Baby Shoes

     Even as a young girl, I knew I wanted to be a mom.  My young girl friends and I would throw elaborate tea parties in my back yard.  My parents, as my fervent Christmas wish one year, had bought me a complete children's tea set.  It consisted of a small table with folding legs, four small but tasteful chairs and a tray with a tea pot, four cups and saucers and pots for sugar and cream.  In the flush of that Christmas morning, my mother had even offered to make tea for me and my girlfriends.  I don't think that ever happened because all we were interested in was make-believe tea parties and fussing over our dolls.  To us they were our babies.  Each of us had a little baby carriage to ferry our dolls around in.  My girlfriends had girl dolls, one was a Barbie, as I remember.  The female dolls were prissy and precious with alabaster skin, long lustrous hair that could be brushed for hours, and startlingly realistic eyes that rolled back in their heads when you laid the dolls horizontal.

     Although my parents and a few other well meaning relatives had given me various dolls in my youth, the one doll that I had specifically asked for and had received was a boy doll.  Looking back on it now, I remember that his face looked like a cross between Howdy Doody and Alfred E. Newman of Mad Magazine fame.  He had reddish-brown hair, blues eyes, a smattering of big brown freckles and a lovely smile.  He came dressed in a pair of OshKosh denim overalls with a little red neckerchief around his neck.  He also had two tone brown and tan oxford shoes that actually laced up.  He was my baby boy and I loved him as much as I loved my own mother.  His name was Tom; I always referred to him as "my Tommy boy".  The girls made fun of my infatuation with my Tommy boy but I didn't care.  I knew I was practicing for the day when I would have a real live Tommy of my own.

     I didn't want him riding around in a doll carriage like my friend's girl dolls, so for my birthday the next year, I got my parents to give me a little tractor and a small plastic pony.  That way, at some tea parties my Tommy boy was a farmer, at others, he was a cowboy.  He looked equally at home on either the tractor or the pony.  I was so proud of him.  In my mind he was now developing a personality and a future.  It may seem like my parents were indulgent towards me but that would be wrong.  Once I had my Tommy boy doll and his accoutrements I was happy and content.  Looking back, I realize that I made it real easy on my parents when it was gift giving time.  Something for Tommy boy was all I wanted.  Over the several years that I was still in the doll stage, Tommy boy received a tool belt, a cowboy hat and even a little fire engine I could stuff him in, in case he wanted to be a fireman when he grew up.

     After a few years and puberty loomed over me and my girlfriends they put away their dolls and that was the end of our afternoon tea parties.  The tea set was stashed in the attic and later, quietly given to The Goodwill by my mother.  Although the girls were now more interested in make-up, training bras and boys, I never abandoned my Tom.  He sat quietly in his overalls and oxfords on a shelf next to my bed.  When the girls came over to talk about boys and short skirts, they would tease me about still having my doll next to me.  I didn't mind taking their ribbing, they would never understand the bond that Tommy and I had.  Sometimes, even into my early teens, I would pick up Tommy boy and sit him in my lap in bed.  I would tell him my troubles (sore breasts, periods, etc.) and we would talks about his hopes and dreams for the future.

     As I progressed through high school I slowly got into other things.  I joined the glee club and I had several fairly prominent rolls in school plays.  It seemed I was a natural at acting as I had had a whole life as an imaginary mother.  I even had a few boy friends.  I really enjoyed kissing and my growing breasts were no longer sore and I enjoyed the attention they got from my boy friend's roving hands.  I was ecstatic when they finally unhooked my bra and lavished their hands and lips on my breasts.  I loved nothing more than to be making out with my boyfriend while he caressed my breasts.  It gave me a tingling feeling between my legs although I wasn't going to allow these eager beavers to get to third base.  I knew how easily that could lead to trouble.

     When I got to college I finally, and quite willingly, gave up my precious virginity.  After all, this was the next step to becoming a mom.   I liked my college boyfriends well enough and I enjoyed the physical pleasure they gave me but I never really loved them.  I never felt the way I'd felt as a young girl towards my little Tommy boy.  This caused some hurt feelings as several of these boys professed their undying love for me, usually right before they orgasmed.  I had my impending motherhood to look out for and I wasn't about to get entangled with a serious boyfriend at this stage of my life.  I had gone to the student health center when I first got to college and started taking the pill so there wouldn't be any accidents.

