The doctor is in

Ref's brother Shawn came back to town Thursday night (hooray!), along with Uncle Arnold (double hooray!), and it wasn't surprising that they jumped into work on the house first thing Friday.

I went over checklists with both of them, with the goal of getting as close as possible to the point where we can close up walls. Shawn instantly started surgery on the sliding doors in the bedroom, assuring me that I was pretty lucky to have only one subcontractor -- the HVAC guys -- standing in the way of progress.

For their part, the electricians were digging, laying conduit and covering it up at the soon-to-be equipment pad.

In this shot, Steve is (wisely) using pliers to keep his hands out from under Matt's sledge-
hammer.

They called for their inspection, to be held Monday. They go into it with a good bit of confidence: They have never, ever, failed one.

The palette

While I'm working on getting walls finished, Robert's working on move-in details (wow, does he ever plan ahead!).

So when he asked the other day about colors for the sheets in the little guest room -- the one with the green bed -- I mentioned cream.

I was probably channeling Mother Nature, and the vertical leaf in this picture. Not a bad combination -- with the neon in the center vein, the deep green or that gorgeous light shade.

Illustration only. Your results may vary

When the pool guy, Chris, and his plumber, Chip, came by to work on their pipes bright and early today, as scheduled to the minute, they came fully prepared -- even bringing a battered old pump to stand in for the one they'd be putting in later.

With it, and the appropriate valves, they knew to the sixteenth of an inch where everything would have to come up in the equipment slab.

Now Kenny, the air conditioning guy, was the only blank space. I'd called him Monday and yesterday, twice each, and got voice mail. This morning, twice more, and more voice mail. I gave up at noon, and he finally called me when I'd given up and gotten back to the apartment. We agreed to meet at 2.

I was there at 1:30. When he hadn't shown up by 3:30, I got his voice mail again. He called just after 4 to say he was on his way -- big delay at Las Salinas, and his back was hurting. . . .

Just like Gilda Ratner: It's always something.

Hot pink, defined

Nothin' movin' but the mercury

And 2,240 pounds of concrete mix, plus a half-dozen 10-foot pieces of rebar.

Since it's time for the equipment pad, Mr. B and I started laying out frame pieces bright and early. But even at 8 a.m., it took about a minute's work to soak a T-shirt.

After lunchtime, when we were in the middle of two trips for concrete mix (we needed 28 bags, which is a bit much for my car), I turned to Mr. B as we were wrestling with the bags and laughed:

They left this work for the two old farts?

Finally, the Conch Canal

When the plumbers arrived at the house this morning, they thought digging the extension of the sewer pipe, to run beyond the den deck and past the area where the equipment pad has to go, might take a couple of hours.

But that reddish lump Pedro was attacking with the Sawzall is a sapodilla root -- at 8 inches or so, the smallest of three big ones they found in the pipe's path. Sawzall, pickaxe, mattock, more Sawzall.

I made a lame joke to Pedro, who's Nicaraguan, about digging the Culebra Cut, and he's such a good-humored guy he even laughed.

Five hours later, they were still sweating, but now we can build the form for that pad.

The 4 a.m. bunch

These people are having a negative effect on my bubbly good humor.

This was at 4 a.m. this morning -- though it was the same at 10, 11, 12, 1, 2 and 3 -- and it doesn't do justice to the dozens crusing up and down ahead of or behind them. No destination, just noise on wheels. Not all of the bikes are loud, of course, but the legal ones are in the minority.

As I walked around town this morning, I had a few singles in my pocket. Whenever I came up to any of the early risers on an extra-loud bike, I went over to him and offered him a dollar toward the repair of his muffler, just in case he ever wanted people who live here to welcome him back. No takers.

Safe Harbor: Away from the crowd

Our friend Sullins called, suggesting he and I skip town during the biker invasion -- so of course supper on Stock Island was in order.

He pulled out the Beemer, dropped the top and we bopped across the Cow Key Bridge, turned right after the Hurricane Hole, then right again (not the hard right; the soft one), then left through the trailer parks, arriving fashionably early at the Hogfish Bar & Grill, on the edge of Safe Harbor. (Symmetry: Flee hogs, seek hogfish.)

The sun was painting the clouds over the power plant, while a big gray cat crouched on the rail attached to our table to scope out my shrimp (quite fresh) and Sullins' tuna (quite rare).

The waitress came over to ask if the cat was bothering us, and all of us laughed except the cat.

The beer was cold, and there wasn't much of anything chromed in sight. Quite lovely.

Nadirs vs. rock bottoms

When I mentioned "the nadir of the tourist season" Thursday, I meant it in terms of numbers, not thinking about the tens of thousands of bikers on their way down for the "Poker Run" weekend.

