On a slow Monday . . .

Taste of Key West was Monday night at Truman Waterfront, with 50 of the city's restaurants offering nibbles and 80 vineyards serving sips to benefit AIDS Help.

It's the group's biggest single fundraiser of the year, bringing in about $100,000 in a few crowded hours.

We ran into the entire crew from the bank, plus Martin, Dave, Deco, Dee, Mike, Vie, Big Bob and the Mrs. and kid, two city commissioners and a few thousand others, and watched the sun go down from the Coast Guard Cutter USS Mohawk, which patroled the pitching North Atlantic with 100-plus intrepid sailors jammed aboard in World War II, and is now a floating museum moored out there at the end of Southard Street.

They ran out of this year's commemorative wineglasses and T-shirts almost instantly, and food soon after. The Outback folks kept blowing the breaker on their deep-fryer, so several hundred pounds of coconut shrimp slowly turned into cat chow.

So we made our way to Virgilio's, which was almost as crowded as the quay, and made dinner out of olives, specially marinated, and listened to a bit of music.

As usual, Key West tasted great.

The big backdrop

Blue Heaven isn't just a restaurant down the street.

It's the arch that spans the island's soul this time of year, as dry season tails off and the days run hot, humid and clear.

It's glorious, but it's intense -- the reason, I think, why Caribbean folk love such intensity of color.

This morning we had two plumbers, two landscapers, three pool guys and two electricians either working or scoping out work to come.

Robert was running errands and then doing a bit of arranging -- and even that had him in rivulets of sweat.

As the clock crawled toward noon the workers trailed off for lunch -- and none returned. Well, the 'scape guys came by to reconnoiter again, but . . . too darn hot today. Mañana.

But that heat is under the most amazing sky. And structures small, like cottages, and big, like theaters, take on an end-of-season shimmer against a blue even Pantone can't match.

A drop of black

I think this is where "The Hand" is going to end up, on the northeast wall of the den.

Still, Alicia is bringing her pasteled photo of a lotus by on Monday -- finally; we bought it about a year ago off the wall at Mangia Mangia, and she's held on to it for us ever since -- and there's a chance it will want the drama spot instead.

I have a weakness for off-the-wall. I bought the hand painting, by Phil Bakula, off the wall at the old No Exit Cafe in Chicago's Rogers Park, I think during a Steve Goodman set in the early '70s.

About the red: Roy, our painter, used 10 gallons on the den and bedroom walls. By the time he was done, he was afraid the layers of paint had cost an inch on the dimensions of the rooms.

Objects in mirror . . .

Are even stranger than you could imagine.

We're at the end of Conch Republic Days, this year commemorating the 25th anniversary of the time the Customs Service set up checkpoints on the mainland road to and from the Keys, sparking a secession, a declaration of war on the U.S., instant surrender (on our part) and application for foreign aid as the Earth's first fifth-world nation. It didn't work, but it was fun.

These revelers were coming down Upper Duval to participate in Saturday's Bed Races, on Lower Duval, which is actually above Upper on a map, so they were going down by coming up. (Don't ask.)

The race benefits AIDS Help, and this contingent was from the 801, a gay bar, but the race headquarters is the Hog's Breath Saloon, as straight as they get. That's what our city motto, "One Human Family," is all about.

The week was filled with drag races (races in drag, actually, to benefit the Helpline), boat races to the reef, the Conch Crawl (as if one needed an excuse to bar-hop), the Conch Cruiser Car Show (the CIA entry -- Cuties in Action -- was of course painted by the late, sainted Captain Outrageous), the World's Longest Parade (all the way from the Atlantic to the Gulf --two whole miles!) and a reenactment of the Great Battle.

The battle itself never happened (the official weapon of the Conch Republic is a loaf of stale Cuban bread, which can be hurled or swung). But who wants to get hung up on details?

In the re-enactment the Conch Republic Navy (actually a schooner, a clipper, a mothballed PT boat and several stalwart dinghies) fires eco-friendly confetti at a Coast Guard cutter in the harbor while shoreside patriots cheer and the CR Air Force provides close support.

I was smiling at the spectacle -- and then I closed my eyes and said a prayer that every war, every rebellion, every insurrection, could be waged in the same spirit, and by the same means.

Buckin' bobcats

Linda, who owns Jasmine House down the street, thought it would be a good idea to scrape up the random gravel along our street, put it in the low spots of the church parking lot and replace it with tan rock of a certain size.

So this week, Dennis, who works for Linda, taped the street off the day before. And then Mama's Rock and Sand showed up to scrape up the old and lay down the new. The blond guy who ran the bobcat was fearless, rearing up on two wheels to scrrraaaaaape ahead of the Latino guys who shoveled it all up for the move.