     After I graduated, armed with my shiny new degree in accountancy, I got a job in an office.  For several years, I applied myself gamely to the world of corporate finance and enjoyed several promotions.  In my job search I looked for a company with a very generous maternity policy because I planned to use that perquisite to its fullest extent once I became pregnant.  Sometime in my mid twenties I felt that I was ready to fulfill my ultimate destiny of motherhood.  I realized that more than another boyfriend or even a husband, what I really wanted was a sperm donor.  Several of the girls in the office tried to interest me in single guys that they knew, but I didn't want anyone too close to home.  I joined a Gym across town and started trolling for my "baby daddy".  I only went in after work and sometimes on the weekends.  My workouts consisted of walking the treadmill or bouncing up and down on the elliptical machines.  I was always on the lookout for my "special guy".  I knew what I wanted; someone big and strong with an athletic build, handsome but not to the point of vanity.  After all, I was fairly good looking with a decent figure but I was no one's idea of a runway model.  To get what I wanted I needed to find someone who would be attracted enough to want to date me.  When I spotted a potential mate I would sidle up next to them and ask them to show me how to use one of weight machines.  Over a period of about a year I managed to get several of these target males to go out with me.  During these first dates I would casually inquire about their backgrounds; were they college graduates; what kind of job did they have;  did they get along well with their parents and their siblings; was there any serious illnesses in the family like cancer, alzheimer's or alcoholism.

     Finally I settled on a guy who had all the desired prerequisites.  Like Goldilocks and her porridge, my new boyfriend was not too hot and not too cold but just right.  We settled into a comfortable relationship.  Sometimes he would stay over at my place, sometimes we would end up at his.  He had a graduate degree in engineering and had a good solid job in town.  He didn't know any of my girlfriends from work.  He had been on the rowing team and the lacrosse team in college.  He was good looking; tall and well built and had a very pleasant personality.  He loved his family, was kind and generous and had a sentimental streak that I found very lovable.  I told him that I was on the pill and we could have natural sex without worrying about consequences.  When I decided that he was to be the father of my baby I quietly stopped taking the pill.

     About six months later, I didn't get my usually regular period and took a pregnancy test.  When the little strip turned blue I was over the moon with joy.  Finally the time had come to fulfill my destiny.  I was going to be a mother.  Over the next several months, before I started to show I began to withdraw from my affair with Adam.  I feigned boredom and the occasional bouts of irritability.  When Adam asked me what was wrong I told him that I didn't really feel the love towards him that he deserved.  I explained that it wasn't him; it was me.  I wished him well in the future and assured him that he would find a good woman who would give him the love that he deserved.  Poor Adam, he really was a good man but he would never know that he was to be the father of my child.  I saw to it that we parted company amicably and I went back to the single life.  But everything had changed.  My future pride and joy was slowly growing in my womb and I was thrilled beyond words.  I loved being pregnant and the changes that it brought to me.  I went through the usual period of morning sickness but I didn't mind.  I knew that it was all for a good cause.  I was going to be a mother.

     When I was far enough along, I went to a well regarded Ob/Gyn doctor.  She was warm and welcoming and had a lovely bedside manner.  She was a mother herself and confided in me the joys and occasional tribulations of having a baby and bringing up a child.  I requested an amniocentesis to screen for any prenatal problems but secretly I was more interested in the sex of my baby.  I wanted, no, I had my heart set on, having a healthy baby boy; just like my Tommy boy had been for me in my youth.  Luckily I didn't have to contend with the idea of abortion because my fetus was a male.  There were no signs of possible genetic abnormalities and later the sonograms showed a healthy and vibrant male baby was growing in my womb.  As the months went by and I got bigger, I followed all the rules.  I had already stopped drinking my occasional glass of wine.  I maintained a healthy diet.  I was thrilled every time my Tom started kicking inside of me.  I knew that he was progressing nicely towards the day of his birth.

     At first my parents were disappointed that I chose to raise the baby by myself.  In tandem, they would talk about the importance of a nuclear family and the role model that a loving mother and father would provide for a child.  In private, my mother admitted that the love had run out of their marriage long ago and she didn't see any problem with being a single mother.  After all, I had a good job with a very generous maternity leave package and she would be around to take care of the baby when I went back to work.

     Finally the big day came and my water broke.  I called my mother and told her it was time.  She rushed over in her car and drove me to the hospital.  My pre-birth routine was pretty standard for a first time mother.  Six hours of cervical dilation and a series of painful contractions.  When the big moment arrived my doctor and the maternity nurse told me to push with all my might and don't forget to breathe.  I had taken all the usual prenatal classes but there is nothing that anybody can tell you that can describe the pain of childbirth.  When Tommy's little head appeared I gave out with one last agonizing cry and my biggest squeeze and I felt my womb empty as my baby slipped out into the nurse's waiting hands.  I was filled with joy and tears of relief when I heard Tommy's first cry.  The umbilical chord was snipped and tied, the baby was sponged off and this tiny pink bundle was handed to me, swaddled in the baby blue cashmere blanket I had chosen for him.  "Congratulations, Laurie!  You have a healthy baby boy!"

     I looked down at Tommy's formless little face with his eyes closed.  He had a smattering of brown hair plastered against his tiny little head.  I gathered him to my bosom and peppered that little head with the first of what I knew would be a billion kisses to come.  As I teased a nipple into his mouth and he began to suckle I was overcome with such deep feelings of love and joy that I knew that words could never explain them.  The next day, still sore and exhausted but wildly happy, mom drove me home to start my new life with my little Tommy boy, my pride and joy and the ultimate love of my life.