Had I considered those rude, crude, low-rent jerks -- their noise pollution proudly roaring, belching, farting, revving, backfiring through exhaust pipes smirkingly bereft of mufflers -- I would have allowed room for a different kind of depths. To give you some perspective: A dozen or so jets pass low over the apartment every day on approach to the airport. None is as loud as the loudest of these hogs. And the jets don't land at 3 and 4 in the morning.

A few years back some genius on the Tourist Development Commission decided to lure these people to town during low season, to give the economy a boost. These aren't tourists who need to be lured, or developed. And T-shirt and beer sales do not constitute an economic boost. Their festival high points are a beer bust, a tattoo contest and a bikini contest.

The city does ask them to behave as considerate guests. Sure. Dozens are being ticketed -- 80 cops on the street are allegedly doing their best to enforce the city's noise ordinances. Hundreds more need to be.

Sure, "One Human Family" is the city motto. Families have rules.

Time out

Coming back to the apartment for lunch today, I don't know what made me walk the extra block up Duval, to Eaton, before I turned right -- but I did, and was beguiled into St. Paul's lunchtime organ concert.

Even now, at the nadir of the tourist season, the music flows every weekday between 12:10 and 1. I heard Bach from the street, and it was an offer I couldn't refuse.

One structure or another, St. Paul's has been here since 1832. Hurricanes kill it, and it resurrects.

And today, on a hideously humid day, the side windows still pull in breezes, and somehow it's cooler as sheep safely graze.

Look up when you're inside, and see the bottom of a ship: timbers collar-tied and stoutly braced. Reeded wood, bronze burnished with age. Look around, and see jewel windows. Listen, and hear the sweet genius of St. Thomas Church, Leipzig, where I stood over Herr Bach's cool floors and marveled some years ago.

A woman in a tank top and tattoos goes to the Mary altar, kneels in devotion, crosses herself and leaves.

There's an organ tube out of tune, almost a high squeal, but when the fugue resolves it's a Bach moment: The harmonies and melodies shake hands. Plumb. Level. Square. Straight. Uniform.

Finished.

A nourishing lunch.

Yes, sir, it's right over there

Whenever I see someone on the street peering at a map and looking confused, I amble up and ask if I can help finding a destination. Random acts of kindness, and tourism is our biggest industry, and all that. It's always good for a smile on both sides.

But today, someone hailed me. A nice couple in a car honked at me in a crosswalk and asked where Duval Street might be. I asked what they were looking for in particular, and when he said Bank of America, I told him the three right turns he'd need to make to pull up in front of it on Southard. Thanks, smiles and move on.

Half a block later, a couple on a motorcycle pulled over to the curb and asked me directions to the Curry Mansion. Turn left there and half a block on your right. More thanks and smiles.

Then a family of four hailed me. Where was Margaritaville? (Common question.) Block and a half ahead, turn left, block and a half, right side of street. More thanks and smiles.

I started to wonder if my karma light was glowing really brightly.

Then a group of four Aussie guys saw me and came across the street, map in hand, to ask me where Bourbon Street was. One of them remembered it distinctly from an earlier visit. I'm quite sure he did, I said with a grin -- but it's a bar, not a street, and it was two blocks ahead and four blocks to their left. More thanks, more smiles.

I was wondering what the heck was up, until I got home and took off the T-shirt I'd bought about a year ago to support the city's youth baseball programs. D'oh:

Big BIG letters across the front: KWPD -- Protecting Paradise.

How hot was it?

Coming up Duval in a much-sweated-through T-shirt, I saw the new window display at Banana Republic: "Best of Fall: Luxurious Sweaters." I actually got a little swoony as I thought of myself swathed in cashmere, alpaca or mohair.

We don't have many national chains on Duval -- thank heaven, because they just don't get what life here is like. Home office says sweaters, and they jump, even though it's 94 and just rained, and the first four people you run into use the word "sauna" unprompted.

Fast Buck Freddie's is a direct opposite to Banana Rep in more than geography. Local to its historically funky core, it brings smiles more than swoons with its windows.

Valentine's Day, for example, focused on the marriages of Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner Fortensky.

This month, instead of sweaters, a big sign asks "How hot was it?"


Bottom line: It wasn't too hot to laugh.

My apologies

. . . For two days without posts back there. The lassitude of latitude, I suppose. I cite the Fourth Law of the Tropics:

Mañana doesn't just mean "tomorrow." It also means "not today."

Plumber time

DeWitt, the plumber honcho, came by today -- and he melted into a smile when he saw that I was spending time with Mr. Allen.

Mr. Allen is in his 80s (at least), rides around Old Town on his bicycle on nice days and stops to chat and check progress every so often. He's a delight to talk with, full of stories of old Key West.