I don't have an "after" shot, because the cars moved back quickly; but trust me, it's pretty.

Hanging together

One of this week's great treats was unpacking the art Robert brought down, putting pieces hither and yon, studying them, and finally placing them where they seem to want to live for a while.

So I spent most of today as curator, with Joe providing technical assistance. After wandering around the house a while, "The Hand" settled in here, "Parrots" there, fern watercolors and Abbeville Audubons somewhere else (for now).

But some places were planned. Months ago, we decided on two of Amanda's old Chinese embroidery panels, shot with gold, for the space over the sofa. Still, once they got into position, they just wouldn't work unless we manufactured conjoined twins.

So two L-brackets and a flat brace later, we strung them up . . . and when I stepped back and took a look, I realized it was worth the 98 cents in hardware.

And then Winnie Godfrey's "Ivory Tulip." It visited the den, the staircase, the living room. I sat outside, sighed and finally lifted up mine eyes.

Since the left side picks up the ceiling and the right picks up the wall, we'll let it fly high until it wants to come down.

Let it flow

. . . But not for too long.

Ryan the plumber was having a terrible day. He and his helper got the special water meter in yesterday. Today they were hooking up the main line -- and as soon as they did, his soldered connections to the instant heaters started leaking.

Several hours later, they'd both sweated through everything they had on.

But it was finally running, just in time to splash up against water restrictions. South Florida's in a drought, you see, and Lake Okeechobee is near a record low.

So there's once-a-week watering, no pressure washing -- but at least our bathrooms are now flush.

A frenzy in plaid

I think Robert must have received a note, words cut out of The Citizen and messily pasted together.

"Hang CURTAINS by 2 p.m. or we kill PUPPY," I imagine the note saying.

So we have been starting about 8, and finishing, or more properly collapsing, at 5 or 6 or later for the last few days.

In the meantime, the plumbers have installed the water heaters, and plan to set in the "deduct" meter tomorrow, which measures the difference between domestic water and irrigation/pool water so we don't have to pay sewage rates on water that doesn't get treatment.

And the electricians have put in two of the high fans -- in the bedrooms, so we can get the beds set up. (I think beds have to be made by 10 a.m. Thursday or a kitten will die.)

Roy and Joe have been wrapping up a series of little projects -- closet organizers, shelves, strapping down the 5-foot tabletop Robert had the foresight to bring down, though we can only store it outside.

Oh, and little details like city permits. It turns out that the permit holder is the only one who can call for final inspections leading to a certificate of occupancy, which will allow us to move in. And sweet, helpful Carolyn at the Building Department said that since Ref couldn't call her, I'd have to -- which meant applying for a new set of permits, with their attendant fees.

I did the paperwork, she notarized it, and then I got back to hanging curtains before another small animal was tragically abducted.

Forecast: Sunny showers

The arbor that Ray crafted in Tennessee to be put up here went up today, just as the plumbers came by to put in the copper piping and the big sunflower showerhead. Great timing.

Together, they make up our outdoor shower, on the north side of the house. Robert had Ray add a lattice panel so he wouldn't have to look into the Clarks' back yard.

As for looking at us: The plan is to have vines growing up the fence and lattice, plus a few strategically placed topiaries to block sightlines from the parking gate and the rear of the house.

The louvered fence means that if the Clarks want a detailed view they have to get on the ground and look up at an angle. I don't think they'll care to make the effort.

Once you've taken a shower outdoors, you'll know why everyone here does it when the temperature cooperates. It's tropical liberation.

Throwing curves

I'm probably late to the realization, but something dawned on me while I was looking at the top of the highboy yesterday:

Rooms are straight lines, angles, parallels, planes -- the musical staff to hold the notes. Their contents add the interesting curves.

Lyrical chair backs, rolled sofa arms, circling table edges, flaring wings, arching bonnets, bending knees: These are the dancers on a floor that's lovely but . . . flat.

And when they take up their positions, you can almost hear their little pad feet tapping.

Thanks, Janie

We went out to Home Depot for a supplies fix (and to take back the oversized microwave), and I got some concrete paint from Janie, the resident color genius.

An artist herself, she's responsible for so many of our tints, and as ever asked how we were liking them. If I had pictures, she wanted to see them.

She always brightens my day, so I gave her the blog address and promised I'd post something tonight.

Here's your "Desert Rose" on the wall, Janie, though Robert prefers the orchid you helped me choose for the blue bath -- "Innuendo," I think. There are no windows there, and no lights yet, so that picture will be yet to come.

But when the whole place is done, you have to come to town for a walk-through and something cool to drink.

Quite the high, boy

Is that all there is? No, Miss Lee; it's not a lowboy. It's the low part of Amanda's dear, old cherry highboy, and it was the first piece of furniture to move into its new home on Sunday.

