, install a curtain rod, rescreen two doors.
My employer is Mrs. Seeker, a pleasant and efficient woman. On this day her two children are repairing bicycle brakes and heading off to the airport, returning to college on the east coast, packing skis and bright woolen scarves. Mrs. Seeker tells me she has just one more chore for me to do: tighten up a hat rack that is wobbly on the wall.
Mr. Seeker, who has been wordlessly frowning at me all day, finally speaks: "Leave it alone. I'll take care of it."
Women hire me to do the chores their husbands never get around to. The husbands feel emasculated by my presence. Mr. Seeker installed that hat rack and, by golly, he's going to fix it. Some day.
"Honey, will you bring my checkbook?" Mrs. Seeker asks. "It's in my purse in the kitchen."
Mr. Seeker complies.
Quickly Mrs. Seeker nods her head toward the wall. Quickly I pull the screwdriver from my toolbelt and remove two screws.
"I can't find it," Mr. Seeker calls from the kitchen.
"Oh, I forgot. It's in the bedroom."
I poke two plastic anchors into the plaster, then rehang the hat rack with two screws.
Mr. Seeker returns, checkbook in hand. "Thanks, honey," Mrs. Seeker says with a smile. She turns to me. "Now what do I owe you?"
Saturday, January 1, 2011
The Mongrel
Wednesday, Jan 1, 1986
Yes, I worked holidays. Weekends, too.
On this particular New Year's morn, 1986, I am extending the fences of a dog run in the shadow of a palace. The mongrel belongs to Mrs. M — and only to Mrs. M. The palace belongs to Mrs. M and her husband Dr. M, who happens to be a Professor of Economics at Stanford. Dr. M calls the mongrel a "million dollar dog" because of all the money Mrs. M has paid me to build - and now raise - the fences of the pen. I've actually earned somewhat less than a million dollars on this job, but you do not quibble over statistics with a Stanford economist who was once an adviser to President Nixon.
Mrs. M would strike you on first meeting as a silly old lady wearing a flowery old hat, a relic of a simpler era. Meanwhile I struck her on first meeting as something more than a hippie carpenter. She asked, "Why don't you go back to school?"
"What for? I've got a B.A."
"Oh really? I could tell you weren't run of the mill. But I assumed you were a dropout."
"I'm a writer. This is my day job."
"I get it. You should meet my housepainter. He's a lawyer who got sick of lawyering."
For Mrs. M over a span of years I built an office, a greenhouse, an above-ground wine cellar, and a dog pen as well as a long string of unusual or impractical projects such as raising all her office furniture one inch above floor level in case the washing machine in the hallway should ever overflow (it never did). I removed sixty pounds of honey from between the studs of an exterior wall (the bees had already departed but the honey was seeping through the interior wallpaper). I custom-built an immense cabinet in her garage so she could store soda pop, which she purchased by the truckload. I custom-built an outdoor phone booth, a delivery box, and a garbage truck (that's what she called it) so she could wheel her garbage cans down the driveway once a week. She was, quite simply, eccentric. And rich.
I came to admire her. From the beginning she told me she expected materials "of the highest quality." Price seemed no problem. She was kind, generous, and nakedly emotional. As a child on a farm in Illinois, she had taken baths in a metal washtub with water heated on a wood stove in the kitchen. Now she was expected to behave with the dignity befitting a distinguished professor's wife.
Dr. M liked to argue with tradesmen or anybody else who stumbled into his path, though he was never condescending. We were expected to debate as equals. On my first day of work, he insisted on helping me unload the heavy radial arm saw from the back of my truck. He sent angry letters to President Reagan and received, via courier, idiotic replies written by underlings, which he showed me.
Dr. M loved cigars, solitude, and his backyard swimming pool which he skimmed himself, by hand, every day. I never saw him swim. That blue pool on a hilltop surrounded by brilliant flowers tended by a Japanese gardener in the warm California sun seemed to manifest all the awards and accomplishments of this boy from the tenements. He often returned from speaking engagements in a chauffeured limousine. For personal travel, he drove a Cadillac land yacht with a bad muffler, broken air conditioner, and door trim that was falling off. One time in his kitchen he offered me a cup of coffee.
"No thanks," I said. "I prefer plain hot water."
He frowned. "You're as bad as a Buddhist monk," he said.
As for the dog, it was a mutt, an undisciplined stray who had somehow wandered into Mrs. M's manicured world. She neither petted nor played with it. She felt obliged, though, to provide food and shelter. And she would not shirk her obligations even though the dog was an escape artist who wasn't to be contained by a five foot fence.
