web-master: Alethia Nosek
Excerpt from Chapter 1
Eastside Real Estate
“It needs work,” Rose Daneman warned us. She was the kind of agent you immediately trusted because she
could answer all our questions. “But it’s the only adobe for sale in your price range, the location is great and it
just went on the market today.”
Fleeing a big east coast city, we wanted authentic Santa Fe in an old neighborhood. It didn’t have views but
real adobe was worth a look. She drove us up Canyon Road, a narrow street which runs along the Santa Fe
River, then turns between steep brown, pinon-studded hills.
“So this is a prime area?” I asked. We passed a large house and then a shabby little building where an icicle
dripped from a very long tin gutter.
“Oh yes,” Rose replied. “This is real Santa Fe. You said that’s what you wanted.”
“Oh yes, that’s what we came for.”
Rose turned left down a rough dirt lane and the car waddled through the small, icy stream, then lurched up a
muddy drive. There it was: a plain rectangular building with one large plate glass window reflecting the winter
sun. Old electric wires dangled rags of insulation. Distinct layers of adobe bricks showed where stucco had
cracked off and blue paint peeled from the shriveled window frames. The yard was a jumble of junk.
“Where’s the front door?” I asked. Gosh, it was looking like an awful lot of trouble. Rose led us around to a
narrow door in the back side of the building. She jiggled open a sagging screen door and unlocked the wooden
door behind it that led right into the living room. The thick walls were roughly plastered, the high ceiling coved
between long round vigas. The air smelled of gas.
“Comes with, let’s see, no refrigerator. The stove stays,” Rose said, moving into the kitchen. “I’m not sure
how this works,” she added, standing well away from the greasy contraption whose electric burners pulled out in
drawers.
Above a hard-used sink a window looked across the messy yard and down the canyon where the sun was
already low. In the bathroom off the center hall, a rusty little toilet squatted beside a rusty hot water heater. I
pulled open the reluctant plywood doors of a spidery plywood closet. Nothing to save here. Yet. In the larger of
the two bedrooms big red geraniums bloomed among dead flies on the windowsills and the light streaming in
was delicate and beautiful. Outside, only a hundred feet away, the river sparkled as it raced down from its
mysterious source in the mountains. Nary another house nor traffic on the road could be seen or heard. Seedy
and dilapidated, yes, but the house felt like a fortress. Jim was looking at the sag of the vigas in the living room.
A leak had stained one corner of the ceiling.
“Wish I had a ladder. I’d like to see that roof,” he said thoughtfully. To my surprise, I saw he was interested.
“Got possibilities,” he said as Rose struggled to lock up.
Possibilities?
Jim and I parked high on Artists Drive to watch a sunset explode into red, gold and purple. To my deep
delight, I saw he was busting to buy the place. Santa Fe had always been my dream. If he wanted that house,
then we were now truly partners.
“Okay, let’s do it.”
He turned the car back to Rose’s office.
“Just in time,” Rose said. “Another offer’s coming in.”
Another offer? Yikes! Okay, full price offer.
“Wait,” Rose warned. The property was in a one-hundred-year flood plain and the city forbade building or
adding on in the hundred-year flood plain. If part of the building lay in the five-hundred-year flood plain we might
be able to add on but we couldn’t know until we applied for a building permit. Did we want to make city approval
a contingency? That would take weeks. We struck that contingency from our offer.
“You’ll have to assume the existing mortgage. It’s 11.5%.” Qualifying would delay us a week so we deleted
the financing contingency. Like maniacs, we scratched the inspection contingency and signed an offer to buy a
wreck we might not be able to expand or repair even if we could get a loan on it. In a strange town thousands
of miles from home. When the sellers accepted our offer, we pinched ourselves. My childhood dream to live in
the land of cowboys and Indians was a reality.
Eastside Real Estate
“It needs work,” Rose Daneman warned us. She was the kind of agent you immediately trusted because she
could answer all our questions. “But it’s the only adobe for sale in your price range, the location is great and it
just went on the market today.”
Fleeing a big east coast city, we wanted authentic Santa Fe in an old neighborhood. It didn’t have views but
real adobe was worth a look. She drove us up Canyon Road, a narrow street which runs along the Santa Fe
River, then turns between steep brown, pinon-studded hills.
“So this is a prime area?” I asked. We passed a large house and then a shabby little building where an icicle
dripped from a very long tin gutter.
“Oh yes,” Rose replied. “This is real Santa Fe. You said that’s what you wanted.”
“Oh yes, that’s what we came for.”
Rose turned left down a rough dirt lane and the car waddled through the small, icy stream, then lurched up a
muddy drive. There it was: a plain rectangular building with one large plate glass window reflecting the winter
sun. Old electric wires dangled rags of insulation. Distinct layers of adobe bricks showed where stucco had
cracked off and blue paint peeled from the shriveled window frames. The yard was a jumble of junk.
“Where’s the front door?” I asked. Gosh, it was looking like an awful lot of trouble. Rose led us around to a
narrow door in the back side of the building. She jiggled open a sagging screen door and unlocked the wooden
door behind it that led right into the living room. The thick walls were roughly plastered, the high ceiling coved
between long round vigas. The air smelled of gas.
“Comes with, let’s see, no refrigerator. The stove stays,” Rose said, moving into the kitchen. “I’m not sure
how this works,” she added, standing well away from the greasy contraption whose electric burners pulled out in
drawers.
Above a hard-used sink a window looked across the messy yard and down the canyon where the sun was
already low. In the bathroom off the center hall, a rusty little toilet squatted beside a rusty hot water heater. I
pulled open the reluctant plywood doors of a spidery plywood closet. Nothing to save here. Yet. In the larger of
the two bedrooms big red geraniums bloomed among dead flies on the windowsills and the light streaming in
was delicate and beautiful. Outside, only a hundred feet away, the river sparkled as it raced down from its
mysterious source in the mountains. Nary another house nor traffic on the road could be seen or heard. Seedy
and dilapidated, yes, but the house felt like a fortress. Jim was looking at the sag of the vigas in the living room.
A leak had stained one corner of the ceiling.
“Wish I had a ladder. I’d like to see that roof,” he said thoughtfully. To my surprise, I saw he was interested.
“Got possibilities,” he said as Rose struggled to lock up.
Possibilities?
Jim and I parked high on Artists Drive to watch a sunset explode into red, gold and purple. To my deep
delight, I saw he was busting to buy the place. Santa Fe had always been my dream. If he wanted that house,
then we were now truly partners.
“Okay, let’s do it.”
He turned the car back to Rose’s office.
“Just in time,” Rose said. “Another offer’s coming in.”
Another offer? Yikes! Okay, full price offer.
“Wait,” Rose warned. The property was in a one-hundred-year flood plain and the city forbade building or
adding on in the hundred-year flood plain. If part of the building lay in the five-hundred-year flood plain we might
be able to add on but we couldn’t know until we applied for a building permit. Did we want to make city approval
a contingency? That would take weeks. We struck that contingency from our offer.
“You’ll have to assume the existing mortgage. It’s 11.5%.” Qualifying would delay us a week so we deleted
the financing contingency. Like maniacs, we scratched the inspection contingency and signed an offer to buy a
wreck we might not be able to expand or repair even if we could get a loan on it. In a strange town thousands
of miles from home. When the sellers accepted our offer, we pinched ourselves. My childhood dream to live in
the land of cowboys and Indians was a reality.
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SANTA FE DREAMHOUSE:
Ten Years in the Land of Enchantment
By Reed Stevens
Ten Years in the Land of Enchantment
By Reed Stevens