It wasn't a matter of age before beauty; it was age and beauty perfectly conjoined, in the place of pride designed to highlight every dovetail, every plane and every sweet curve.

The high part, complete with its wildly turned finials, came in just a few minutes later -- but so did chair, table, chair, table, box, box, box, box, desk, chair, table, chair, table, desk, chest, footstool, box, box, box, chest. Which tend to clutter up the picture.

Then, when the truck was empty, Robert rode over with the movers to the storage locker, overpriced and undersized, and it poured forth three sofas, two big chairs for the den, three headboards, four bedside tables and, as Hollywood says, much, much more (despite our much, much less of a house).

The day even gave us a chance to try out the removable section of loft railing (discussed with Ref and Shawn, installed by Arnold and perfected by Deco and Dave), which eliminates the need to saw things into pieces to accommodate the tight 180 in the staircase. It was as astonishingly useful as I ever could have hoped.

¡Que limpio!

Greg had planned to do our construction cleaning before the furniture gets here Sunday, but he was in the hospital with a superbug, so . . .

Dave's friend Jemma was going to do it, but she had a conflict at the last minute, so . . .

Roy, our painter, had a friend who knows somebody -- and after who knows how many phone calls, Zuleia was at the house bright and early Saturday.

Good thing I have some Spanish: She and her family came to the U.S. by boat two years ago from Cuba, and she brought great work skills but no English.

Eight hours later -- after some discussions about how the pineapple was the queen of fruits, the nature of dust and the wisdom of little by little -- the house sparkled in any language.

Bring it on.

. . . And speaking of greens

A banana leaf, dying:
Lovely colors. Lovely shape.
Lovely life. Lovely death.

Fresh greens

Chris, from Chicago days, let me know that a friend of hers I'd met long ago was coming to Key West (and thanks, Chris, for putting the wheels in motion).

Copper-haired Carole and her kids -- Taylor on the left and Harrison on the right -- were here for a few days, and what a great pleasure they gave me to play a bit of the tourist-guide uncle with them.

Taylor, 18, has found a berth as an incoming freshman in fashion design at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago; and Harrison, 15, is . . . well, a high-schooler who's into drumming, fitness and becoming the next Donald Trump, heaven help him. (Youthful mania, and all that.)

They went diving, crawled Duval, shopped, cruised town, hit the beach and suffered the conversation of little old me -- made me envious of the beloved Carole, and thankful for the two whole humans she and her husband, Hermon, created and nourished.

For the love o' lumber

You're gonna love the front steps, I told Robert this morning. He's coming this weekend -- with a truck of furniture and furnishings -- and of course curious about what he's going to see.

"Did they put a new coat of concrete on them?," he asked.

They needed something. Heaven only knows when they were poured, along with the giant block that underlies our front porch, but they weren't done with much care to start, and the years haven't done them any favors. They sag in the middle -- actually, some sag at the sides; they're not level; they're cracked; the slabs on both sides tilt a bit.

And the board at the edge of the porch-- the top of the steps -- was already tilting toward the street.

Deco studied the situation, measured, studied, checked levels, made shims, measured, checked levels, adjusted shims -- and started sawing our deck wood to clad the concrete and repair the top edge.

Actually, "sawing" isn't the right word. "Shaving" is more like it, millimeter by millimeter, till each board fit perfectly.

That was yesterday. Today he assembled and installed. Front boards anchor to the riser and the step, usually through shims. Middle boards anchor to concrete. Thin rips of boards at the back edges of the steps serve as foundations for the risers above them.

To put it together, countersink the boards, spread some industrial mega-adhesive, drill into the concrete and Tap-Con everything tight.

To finish it all off, cut plugs for the screw holes, glue them into place, chisel them even with the surface and sand everything smooth.

"It's the first experience anyone will have of your house, man," he said with a wide brogue as I tested them: Solid.

"Like a rock, eh?," he grinned.

Like that, yes. And like the master craftsmanship I loved from Ref and Arnold, and every bit as elegant.

It ain't fittin'

That was my favorite Hattie McDaniel line in "Gone With the Wind," accompanied by a classic head-shake, and I could just hear her saying it in the kitchen Wednesday.

The plumbers had said they'd hooked it up, but couldn't get it in. Deco took a look. Dave took a look. Joe, who'd just stopped by, took a look.

And it wasn't fittin' -- just an eyelash too wide.

We debated covering it with a granite slab and using it as an island, but finally Dave and Joe put their backs to it, lined it up juuust right and . . . success, by the thinnest of margins.

Turns out the plumbers hadn't hooked up the power cord, however. So out once more, and then back in.

No such luck with the undercounter microwave, one of those fancy things from GE that doubles as a convection oven. There's one at our rental, and I'm in love with it. We spec'd it when we ordered the cabinets -- but it's 4 or 5 inches wider than the opening allows. Oops.