     The first few months were exhausting and I felt the deep fatigue and sleep deprivation that only a new mother can know.  Luckily Tommy was a "good" baby and didn't cry much.  He stayed healthy and didn't develop any of the complications that can plague a newborn.  My days and nights consisted of holding my naked baby against my naked body; feeding him every several hours.  Then we would both grab a nap for several hours.  After a change of diapers the cycle would begin again.  I didn't mind cleaning up after him and I loved it when I would nurse him.  My breasts loved the feeling of his little toothless mouth hungrily sucking the life giving milk from me.  Occasionally my mother would come over and spell me while I was relieved of "mom duty" to grab a few hours of sleep.

     As the months went by I was grateful that the periods between nursings and poopings became longer and so did our sleep cycles.  After Tommy's eyes opened we could really start to bond.  After his vision strengthened he started to really see me.  He would gaze into my face and I would give him a big smile and talk baby talk to him.  When I started to talk and rock him gently in my lap a huge smile would light up his face and I knew that he was beginning to feel towards me what I felt towards him; a bottomless well of total rapture and unconditional love.  While I was pregnant, I had watched all the wonderful YouTube videos of laughing babies.  I loved seeing the mother's playing the little games that would make their babies squeal with joy.  Soon, Tommy boy and I were playing the same silly little games.  "I'm going to tickle you Tommy, here comes mommy's finger!"  As my forefinger slowly made its way towards his tummy I could see the anticipation welling up in his face.  With a cry of triumph I would gently poke his round little tummy and he would erupt in a spate of squealing laughter.  Neither of us seemed to ever tire of this game.  I mean, who doesn't want to make their baby laugh?

Here's one of the many pictures I took of Tommy laughing with his mother.

     After five months my mother and my doctor tactfully suggested that it was time to put Tom in his own room.  I agonized at the sound of his cries at the cruel separation from his mommy.  Eventually he resigned himself to this new arrangement.  As much as I missed having my baby next to me I was relieved to get a little more sleep.  Each morning I would awake to the sound of gurgles and other baby noises coming through the baby monitor.  I couldn't wait to got into his room.  Opening the door to his room I would coo; "Hi Tommy boy!  Mommas here.  Are you glad to see your momma again?"  At the sound of my voice he would let out with a joyful squeal.  When I came to his crib and bent over to look at my beautiful baby boy he would let out with more squeals and a huge toothless grin as mother and child were once again united.  The picture above is what he looked like every morning when he first saw me.

     Anticipating his development, I started buying the clothes he would wear when he outgrew his current stuff that mostly consisted of diapers and T-shirts, booties and mittens.  The first item was a little pair of OshKosh denim baby overalls like my doll had worn and was still wearing in its place on the shelf on the night stand next to my bed.  It had never left.  The last thing I bought him was pair of baby shoes.  They were ivory colored and made of the softest calf leather I had ever felt.  I looked forward to the day I would put those shoes on my Tommy boy, waiting for those first few halting steps before he collapsed into my waiting arms.  I put those beautiful little shoes on the shelf next to my Tommy doll and would gaze fondly at them knowing what fun Tommy and I had in store when we could walk together, hand in hand.

     Late in his seventh month, I woke up one morning and I didn't hear him on the baby monitor.  I immediately became alarmed because that was so unlike my Tom.  With a growing sense of dread I crept into his room.  Tommy boy was lying there but when I called his name there was no response.  I thought desperately to myself that he must really be sound asleep this morning.  I knew as I approached his crib that something was dreadfully wrong.  He was deathly still and I couldn't hear him breathing.  There was a horrible bluish pallor to his skin and it was cold to the touch.  I lifted up one of his arms and helplessly watched it fell back to his side, lifeless.  I must have fainted at that point because the next thing I remember was getting up off the ground and my head hurt where it must have struck the floor.  I got up and looked in the crib and nothing had changed.  I tried to administer CPR but it was no use.  My baby boy, my Tommy, the absolute light of my life was gone.

     The medical examiner met with me after the autopsy.  He had the sad rheumy eyes of a cocker spaniel which well suited him to his duties; examining corpses and explaining to friends and family how their loved one had died.  It's called Sudden Infant Death Syndrome--SIDS--for short, and medical science has yet to come up with an explanation.  For some reason, some babies who appear perfectly healthy, just pass away in their sleep.

     After the funeral I took to my bed with the PJ's Tommy was wearing when he died.  I would lie there in my bed, sobbing softly while I inhaled the last fragrance of my baby.  After a few days, at the gentle urging of my mother and my doctor, I got up and got myself dressed.  I knew that I would never give up this last bit of his clothing but I determined to sell or give away everything else that was baby oriented; his crib; his bathinette; his stroller and his bouncy seat.  After those were gone I started selling the outfits that I had bought for his future that now he would never wear.  After the other items I finally parted with the denim overalls.  All that was left of my baby's canceled future was his pair of baby shoes.

