Excuses, Excuses

(8/24/92)

They say most women forget the pain of childbirth. Mother Nature's no dummy. If more women remembered what it was like producing Jimmy or Jane they might opt out of the mating game, and the Human Species would eventually disappear.

There's another kind of forgetfulness. It strikes folks who have restored an old dwelling. When it's finished, they can't recall what agony they went through getting it that way. This mental glitch helps the economy survive, through the sale of nails, paint, drywall, and old, raggedy, real estate.

Had I remembered the horror of making over old houses, particularly those I lived in while work was in progress, I wouldn't be sitting in my kitchen right now waiting for the electrician to show up. But here I am, despite the three houses I restored before this one, not to mention one refurbished New York apartment.

Two of the houses were in France and built of ancient stone (more exactly, rigid rubble). One was in Santa Fe and made of adobe (similar in endurance to what children build on the beach with wet sand and a pail). The last, my woodframe house in Ogallala, is not yet finished, but hasn't burned down yet either, dammit.

The greatest pain, of course, is waiting for the electricians, plumbers, plasterers, sheet rockers, painters and roofers to appear. The only difference between Ogallala and anywhere else is the reasons they give for keeping you waiting.

As everyone in western Nebraska knows, the things that occupy local artisans when they aren't working on your house are the calvin', the hayin', the wheatin', the cornin', and the weanin', not to-mention the "new house at the lake" and the "new motel on I-80."

In southern France they have another set of excuses, always given with that well-known French shrug, shoulders to the ears, palms turned out. These are: la vendange (the grape harvest), les oliviers (pruning the olive trees), les olives (picking the olives), l'incendie (putting out the forest fire), and la pluie (the rain).

When work was being done on my New York apartment, I experienced big-city delays. Why hasn't the painter shown up? An overturned tractor trailer on the Queens Expressway, a jackknifed eighteen-wheeler on the Major Deegan, a broken water main on 54th Street, police action in the Lincoln Tunnel. The calamitous combinations were as endless as the come-ons posted over the porn houses on 42nd Street.

But the mother of all excuses, told me in France, I'll never forget. The project was an old stone farmhouse. Its roof was made of ancient clay tiles which were very beautiful and very porous. After a rain, you could not walk on those tiles for four days or they would crack. Nothing separated the roof tiles from the floor below except several feet of air; the ceiling hadn't been built yet. When a tile cracked, I could see the sky.

At some point early on, this "roof" leaked badly. From pay telephones I begged Monsieur Simon, my entrepreneur, to come and repair it. He always had an excuse not to, usually that it had rained one, two, or three days before. But even when the tiles had been dry a week, no Monsieur Simon.

After a bit I decided to inquire about this man. When I'd mention the problem I was having with him, the locals would look grave and shake their heads. "Ah," they would say, "it's not his fault. His wife won't let him out of bed."

His wife won't let him out of bed!!!??? Gimme a break! This isn't some arty French film; my toit is fuiting!!!

Of course I didn't believe them for a minute. It was some sick French plot to drive me bonkers.

Time passed. When the sun shone I'd forget about the roof. When it rained, water poured into plastic buckets set around the house. Finally I had to know. I would make a personal call on this gentleman. So one weekday morning, about 10 o'clock, I located his house in the next village and rang the bell. There was a long pause. Finally the door opened. The rather plain woman standing in front of me was dressed in a filmy negligee and high-heeled satin slippers. Her hair was touseled.

"Madame Simon?"

"Oui?"

"Is your husband home?"

"He's in bed. Can I give him a message?"

"Non, merci."

I turned and walked away. Before going home I stopped at the hardware store and bought a couple more plastic pails.

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