Looking to tthe light

"Are you the outside agitator who's come onto our island to toss things up?," the voice on the phone asked.

Damn right, I told him.

I mean, in tradition but not law, people have redone their houses after 4 p.m. and on weekends, and Code Enforcement never got into the equation. Some of us do it by law. Silly us.

It's been an odd several days. But today Joe, who's been our painter's assistant and who lost his home in a fire a while back, came by to visit our painter Roy.

As I talked to Joe, whose center of gravity is somewhere near Saturn's belly, I looked around and thought not of what we don't yet have, but of what is here. I touched the wood.

I saw Ref putting up walls, and Bradley at his hip, and Nate. And Shawn being the captain, and his crew of Frank and the White Rhino and Kurt and Little Shawn and Charles, and Dollie doing payroll . . . .

And Arnold.

I looked around my house, my beautiful house, and thought, what great skills, and how freely shared.

Over the fold again

Mandy Bolen's windows coverage led the Citizen yet again Tuesday morning.

And yes, that's a close-up of our house.

The caption: "Historic preservation guidelines prevent metal-framed windows, above, to be used in Old Town restoration projects. Wood-framed windows can cost homeowners an additional $3,000 per year in insurance premiums."

Quite the tea party

I'm not sad about today's HARC workshop. I'm not upset. I'm not angry. I am well and truly pissed off.

Let me get the good news, and the thanks, out of the way first.

Thanks to City Commissioner Clayton Lopez, who attended, signed up to speak about the windows issue -- and, incredibly, was not called on when his turn came. He left assuring me that the City Commission would resolve the problem. I guess the HARC commissioners forgot who appoints them under the law. (As soon as I got home, I filed a formal question with the city about why he wasn't allowed to address HARC. I look forward to the answer.)

Thanks to Christine Russell, who used to work for our architect and would like to replace some of her own windows, for speaking in support of rational guidelines and the costs of insurance.

Thanks to HARC Commissioner Nils Muench, who again sounded warnings against purism.

And really special thanks to the four neighbors from Center Street who took the time from their day to show up, wait their turn and speak in our support, saying that our house has done more to raise their property values than any project in the city.

Now, back to pissed off:

The commissioners openly sneered at City Commissioner Bill Verge's suggestion, in Sunday's story, that it was time for a "kinder, gentler HARC." Ain't gonna happen on their watch. (Did I mention which city body confirms members of the historic commission?)

In fact, one HARC commissioner suggested that perhaps it was time for the historic commission to start regulating interiors, too. (That might be legal -- if the property were a full-blown National Historic Landmark, but I'd urge 'em not to try it unless they want to see pitchforks and torches on Greene Street.)

Another said too many people were planting gardens that obscured their houses. Apparently he hasn't noticed the two mega-historic properties on Caroline just down Ann from Old City Hall that have been obscured by 9-foot ficus hedges for the last century.

And it degenerated from there. One commissioner compared old buildings to the endangered Florida panther, perhaps forgetting that metal windows could eventually be replaced with wooden ones from the building-supply store, but you can't special-order panthers.

None addressed the insurance issue. None addressed severe storm forecasts based on climate change -- though one did make fun of "alarm and hysteria," and another reminded Old Town property owners that they should "seek to appreciate" their old windows.

I've been pretty polite about the whole thing so far, but as of tonight, I've decided to expand the argument by two words: "bloviate" and "tyrannical."

Read all about it

What had me on tenterhooks the other day was a conversation I'd just had with The Citizen's Mandy Bolen -- actually it was one of several interviews -- about our window issue. I've been talking with her for almost a month. She's a fine reporter, and I say that as a guy who's worked in newspapers for most of my life.

So, she said she was doing a Sunday story. With all respect, and knowing that things happen, considering the newspaper business I never count on it until I see it.

Well, it's Sunday, and there it is, Column One, Page One: "Old Town history vs. safety debated." (One-column headlines are seldom elegant, but I'm not complaining; it's accurate.)

I always say, If you're planning to drop-kick a beehive, you might as well do it on the front page of the Sunday paper.

Here's what Ms. Bolen wrote, with apologies to those who already read great swaths of it in my letter to Commissioner Lopez:

By Mandy Bolen
Citizen Staff

John Teets, like many Old Town homeowners, is serving two masters -- his insurance company and Key West city's historic preservation commission.

Metal windows have been deemed safer in hurricanes, but wood-framed windows are historically accurate, and the city's Historic Architectural Review Commission has insisted on them.

Compliance with HARC rules will cost Teets and his partner, Robert Rymer, $3,000 per year in increased insurance premiums, along with about $7,000 to replace the metal windows already installed when the builder complied with wind codes rather than HARC guidelines.