     As I sat down to write out the ad to sell his shoes I suddenly remembered something I had heard about when I was in college.  Ernest Hemingway and several other writers were sitting around drinking one day when one of them challenged the others to come up with the shortest sad story they could think of.  The group went silent as they thought.  After a few minutes Hemingway said; "I've got it."  He wrote down six words on a piece of paper and passed it around to the others.  I knew that would be the classified ad I would place.  I proceeded to write down those words, the saddest words I could imagine:

     For Sale
     Baby Shoes
     Never Worn

   

Brother Timmy's long-ago summer job: Selling 0 magazine subscriptions

     Here's another contribution from brother Timmy; enjoy!

     Otter Views – No Experience Necessary

Tom Stevens for CST

There are times of year I briefly wish I were a teenager again, but April isn’t one of them. When I was a teenager, April was a time of fear. That’s because if you didn’t get a good summer job lined up then, you might have to answer an ad like this in June:

“High-paying summer jobs for clean-cut, self-motivated youths. Commission sales; no experience necessary. Call Mr. Snavely for appointment.”

The smart, strong and well-connected kids all had their jobs lined up in April. For young men of my era, construction work was the most highly prized, because it paid well and built strong bodies seven ways. 

The construction jobs went fast, usually snapped up by guys who had relatives in the trades. You could recognize these guys at the start of the next school year, because they had acquired big muscles and their own cars.

They walked differently, too. They had proven their mettle to tough, leathery foremen called “Blackie” or “Bull.” They had withstood the hazing of older co-workers, learned to play Texas Hold ‘Em, and been welcomed into the lifelong sodality of labor. 

I applied for a few of those jobs the April I was 15, but it was a Catch-22. You couldn’t get hired unless you had experience, and you couldn’t get experience unless you got hired. The construction company receptionists turned up their hands: Sorry, kid. Way it is.

Aside from yard work and household chores, my only “prior work experience” had been as a hospital emergency room volunteer the previous summer. There I mainly mopped up blood and fluids, but occasionally I helped check patients in. Clipboard and pencil in hand, I would coax vital information from frightened people in pain (“How do you spell your last name?! Why are you here?!”).

Once I had watched the ER docs push some loops of small intestine back into a stabbing victim. But a year later, I didn’t figure that experience would put me in the driver’s seat of a D-9 bulldozer at the construction site of my choice. 

There was also, at age 15, the little matter of wheels. Employers were more likely to smile upon an applicant who had “own transportation” than on one who came to the interview with a bus transfer coupon peeping ashamedly from his shirt pocket.

Mr. Snavely was the exception. He liked to see those coupons. That meant we couldn’t just drive away from the job. I ended up in Mr. Snavely’s office one June morning in 1962 because of pride. I had been too proud to accept my parents’ help in finding a summer job. I would find my own, thank you.

Along with a dozen other obstinate or desperate teens, I sat on a folding chair in a bare green room. We all leaned forward as Mr. Snavely described how clean-cut youths could make big money selling magazine subscriptions by giving away cookbooks. We also heard from a highly motivated team leader a couple of years our senior. He wore flashy rings and a really nice watch. 

The whole subscription caper is too elaborate to get into here. But the upshot was that every morning our little sales team would be driven by van to some military housing area. There we would fan out through the streets like Jehovah’s Witnesses, toting our cookbooks and subscription packets. 

Our prey was the young, harried enlisted wife; the one with her hair in curlers, a colicky baby on her hip, and Salems smoldering in a couple of different ash trays. We were to present ourselves as students working our way through school. If we could sell enough subscriptions, we would “win a typewriter!”

Our gambit was a “readership survey” of 48 popular magazines. The free cookbook was the bait. If she answered the survey, she got the cookbook AND a year’s subscription to ANY FOUR magazines on the list, “all completely FREE!” All she had to do was pay the postage.

It seemed like a good deal to me, but what did I know? I was 15. As it turned out, nine of ten enlisted wives already had more magazines than they could read or the baby could rip. The other one out of ten already had our cookbook.

I lasted two weeks. I walked miles, knocked on hundreds of doors, and sold no subscriptions. At the end, I was giving the cookbooks away just to lighten my load.

Mr. Snavely was disappointed, but by then he was busy training new clean-cut youths to replace those in the first batch who didn’t have what it took. We who didn’t slunk away to our bus stops, transfer coupons in hand.

At length I accepted the help of my parents, who knew someone who knew someone who was building a wall. I spent the rest of the summer lifting huge rocks for an angry mason at a hot, dirty, windblown job site. It was way more fun than trying to sell magazines.

Mickey and Timmy Build a House: The Finale

     What a relief it was to get that last window into place.  The next step was to sheetrock the interior walls and ceiling.  I had a little experience with sheetrock from building the studio bathroom.  There are a couple of things to keep in mind with sheetrocking a wall.  You have to measure precisely where the cutouts are for the junction boxes for the light sockets and wall sockets.  If the cutout lands in the middle of a sheet, you use a drill and a keyhole saw to make the interior cutout.  If you do it right it's a real thrill to put up the sheet and have it fit snugly over the box.  If it's off a little, an oversize cover plate might cover your sins.  Otherwise, start over again and be more careful about your measuring.  This is another place where having everything square makes the job so much easier.  The other thing about putting up sheetrock is the screwing process.  They make special sheetrock screws that are about an inch long.  You want to make sure that when you screw, the head of the screw just breaks the paper and snugs in below level of the sheetrock.  That way when you spackle all the screw holes, nothing sticks up and you get a nice monolithic surface.

