The rambling adobe house on Acequia Madre Street in Santa Fe was for rent. I heard about it because I had recently moved into the tiny house next door the month before. The owners of the old adobe wanted to lease it out until it sold. They told all the neighbors. My son thought it would be perfect for us (and it had a small place for my painting easel and table).
At first I laughed and told him not to mention it because we'd moved twice in the last two months and I sure wasn't going to pack up and move, again. He insisted that I "at least go next door and peek in the windows."
I leased the property that afternoon and began packing up the new house for the newer house. I figured it would be easier moving next door than two months before when my son and I moved from Galisteo, N.M. into town. I found some great old apartments that I'd always wanted to live in that offered a ground floor 2-bedroom unit. We took it.
After we moved everything in, we realized our location made it impossible for any sunshine to enter our windows because they were under a hallway. I tried putting my plants outside but the sidewalk got too little sunshine, as well.
As I was wondering what to do about the plants, we realized the overhead tenants wore heels and boots as early as 5:00 a.m. while they dressed for work. They walked back and forth, back and forth on the hard wood floors; stopped and sneezed a mighty roar and walked somewhere else. After two mornings of this, I notified the landlord that we were not happy and were moving out. He returned our rent except for the deposit that wasn't too costly. We had thrown all the cardboard boxes away and all the paintings were hanging when I started to repack.
It took a week of moving to the teeny house where we were now living. We both knew it was too small no matter how charming it seemed so it was inevitable we'd move. I just didn't think it would be so soon!
For the newest house, I had to sign a lease and it was with the understanding that I must vacate the premises if the house sold. The asking price was very steep and the house had been on the market for over a year. It seemed like a good deal to me.
The new 2,500 square foot abode was perfect for us. My son's bedroom was in the front of the house next to the kitchen and my bedroom was on the other side of the living room, beyond the only bathroom. The large hallway served as a painting studio for me, as well.
We had many good, funny experiences in that house. We even had a resident ghost. People would always see a large darkish man off to the side and they would jump and say every time, "Oh, I thought someone was standing there." The ghost was a good guy and I felt very protected. The house was large enough to have parties, too and we had plenty of them. We also had two long-term houseguests (friends of my son) who used the living room to sleep in. It was a busy house.
For the first year of living in the house, only a handful of people came to look at it with their realtors. But the second year was more aggressive: several prospective buyers came to see it every week. I grew to hate realtors. They telephoned us and made appointments but I still thought they were such a pushy group of people, very passive- aggressive.
One particular afternoon, an hour before the realtor's appointment, I went to my bedroom for a short nap before work. I gave my son instructions that the people were not to come inside the house until the appointed time. If they did barge in, which they usually did, Barry was to tell them I was asleep and come get me.
I had been asleep about ten minutes when the realtor and the married couple opened the kitchen door and walked over to my son sitting at the breakfast table. He was about to tell them my predicament when the realtor interrupted and told him she had already called me and made arrangements and pooh-poohed him. She walked the pair down the hall to my closed bedroom door. Without knocking, she threw open the old wooden door and startled me out of a too-short sleep. I was wearing my underwear with only the tip of the bedspread covering my legs. Everyone was very embarrassed. I was furious as they closed back the door.
"Let us know when you are ready," said the realtor, in a cheery, bird-chirp sort of way.
I was groggy and shocked and angry! I stood in the center of the room completely out of it trying to find my clothes and get ready for work at my bartending job. I could hear her talking to the clients on the other side of my door. I was SO tired of these people! My nap was ruined, cut too short; she had humiliated me in the privacy of my own bedroom and they were actually waiting for me to get presentable!
In a flash (no pun intended) I took off my underwear, stood in front of the door, turned my back, leaned over and grabbed my ankles and said, "Come Innnnnnnnn!"
When I looked up between my legs, I could only see three opened mouths, upside down. I heard a shrill, "Oh!" and then a loud, "Hrrmph." And the bad people were gone!
I got myself dressed, took my time and went out into the kitchen where my son was still sitting. He looked at me incredulously and asked, "Ma, What did you say?"
I told him, "I didn't have to say a word." I suspect there are three people who will never forget that afternoon, four if you count me.
And though I received somewhat of a complaint from my landlord, I found another place and we moved before the Acequia Madre house sold.
Visit Polly's blog at http://artistpolly.blogspot.com