"HARC can't trump fire-safety codes; how can it continue to deny wind-safety requirements?" Teets asked his city commissioner, Clayton Lopez, in an April 13 letter requesting the City Commission order a review of HARC guidelines as they relate to windows.

A public workshop to discuss HARC guidelines takes place Monday evening, and Teets plans to participate. The meeting will be at 5 p.m. at Old City Hall, 510 Greene St.

The HARC commission comprises five members nominated by the mayor and approved by the City Commission. The commissioners do not write the guidelines, but enforce them, as they pertain to the federal government's Standards for Rehabilitation and Guidelines for Rehabilitating Historic Structures.

In the letter, Teets explained to Lopez that a year ago, his builder made a mistake when installing metal- rather than wood-framed windows.

"His mistake? Installing windows that meet tough storm codes, but not HARC guidelines -- not because of their appearance, but because they're made of metal."

Teets has emphasized that he is not opposed to historic preservation guidelines and acknowledges they are essential to communities, but he said Friday that the standards should be based on the appearance of the historic buildings, not on the materials used.

When Teets appealed HARC's decision that would have forced him to replace the metal windows with wood, HARC Commissioner Nils Muench stopped by the Center Street home to inspect the metal-framed windows.

"The lone HARC commissioner who did look found the windows perfectly acceptable in appearance and moved to approve them," Teets wrote to Lopez, who is also is willing to reconsider the guidelines.

"If the homes conform visually to the historic structure, what's the matter with it?" Lopez said last week. "We have to find a middle ground."

Lopez added that his mother served on the city's very first HARC board, but that she stepped down in frustration.

"When you start wanting to regulate what materials can be used just for aesthetic purposes and not for the purpose of saving the building, something has to be done," he said.

City Commissioner Bill Verge also has been following the HARC dilemma, and although he considers himself a "middle of the roader," he said there could be room for more leniency.

"Sometimes the guidelines put people in somewhat impossible positions," Verge said. "If you want to preserve something back to 1885, you might as well take out the bathrooms and put in an outhouse."

Verge praised HARC's preservation work overall, but said it could be time for a "kinder, gentler HARC" in light of conflicting insurance requirements and the specificity of historic guidelines.

Teets on Monday also will highlight the benefits of more modern materials in the face of hurricane-force winds.

"Those of us who live here take hurricanes as seriously as San Franciscans regard earthquakes," he wrote. "We know the question isn't if a big one will hit, but when, and we look to the past to strengthen us for tomorrow."

He pointed out the technological innovations that came about as a result of Hurricane Andrew's deadly winds in 1992.

"Since then, manufacturers have stepped up to offer a wide variety of products that provide structural protection -- including impact-rated windows in pleasing architectural styles," Teets wrote.

"Yet despite this history, and despite increasing warnings of more volatile hurricane seasons to come, Key West's Old Town might as well be trapped in 1892, a century before Andrew. Wind protection required elsewhere in Monroe County is explicitly denied here because of HARC guidelines."

Teets acknowledges that wooden shutters could protect wood-framed windows, but not as surely as impact-resistant windows do it on their own.

"Metal window systems integrate with the rest of the house, so the protective membrane remains intact in high winds," he said.

"They are architecturally unobtrusive, and far from threatening Old Town's historic treasure, they could actually help preserve it in the face of a deadly storm.

"I think it's imperative to protect life and property within Old Town without changing its historic appearance."

Night visitor

In a bit more than a year here, little lizards like this guy have come into the apartment only, oh, five or six times.

Outside, I've seen hundreds. Green, beige, brown, mottled, almost black, they're robust little fellas. They run, freeze, flex, change color, run again. When you approach them, they scoot.

This one ran up the wall across from the bed. I took him outside and put him on the big sapodilla tree. He ran back inside, and onto the wall. I put him outside again -- farther away, to the strangler fig. He ran in again. I took him outside again, this time to the big philodendron. He ran in again.

I turned out the light, and at least he wasn't there this morning.

A drink to Louis

I was looking through the wine rack at Fausto's and saw a newcomer: Egribi- kaver, a Hungarian red that's rich, full, strong -- just what you'd expect from a word that translates as "bull's blood."

I went straight to the freezer case and got some Stouffer's mac and cheese. Louis Szathmary, after all, introduced me to the wine, and was the consulting chef for Stouffer's on the mac.

(It's a gastronomic canvas: Add: Onions? Sliced sausages? Fresh peas? Asiago? Layer with provolone? Dust with the best parmigiano?)