     After a few fits and starts I got the hang of it and the drill went like this.  I would measure the next section to be rocked, I would use my utility box cutter to score one side.  I would break the sheet along the scored line; turn the sheet over; score the back and take the cut piece and hand it to Timmy.  He holds it up against the stud wall while I screw it into place.   I must mention that my brother, at this period in his life, did not use power tools.  This consigned him to the exalted position of "special day laborer".  He, of course, was invaluable because there are many jobs that need two bodies.  He was also very useful in cleaning up at the end of each day so that when we started work the next morning everything was swept clean and all prior day's construction debris and had been bagged.  The reason I say "special day laborer" was not only because English was his first language---hell, he'd majored in English at Williams College; his English was impeccable!---but also because I could bounce ideas off him and he always gave me great moral support.  Once his initial skepticism had disappeared, he got really excited about the project.  More than once I would hear him talking softly to himself, "We're building a house!"  Yes Timmy, we are.  

     Actually, much of the wall sheetrocking could be done by me alone.  One time I came in to do some sheetrocking while Timmy was toiling in the soil down in the garden.  I went up to a pile of sheetrock that was leaning against the wall.  I heard a faint chirping coming from behind the sheetrock.  When I went to see what was up, I found a little bird had gotten himself (herself, whatever...) trapped behind the stack of sheetrock.  I was able to, carefully, catch the bird.  I softly cupped him in my hands and walked out to the landing overlooking the garden.  "Timmy!", I bellowed, "Joe-Bob sez check it out!"  My brother looked up from his hoeing.  I raised my arms over my head and opened my cupped hands and low, the little birdy flew away to freedom.  Timmy gave me a rousing ovation.  I took that as a good omen.  

Installing the six foot sliding glass doors.  Nice view of the garden.  Notice one of our horses walking the garden fence, looking for an opening.

                     Studio tenant, Nancy, checking out my handiwork.                                  

     Indeed things continued to go pretty smoothly.  We had been going at it for some weeks now and my construction chops were in pretty good shape.  I wired the building with the help of "The Golden Book of Electrical Wiring" or some such.  I learned all about pig-tailing and the use of junction boxes.  I wired up light sockets and power sockets and switches.  I installed overhead lights that looked like albino mushrooms; perhaps another decorating faux pas.  I also installed dimmer switches to provide various stages of lighting ambience.  Later, after hearing comments from lady friends, I realized my lighting scheme was more suitable for a high school hallway or perhaps a correctional facility.  "Mike" one friend chided me, "today, especially here in Southern Marin, people use lamps to provide lighting.  Unless you're going with recessed lighting, overhead lights like yours are not only fairly useless but kind of an insult to a living space; unless you're looking for something small that you lost and you need a huge bath of light to help find it.  Don't worry, the new tenants will probably just ignore the lights and use their own.  They'll hardly be noticeable unless they look up..."

     The installation of the plumbing also went well.  I put in the toilet, the sink and the shower stall.  I went with a large vanity with a nice counter top and drawers on both sides.  I also splurged and got a large vanity mirror with multiple light sockets for the ladies.  I also installed a large medicine cabinet and a cupboard to use as a linen closet.  The one part of the plumbing I farmed out was the instillation of the hot water pipes.  Cold water can be done with plastic PVC pipe which is easy to work with.  Hot water must be done with copper pipes and the joints must be soldered.  Proper soldering of copper pipe joints is somewhat of an art with which I had zero experience.  I found a plumber, (a real plumber) who came in to do the copper pipes.  I asked him about what he thought about the rest of the plumbing.  He looked around and made a few suggestions about strapping pipes and the like.  His final opinion was that he thought  my plumbing job should hold up for a couple of years...

The landing leading to front/kitchen door.  Open, airy and light on the inside.  That's the fridge you see through the open door.

Part of the deck; all done in redwood.  Later we had a full grown bob-cat visit the deck while he was stalking our deer.

     The next big step was to install a string of outside lights to illuminate the walkway from the road down to the cottage landing.  This electric line had to be a double pole jobby with a switch at the top and a switch at the bottom.  Tenant comes home from a hard day's labor and it's dark.  He turns on the switch at the top, all the outdoor spots kick in, he sashays down the series of landings which lead to the cottage and turns off the lights from the cottage.  At the time, this series of landing were "steps" that were packed earth topped with shredded redwood bark held in place by a retainer board held in place with small rebar stakes, pounded into the ground.  Real concrete steps, along with other major changes, would come much later, after I had to finally comply with the county building and zoning regulations.  But that's another story...