We placed the dog in his newly remodeled run. He studied the fence, now eight feet high, and then promptly climbed - not jumped, but climbed - the woven-wire until he was perched atop a four-by-four post. With a contemptuous snuff, he leaped to the ground and ran away.
"He's a genius," Dr. M exclaimed. "Worthless. But a genius."
Ignoring her husband, Mrs. M turned to me. "If I get him back, you will build a roof for this pen."
"Gladly," I said.
Dr. M rolled his eyes but said nothing. I always had the impression that he'd given his entire fortune to his wife to use as she saw fit. On one thing he and I agreed: she was worth it.
Yes, I worked holidays. Weekends, too.
On this particular New Year's morn, 1986, I am extending the fences of a dog run in the shadow of a palace. The mongrel belongs to Mrs. M — and only to Mrs. M. The palace belongs to Mrs. M and her husband Dr. M, who happens to be a Professor of Economics at Stanford. Dr. M calls the mongrel a "million dollar dog" because of all the money Mrs. M has paid me to build - and now raise - the fences of the pen. I've actually earned somewhat less than a million dollars on this job, but you do not quibble over statistics with a Stanford economist who was once an adviser to President Nixon.
Mrs. M would strike you on first meeting as a silly old lady wearing a flowery old hat, a relic of a simpler era. Meanwhile I struck her on first meeting as something more than a hippie carpenter. She asked, "Why don't you go back to school?"
"What for? I've got a B.A."
"Oh really? I could tell you weren't run of the mill. But I assumed you were a dropout."
"I'm a writer. This is my day job."
"I get it. You should meet my housepainter. He's a lawyer who got sick of lawyering."
For Mrs. M over a span of years I built an office, a greenhouse, an above-ground wine cellar, and a dog pen as well as a long string of unusual or impractical projects such as raising all her office furniture one inch above floor level in case the washing machine in the hallway should ever overflow (it never did). I removed sixty pounds of honey from between the studs of an exterior wall (the bees had already departed but the honey was seeping through the interior wallpaper). I custom-built an immense cabinet in her garage so she could store soda pop, which she purchased by the truckload. I custom-built an outdoor phone booth, a delivery box, and a garbage truck (that's what she called it) so she could wheel her garbage cans down the driveway once a week. She was, quite simply, eccentric. And rich.
I came to admire her. From the beginning she told me she expected materials "of the highest quality." Price seemed no problem. She was kind, generous, and nakedly emotional. As a child on a farm in Illinois, she had taken baths in a metal washtub with water heated on a wood stove in the kitchen. Now she was expected to behave with the dignity befitting a distinguished professor's wife.
Dr. M liked to argue with tradesmen or anybody else who stumbled into his path, though he was never condescending. We were expected to debate as equals. On my first day of work, he insisted on helping me unload the heavy radial arm saw from the back of my truck. He sent angry letters to President Reagan and received, via courier, idiotic replies written by underlings, which he showed me.
Dr. M loved cigars, solitude, and his backyard swimming pool which he skimmed himself, by hand, every day. I never saw him swim. That blue pool on a hilltop surrounded by brilliant flowers tended by a Japanese gardener in the warm California sun seemed to manifest all the awards and accomplishments of this boy from the tenements. He often returned from speaking engagements in a chauffeured limousine. For personal travel, he drove a Cadillac land yacht with a bad muffler, broken air conditioner, and door trim that was falling off. One time in his kitchen he offered me a cup of coffee.
"No thanks," I said. "I prefer plain hot water."
He frowned. "You're as bad as a Buddhist monk," he said.
As for the dog, it was a mutt, an undisciplined stray who had somehow wandered into Mrs. M's manicured world. She neither petted nor played with it. She felt obliged, though, to provide food and shelter. And she would not shirk her obligations even though the dog was an escape artist who wasn't to be contained by a five foot fence.
We placed the dog in his newly remodeled run. He studied the fence, now eight feet high, and then promptly climbed - not jumped, but climbed - the woven-wire until he was perched atop a four-by-four post. With a contemptuous snuff, he leaped to the ground and ran away.
"He's a genius," Dr. M exclaimed. "Worthless. But a genius."
Ignoring her husband, Mrs. M turned to me. "If I get him back, you will build a roof for this pen."
"Gladly," I said.
Dr. M rolled his eyes but said nothing. I always had the impression that he'd given his entire fortune to his wife to use as she saw fit. On one thing he and I agreed: she was worth it.
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