Louis was the legendary chef of The Bakery, on Lincoln, in Chicago (and more briefly The Bowl and Roll, a dive on Wells Street, with his wife, Sadako, whose bean-and-sausage soup I still dream about), and one of the kindest men I know. What I didn't know was that he was a Ph.D. in psychology, a world-class bibliophile and one of the best-selling cookbook authors in history.

When I was taking home $75 a week, I saved up to beat a path to The Bakery for flavors I'd only read about. The place was always 5 degrees too warm, but it swam with scents of pastry, roasts, herbs, sauces.

He strode up to me in the dining room one night, asked me what I was ordering -- his Szekely goulash, flavored in heaven -- and sent over a bottle of Egri to do fair battle.

A year or two later, but still steeped in poverty, I took a bride- and groom-to-be to The Bakery as a gift on the eve of their wedding, bringing a bottle of champagne.

"Hoo brrodt diss into my reztaurant?" Louis thundered into the dining room, chilled bottle in hand, as we waited for his souffle.

It was Dom Perignon, and I was afraid he'd call me gauche, but meekly offered myself up as the wine-picker.

"'Oh, Chon. Sair [his eyebrows and moustaches twitching] . . . you heff . . . supairp tast." He broke into one of the biggest smiles I've seen. He sat down to take a glass with us, and there was no check for anything that night, as much as I protested.

I cried when he died a decade ago. Tonight, sipping Egribikaver, recalling improbable moustaches and eyebrows and toque, and his etterem, I shed a tear as well. It's another thing Louis taught me:

Savor it.

Thrice upon a mattress

Murray Steller may not be a saint in your hagio- graphy, but he is in mine.

He's a cool gnome of a guy who used to own the town's foremost flooring and furnishings supplier. (If you've lived in the Keys for a while, you'll remember the Broadway tenor warbling his TV tag line, "STELLL-ler's, Carpet One!" At which a dog barks in the background, and you hear Murray: "Quiet, Max!")

When Murray was closing his retail business, Robert sought him out for a deal on two kings and a queen. Handshakes all around, and Murray said we could keep the goods in his warehouse for a late-summer delivery.

That was Feb. 18, 2006.

We've kept in touch in the ensuing 14 months, but this week he finally called with a touch of desperation. He was at long last cleaning out his warehouse, and where the hell were we? (Murray would never say it that way, but I could sure hear it that way.)

One truck and two young, strong and skilled Czech lads later, plus Deco and Dave manhandling one king set upstairs over the loft railing, the three sets were out of Murray's thinning hair.

Of course we can't even think about sleeping on them until we get a Certificate of Occupancy, and they're not really handy to work around. But like Everest, they're there.

Catch of the day

And it's not yellowtail.

I finally got the hasp on the little outside storage door on the south side of the house -- the access hatch to the space under the stairway.

Arnold hand-fashioned the door out of our deck wood, but it needed a spacer to draw even with the frame for a tight fit.

Deco had the chop saw out, so I Dumpster-dived a piece of the same wood, drilled it to attach to the door, then drilled pilots for the hasp screws . . . . And I think, before the chop saw goes away for good, I may make a new spacer, just slightly wider.

Deco was generous with tips but neglected to mention carpenters' Lesson No. 1: Measure twice, cut once.

- - -

It was a day of little projects: vacuum this, pick up that piece of trim, visit the bank, find some solvent. I squeezed this in -- and then got a call that put me on tenterhooks.

I'm not going to talk about it yet, but the more I think about it, tenterhooks isn't the right word. It's more like eleventerhooks.

Bleh

A little early for this sort of thing, no?

Drawn to it

I came out of the driveway and saw them lined up, like Olympic judges, under the ancient mahogany trees across the street.

There were a half-dozen of them, and they were in low-slung collapsible chairs you'd take to a lawn concert or a fireworks show.

But they all had pens, pencils or crayons, and they were all sketching Steve's house, where we rent.

I am altogether too familiar with the Historic Architecture Review Commission Guidelines: "Gothic Revival, characterized by pointed arches and extensive gingerbread trim, has one example [in Key West's Historic District], the William Kerr House. . . ."

Kerr designed Old City Hall, the Custom House, the Pilot House and several other great buildings -- but he built this for himself.

So it draws attention, and I went across the street to see who was drawing it.

"Do you mind if I get a picture of you with the house?," I asked a woman making a sketch.

"Oh, not at all," she said, apparently flattered, "but he'll have a much better sketch," pointing at the man seated next to her.

I glanced over, and he lifted his sketch for me to see. "It's lovely," I said to her, "but you have the better angle for the picture."

"Oh, I certainly understand that," she said, and sat back to pose.

A little edgy

Chris, our pool guy, calls this a mud edge, and we're putting a fan-spray of matching 3-inch tiles just behind it, as a visual reminder for people near the pool that there are steps and benches that would get in the way of a quick, direct plunge.