     Figuring out how to wire a two-pole switch with a four wire electric line took all my mental acuity.  I puzzled over the diagram and descriptions in my "Golden Book of Electrical Wiring".  "There's three hot wires and a ground wire." I mused to myself,  "One is neutral and the red one and the green one are "hot".  Now what?"  I finally figured it out and now we had outdoor lights.  This was important.  There were about forty steps that had to be navigated from our street to the cottage.  The tenant couldn't park down below because that was the horse pasture.  It was tricky enough for me to get through the gate to the horse pasture in my truck by myself.  I had to unlock the gate, bump the gate backward with my truck, drive through far enough so the gate could swing back into place before one of the horses got out.  I would get out of the truck, push the horses out of the way and lock the gate again.  This could be a tricky operation as the horses often hung around the upper gate.  It was just down a bit from our street and often the local mothers would wheel their precious cargos down to the gate in their "Aprica Strollers" to show the kiddies the nice horseys and perhaps feed them an apple or some carrots.

     I had put out a sign instructing visitors that it was OK to feed the horses:  Stay out of the pasture and feed them over the gate.  Keep your hand flat when you give them something so they don't bite your fingers.  They will try anyway but as long as your hand is flat they'll just end up gnawing on your palm, which is not an unpleasurable experience.  They'll eat pretty much anything from the produce aisles including tomatoes.  Please don't feed them sugar.  Just like humans, it's bad for their teeth.

     Given the fact that Happy Acres, being an undeveloped homestead, built in the thirties which held, in succession:  dairy cows, ducks, pigs, horses, a bull and a cow (on the premises when I first moved in) and then more horses, the place was still a touchstone to the rural past of Mill Valley from a bygone era.  Our dowdy little "dog patch" was surrounded by multi-million dollar mega McMansions.  I was always somewhat concerned what the neighbors thought of the place.  That's why I liked having them come down to commune with the horses that I boarded here.  Whenever I saw a mom with stroller or toddler in tow, I made an effort to visit with them and explain about the place and how irritating it would be for them if the place were to be sold and to be developed into more McMansions.  We would all lose this precious link to the past.  Sometimes they bought it...  All in all, I lived here with horses for over twenty-five years and I still miss not having them here now.  The horses and all their antics will have to wait for another time.  Meanwhile, WE'VE GOT A COTTAGE TO FINISH!

     The other specialist I hired was a mud and tape man.  This was another craft that required some skill.  I had done my own mud and taping in the studio bathroom and it took a lot of effort on my part; spackle, let dry, sand and repeat.  I knew that a good mud and tape man (ok, ok, or woman...) could do it quickly and with vastly superior results.  At this point I must confess to the reader that not all the sheetrock joints came out perfect.  When Greg showed up I was a little apprehensive about these little gaps.  I pointed out my worst mistakes and asked him, "Greg, buddy, because I like you and I think were going to be friends, do you think these joints will tape?"  Greg walked the walls and stared up at the ceiling.  He looked at me and smiled.  "Mike, it's not the most professional job I've ever worked, but you did really well for an amateur.  Sure!  These joints will tape, no problem!"

     Greg had a hand-held gizmo that spread the tape over the mud and because he had been doing this for years, was finished in two days.  "I'll be back day after tomorrow to do a little sanding, will float a final finish coat, wait another day, do the final touch-up then you can paint.  When he was finished, the walls looked like one big smooth monolithic surface.  Now Timmy and I could attack the painting job.  My brother may not use a power saw but he can wield a paintbrush like L. da Vinci himself.  Soon the painting was done (some kind of egg-shell off white, as I remember).  I managed to install the wall to wall carpeting in the living room and bedroom bays with not too much trouble.  I laid down the tack strips all along the walls that would hook the carpet edge.  I rented a "knee kicker" to stretch the carpet onto the tack strips and amazingly, I ended up with a smooth, flat 24 X 24 foot wall to wall rug.  The final touch was to put the cover plates over the light and electrical sockets.  As I was doing this, suddenly I heard my brother bark, "Stop!  Look what you're doing!  You've left dirty smudges around the cover plates and also where you nailed in the floor molding.  Go wash your hands."  It was true.  The place was no longer a construction project where grubby hands (and shoes) were not a problem.  While I washed my hands, my brother sponged clean my smudges.  "From now on, you've got to be more careful", my brother chided.  He was right.

In a later remodel, I turned the downstairs into another room that is now used as the master bedroom.  

A view from upstairs leading down to the master bedroom via spiral staircase.

     So finally, the big day arrived with my first perspective tenants, who had seen my ad in the local paper:  "Come live with us on our three acre homestead.  You'll enjoy the company of horses and access to a large organic vegetable garden.  Splendid hiking trials are just up the street.  Despite living in a lovely rural environment, you're only twenty minutes from San Francisco.  The cottage is cozy and completely concealed from neighboring houses.  A unique living experience in Mill Valley.  The marine breezes from the ocean that's just over the hill keep us refreshingly cool in the summer months when others are sweltering..." (or words to that effect...).  Two women showed up and I gave them my best sales pitch (see picture below).  They decided that for various reasons---I think they mentioned the horses that were kicking up dust at the time, the view of the funky barn and the problematic access to the street---the place wasn't quite right for them but thanks anyway.

     Over the years, the cottage has seen about eight or nine tenants, and many more have come to kick its tires.  Invariably if it's a hetero couple, the guy digs the place because of its rural country flavor and the woman finds fault like the women mentioned above.  One day, as I was beginning to despair, (maybe I should lower the rent) a vivacious blond woman with a blond Labrador showed up at the door.  "Hi!  I'm Kate and I'm here about the cottage."  I prepared myself for yet another disappointment.  I had included a fenced off yard below the cottage and Kate loved it.  "Do you accept dogs?" she asked, hopefully.  At that moment, I had a little epiphany.  This place was perfect for dogs and renters with dogs always had a problem finding a place that would accept their pet.  "You bet Kate!", I enthused, "This place is made for a dog owner!  You've got your own dog yard right here, below the cottage."  "Yea!" she shouted gleefully and with that she gave me a big hug.  "Oh Stevie and I love it.  We absolutely adore it.  I'll take it, I'll take it!", exclaimed Kate.  "I can tell we're going to be the bestest of friends!"

Kate, her second dog and da Mayor hanging out at a friend's place

Kate and Mickey da Mayor, just drinking and smoking and enjoying making fun of each other.

        My first and favorite tenants, Kate and Stevie Wonder Dog         

     And just like that I had my first tenant in the little cottage that Mickey and Timmy built.  Kate was right.  We became the bestest of friends.  Looking back over the twenty plus years since she first moved in, I have probably spent more time with my beloved Katie that I have with any other person, including my girlfriend at the time.  In fact, I was probably the last person to see her before she passed away, peacefully, in her sleep.  It's been awhile, but still the tears quickly well up as I type these words.  I miss her every day.  Rest In Peace, you silly. 

     I leave you sadly, Mickey da Mayor of Happy Acres

Mickey & Timmy Build a House: Part Three

     We left the story with the mayor feverishly studying on the problem of how to get the big heavy window raised up into its new home in the window frame.  Next to the six foot sliding glass door that leads out to the stairs to the deck, this window would be a showcase.  Rising from bed, the tenant would walk forward and look out this large bay window at the beautiful and restful sight of a small Bay and Oak forest to his or her left (preferably both, as a loving couple).  Below them they would look down upon their own, very private deck, cozy sunny and warm; protected from the cool marine breezes that waft across our little homestead.  (the ocean is about five miles to the right, often bringing us fog in the summer months).  Beyond the deck, they would see our large organic fruit and vegetable garden with the local deer browsing contentedly, just outside the garden fence.  The prospective tenants will be invited to partake of the fruits of the garden (as long as they don't eat the apple from the tree of knowledge of good and evil...). Hopefully they will want to join those of us who toil in the garden to bring forth this luscious and wholesome produce which give us such stunning cholesterol numbers...

     So you see how important the successful instillation is to the overall feng shui of the cottage.  Because of the size and weight of the window and the distance it has to travel, I formulated a plan.  I would use a rope to make a sling with two loops.  This sling would be looped under the window.  To keep the two sling loops spread apart, I would attach bungee cords on each side to pull the loops apart.  Hopefully, you'll understand when you see the diagram below.  The other end of the rope would be attached to the hook of my come-along.  The rope would be strung over the transom above the window opening.  I would hammer up a temporary 2 X 6 between the wall and one of the interior posts to attach the come-along too.  I would be on the other side of that board cranking on the come-along lever.  As I cranked, the rope would become taut and the window would begin to slowly, carefully rise up until it was dangling opposite the window opening.  My faithful helper, brother Timmy, would be down below, guiding the window and making sure that the sling loops stayed far enough apart so the window wouldn't slip out. 

     I went to bed that night with a smile on my face.  I was sure I had licked the problem and I couldn't wait to put my plan into action on the morrow.  

     The next day dawned clear and bright; perfect.  After a bracing breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and coffee, (Timmy had his usual mush) we headed down to our half-built cottage.  I explained the plan to Timmy.  As the man below the window, resting in its rope sling with bungee cords, as it slowly levitated skyward, he was understandably dubious.  "I dunno, Mickey." my brother fretted, "Are you sure this is gonna work?  I mean, that sucker is really heavy.  If it falls out of your rope and bungee cord sling its gonna be, like, a total catastrophe!  Don't forget I'm standing underneath that thing."   "Timmy, Timmy!" I replied, reassuringly, "You are my beloved brother, I would never concoct a hair brain window raising scheme if I wasn't absolutely sure that it would be a success.  I couldn't afford to lose this window...or you!"  Muttering darkly under his breath and shaking his head, he reluctantly followed me down to where the window leaned against the wall.  It looked massive and weighty.  You could almost see it mocking us puny amateur window installers daring us to heave its mighty bulk up into the air, brashly going against the basic tenants of gravity.  