Problem is, they need to be "textured" a bit, for safety's sake (less slippage), and the blue-and-gold tiles we picked for the waterline don't come in anything but smooooooth.

I think when you add water and a black pool surface, it won't be a huge difference. At any rate, it was exciting to see it going in -- lots of things coming together. . . .

OK, I'm blathering. It's just that things are narrowing down and I'm feeling like a ringmaster for Hemingway's troupe of six-toed cats.

Dennis the electrician and Paul the AV guy got together at the house today to coordinate their attack. The plumber still has to be heard from, and his special meter will govern the pouring of the propane pad, which will allow the gas guy to connect the cooktop, which will let the electricians install applicances -- it's almost circular.

But Steve, our apartment landlord, came by the house today for his first look at the project. His first words through the door were, "Oh, wow!," and that took some of the edge off.

Our No. 1 fan

I don't think it will ever be set on much more than very low, given the proportions of the room, but at least it's there.

We got the same fan (did you guess oil-rubbed bronze?) for every location inside -- same body, same blades -- and this one, in the tiny guest room near the front door, is awfully large for its space.

But after No. 1, we also have 'em for the dining room, the living room, the den, the master bedroom, the upstairs bedroom -- and then two outdoor-rated models (in white) for the front porch.

All of them except the living room have to wait for their base plates to be stained to match the ceiling, so they're a few days off.

Parsonage porch, Southard St.

On Easter morning, members of the congregation at the Methodist church on the corner bring flowers from their yards around the island -- bougainvillea, hibiscus, plumbago, yellow elder, coral vine, whatever -- and add them to a fern cross. A glorious tradition.

No, they aren't fish eggs

But yes, that's a scuba diver in a bunny suit.

And the chicken eggs (in enviro- friendly dyes, for those who worry about that sort of thing; this is a marine sanctuary after all) on top of his scuba-tow are for for the annual underwater hunt up in Key Largo. (Click the pic.)

It's a fundraiser for a group that helps kids -- but the hunters are adults.

Do you get the sense that things happen just a little differently here?

Whatever egg you're looking for, and whether you have to climb high or dive low to look for it -- however you have to find it -- may you find it in abundance.

Happy Easter.

Ready, set, glow

Finally, there's a porch light to leave on -- two actually, one at the front door, here, and one at the den, below.

Steve got them up on Friday.

I'm tickled by the one at the front door, in oiled bronze to match everything else out there. I found the guy who makes them, in California, on the net -- and thank heaven he works cheap, considering the finish and the opal glass.

It's a nice half-cylinder, with one bulb up to uplight the ceiling and one down to illuminate the address plate.

The den light, set much farther back from the street and behind the tall picket fence, is weathered copper -- the only conscious departure I made in the whole house lighting plan.

I liked its old industrial look, mostly as a statement that this is not a front door. It didn't come in bronze, but I thought close was good enough. Besides, sometimes it's fun just to have one thing, just one, as the exception that emphasizes the rule.

Now, all they need is electricity.

Coping gracefully

It may not look like much to you, but to me: The pool no longer has 3 feet of nasty water, the construction debris is gone and, most important, the gray concrete coping around the edge has been poured.

Our pool guy, Chris, and his crew have been here the last few days, getting the job done.

First they cleaned it out, and then they slogged the mix for the coping, bucket by bucket by hand, down the edge of the house to pour into the forms they'd set. Lovely job.

But then there was our carpenter Dave's analysis, when he discovered what he'd have to shovel out of our tiny front yard after our new dumpster was delivered.

Chris's guys had dumped all the pool gradoo behind our front fence. Dave was shoveling it all into the dumpster Friday, muttering oaths in Gaelic I think. I asked him if he wanted me to call Chris to have him ask his own guys to remove the mess they'd created.

"Oh, Lord, no," Dave said.

Should I call Chris just to complain?

"Nah, I'll give him the what-for when I see him, but I'll do it so he doesn't chew out the guys workin' for him. I'm just workin' off steam." An elegant man.

The match game

This picture illustrates at least two things:

-- First, that we're cursed by an incredible amount of dust around the house. That baseboard is pathetic. We're attacking the problem this weekend.

-- Second, that we're blessed by dumb luck on color.

The red we chose for the den and master bedroom was an homage to the shade that Robert's best bridge partner, Carolyn, had painted her living room. (I think of it as our own Jungle Red, but that's mostly when I'm channeling Norma Shearer.)

Roy the painter still has to roll a coat or two to get it covering properly (red is devilish in more ways than one), but Dennis the electrician showed us chips of available outlet covers -- and dang, if the color Lutron calls "hot" didn't match our walls.

I dare you to find much of a difference around that plug. Top outlet, by the way, is switched; bottom is always-on.