     Undaunted by the taunting window and my doubting Thomas, (hey, now there's a phrase!)  I was determined to show them both that my plan would win in the end.  While my brother watched, I fashioned a double loop with the end of the rope.  I put one loop around each end of the bottom of the window, then I slung the bungee cords around the sides of the window.  The pull from the bungees spread the loops apart so they supported the bottom of the window with a nice wide base.  I knew that when I started hauling in the cable from the come-along the loops would want to come back together. It was the job of the bungees to keep them apart.  "OK, Timmy, the first part is done.  Now I attach the rope, which is looped over the transom above the window frame, to the come-along, which I anchor to the temporary 2 X 6 and I start cranking.  Let's do this thing!"  I cried, and I gave my brother a hearty slap on the back as I left to take my station in this great window-raising endeavor.  Timmy didn't say anything and I saw the apprehension in his face. The only way to remove that look on the face of my doubting Thomas was to raise that window!

     I went up the outside stairs and assumed my position behind the come-along.  I started slowly pulling on the lever.  The cable became taught; the rope straightened out and the building let out the slightest groan as pressures came to bear.  "The rope is really tight but the window's not moving!" yelled Timmy from below.  "Yeah, it's OK.  We just have to get all the stretch out of the rope.  Once we do that it will start to move!"  I yelled back.  By now I had hauled in the full length of the come-along's cable and I had to tie off the rope while I played the cable out again and reattached it to the rope with a hastily tied square knot.  I used a C-clamp to pinch off the rope so it wouldn't "back slide" while I reattached the come-along's cable.  Are you with me so far?  Just refer to the diagram.  You'll see that since the distance the rope had to go was much longer than the come-along's cable, it would take a series of cable hauls to get the window in position.  I would have to pinch the rope in position with the C-clamp, pay out the come-along's cable and reattach it to the rope for the next "yo-heave-ho" on the come-along's lever multiple times.

     I undid the C-clamp and commenced cranking the lever again.  The cable pulled in and the rope stretched and the window sat, implacably on the ground, nestled in its sling.  "It's still not
moving!"  my brother cried, his voice breaking, just a little.  "Be of good faith and trust in the wise ways of your brother.  I've gotten us this far haven't I?"  I replied.  Outside and below there was silence.  The only way to allay my brother's fears was to keep cranking until that sucker started to rise.  I cranked some more.  Suddenly with a mighty lurch the rope moved towards me.  "It's moving!  It's rising up!  Sweet Jesus, we have ascension!" my brother cried, joyfully from below.  I could see that because of the various forces of nature that were in play here (friction and inertia), the raising of the window would not be a smooth affair but a series of fits and starts as the window lurched upward.  "Have it your way" I muttered.  "You want to lurch, fine.  You're still getting hauled up to your new home."  So we continued the drill.  Crank, crank, crank; LURCH!  Tie off the rope, reattach the cable, release the clamp and crank some more.  "It's working.  It's working!" my brother cried.  There was a note of triumph and wonder in his voice.  "I told you it would work.  I just didn't anticipate the lurching" I yelled back.  

     This effort went on for several hours.  As I cranked, I noticed that the 2 X 6 I had secured to anchor the come-along was bending inward with the weight of the glass.  Great, another "force of nature" to deal with.  Well, fans, the anchor board held.  The wall we were pulling the rope up didn't cave in and eventually our great and heavy prize was dangling across from the framed window opening I had fashioned for it.  "OK, Timmy!"  I shouted, triumphantly.  "We're in position.  Now I need you to come up here with me for the finale."  Timmy came up and I explained the final bit to fit the window into the window frame.  We each took long screwdrivers and slid them under each end of the bottom of the window.  Slowly we managed to walk the window into its frame.  Hastily, I went down below, climbed up a ladder and quickly nailed the window, temporarily into place.  "We got you now, you sucker!  Welcome to your new home."  

     I untied the double sling loops and slid the rope out from under the window.  With the full weight of the window on our screwdrivers, we slowly wiggled them out.  Now the window was sitting on its wooden window frame.  I drilled in a few screws to hold it in place.  I squeezed silicone  caulk all around the edges and I attached the quarter round casing snugly to the inside of the window.  I did the same to the outside and our window instillation was done.  Painting would come later.  "Well Timmy what do you think?" I said, "We did it!  Pretty much the way I planned it.  I couldn't have done it without your window guidance and your wonderful support."  "I'm amazed!" gushed my brother, "this pile of wood and windows we started with is really turning into a house!"

 Here we are with the window about three feet to go.  Just under my chin, you can see the rope sling holding up the window.  In front of my left foot is the C-clamp I used to pinch off the rope.

The view from the window.  No neighbors in sight; just part of the garden.  The flowers means I'm getting ready to show the cottage to prospective (female) renters.  

Sliding glass door to the left, large, weighty window to the right.

     Our hardest task had been successfully accomplished.  I fervently hoped that from here on in, it would be all downhill.  We'll see in the next chapter of: "Mickey and Timmy Build a House; The Continuing Saga."  

     Hope to see you then!  Mickey da Mayor of Happy Acres