In the pink

That's how I felt after meeting this afternoon with Clayton Lopez, our city commissioner. We went through various strategies about windows throughout Old Town, not just at our house, and by gosh he persuaded me we were going to prevail.

This bromeliad, meanwhile, is blooming in front of our apartment. It looks as splendid as I feel.

- - - -

Just for the record, here's the letter I sent him (and the mayor, and the rest of the Commission, and which Clayton is passing along to the city attorney:

Dear Commissioner Lopez:

A year ago, the builder rehabbing our house in Old Town made a mistake – but it’s one that I hope can lead to increased protection for the lives and property of thousands of residents.

His mistake? Installing windows that meet tough storm codes but not Historic Architecture Review Commission guidelines -- not because of their appearance, but because they’re made of metal. HARC wants us to tear the storm-safe windows out. Of course we’re ready to comply, but first we’d like to raise a question of storm-readiness that the city should consider.

Those of us who live here take hurricanes as seriously as San Franciscans regard earthquakes. We know the question isn’t if a big one will hit, but when, and we look to the past to strengthen us for tomorrow.

Andrew is a case in point. After it struck in 1992, killing 64 and wreaking $24 billion in havoc, Florida became the first state in the nation to strengthen its building codes to address the extreme wind conditions tropical storms bring to coastal regions. The state mandated an array of improvements to armor structures against deadly design pressures. Since then, manufacturers have stepped up to offer a wide variety of products that provide structural protection -- including impact-rated windows in pleasing architectural styles.

Yet despite this history, and despite increasing warnings of more volatile hurricane seasons to come, Key West’s Old Town might as well be trapped in 1892, a century before Andrew. Wind protection required elsewhere in Monroe County is explicitly denied here, because of HARC guidelines.

HARC currently requires that replacement windows be made of wood -- period -- though unobtrusive window systems of metal and impact-resistant glass offer extraordinary protection for life and property, and insulation from skyrocketing wind insurance to boot. Our agent says wood windows will increase our wind-insurance premiums by $3,000 a year.

To show the depth of the problem: At a recent HARC meeting, one Commissioner even mused that perhaps only putty-glazed wood windows should be allowed under the guidelines. How far out of touch with protection of life and property is that? HARC can’t trump fire-safety codes; how can it continue to deny wind-safety requirements?

At that meeting, the Commissioners agreed that the issue needed study (indeed, the guidelines haven’t been updated since about 2001). Thus I respectfully ask that the City Commission order HARC to develop a list of wind-rated windows that conform to historically appropriate forms. If you’d like to see some, just take a look at my house. The lone HARC Commissioner who did look found the windows perfectly acceptable in appearance and moved to approve them.

They are widely available, from such manufacturers as PGT, Marvin and Andersen, and are a far cry from the armor-plated look of earlier styles, whose thick muntins made them obvious from the street. They are architecturally unobtrusive, and far from threatening Old Town’s historic treasure, they could actually help preserve it in the face of a deadly storm.

I am eager to work with you for this change, so please don’t hesitate to call me about it. I think it’s imperative to protect life and property within Old Town without changing its historic appearance.

Sincerely,

Back in time

Until this week, Duval Street was lost in time.

The clock stopped -- in fact it snapped off -- during Wilma, on October 24, 2005. That would have been about the same time the anemometers at the National Weather Service and Naval Air Station Key West snapped off, too.

I didn't have the heart to take a picture of the broken capital on the column at Southard Street; I always felt the clock was one reason I never wear a watch here, and I missed it and ached when I looked at the stump.

But when the crew put the new clock in place this week -- well, I felt as if the street was ticking again, at long, long last.

Wilma is still a healing wound here.

The other day I mentioned Clayton Lopez, the city commissioner I'm meeting with Thursday about my windows.

I found out just this morning that Clayton and his wife, Pam, are living in a FEMA trailer. Wilma wiped their house out -- knocked it off its pilings, filled it with two feet of water -- and their wind and flood insurance companies are still squabbling about the settlement that will let them rebuild.

To add insult to injury, FEMA has told Clayton and Pam and 71 others in Monroe County that they'll have to vacate their trailers by April 24 or find their belongings on the street.

And this man is taking up my cudgel? Working to protect my fancy house, when his own home has been destroyed? Thursday afternoon, I'll walk through his office door a humble and thankful man.

Let there be lights

. . . And electric plugs, and smoke detectors.
. . .

Dennis and Steve, the electrians, came by today to start trimming the place out, along with a new helper, Charles.

It's a little thing, but it was one of those great moments when yet another part of the puzzle started falling into place.

My little bronze trims were an upcharge from the standard black or white -- but I love 'em. They're subtle up there, and bronze as a "standard" metal for the place (except the kitchen and baths, where it's chrome or stainless) sets a quite a tone.