I excused myself to talk with DeWitt -- who was on the clock; Mr. Allen wasn't, and understood entirely -- and learned that the plumber had known him since childhood. He said Mr. Allen owns a big stretch of property on Margaret or Elizabeth, I forget which, as well as elsewhere around Old Town, and a gentleness came into his voice and eyes every time he spoke about the old guy.

Then he looked around quickly and said he'd send a man out Wednesday to hand-dig the way for the pipe that has to go under the pad we have to pour.

I guess it's a friends-of-friends kind of thing.

- ■ -

One other note, and I don't know whether to file this under "Pride of Place" or "Life on a Small Island": DeWitt said he was born in a house on our street -- and he thinks our house -- in the '50s.

His parents are both gone, so he can't check with them, but I told him I'd research it a bit.

Chop-chop

I had a great talk with Shawn tonight. He's been through enough battles on construction to be able to cut like a sharp blade on what needs to be done now.

The mechanical equipment pad, to be sure. But more to the point: fix the things that the "courtesy" inspection had flagged.

His impeccable logic is that you have satisfied the inspector on the points he's seen, and he's noted the problems. So address those problems, quickly, and get him back, quickly, to get your ticket punched. If not, you court the chance that another inspector will come in and start at Square One.

Square One is a nice restaurant, just a few blocks down Duval from the house, but not a nice place on the inspection rotation.

So Monday, deo volente -- or Tuesday if need be (Mr. B has a pressing engagement out of town, the old rogue) -- the sound you hear may be things getting chopping.

La retour -- C'est si bon!

I got all misty-eyed when Cafe Croissant reopened -- finally! -- on Duval.

It wasn't the emotion, though there was plenty of that. They'd been in exile in a Petronia storefront since their fire . . . on Valentine's Day '05, with four hurricanes close after, and it was terrific to have them back home after so many construction woes in those 19 months.

The mist was coming from some fans they'd installed to infuse a cooling spray on diners. The left lens of my glasses kept fogging up, because one of the fans was comin' right at me.

But when I dug into the poached eggs in brioche, with their wonderful whole-mustard sauce, I knew the cafe and I had both come home. And when Daniel came over for congratulations and a hug, maybe not all the mist was from the fans.

All in the family

If I'd had a refrigerator for the bubbly, I'd have had a toast with Walter and Keshia -- Shawn's son and his bride, who dropped by last week when their cruise ship docked here.

What a pleasant surprise! They were celebrating their third anniversary -- and Walter was talking with Dad as I snapped the shot.

Set design by Tim Burton

Or Terry Gilliam, maybe.

The HVAC guys have a droll sense of where to leave a day's work . . . hanging. I'm not complaining, mind you -- I'm too happy that they actually showed up for part of two days in a row.

But I confess I left the job site a bit early Friday, rather than standing and fuming that I hadn't heard back from the plumber, who a week ago said it was critical that he be allowed to dig the secondary sewer line and, when called Friday, promised to call back ASAP.

We've been ready for him for a week. We're more than ready to form up the equipment pad that will go over his damned line -- the pad that is currently holding up the electricians, the pool guys and the HVAC guys.

I guess it's Tim Burton for sure: The Nightmare Before Plumber.

Out of a cloud

Pick a trade, any trade

Everyone was saying that today was the worst, in terms of heat and humidity, that we'd had. Comparing Tuesday with Wednesday or Thursday was like comparing anthrax with typhoid with cholera -- but hey, I didn't think I was moving to Seattle.

So, despite the steam, Chris showed up with three helpers to put in our waterline tile, and electricians Dennis and Steve were wrenching the big mains connections through the conduits, and late in the day both George and Kenny were there to work on the air ducts and coolant supply lines.

Meanwhile, Mike was getting the bedroom door to the deck juust right, even if it meant sawing out a section of floor to get the shims positioned, and Bradley and Nate were spacing deck boards wider than average in the outoor shower area so we'd get good flow-through.

Is that enough for you? It was sure enough for me.

- ■ -

Oh, yeah, another trade: plumbing. They have to dig their line under the den deck before the boards go in. Tick, tick, tick.

Strange fruit

Dry feet in the pool

One step closer: Chris' concrete finisher has little English as a language, but a lot of english on the trowel.

He'd gotten all the rainwater out -- and it was up to the bottom of the steps, quite tempting to the Macon crew -- so he could put in the band where the decorative tiles will go.

As usual, it was fascinating to see how meticulous he was: Smooth a bit, check the level, smooth, check, smooth, check. . . .

He's a concrete finisher, sure. But he's also a sculptor.

Maybe we should call it 'Cebollita'

. . . Which would mean "Little Onion," but I'm getting ahead of my story.

It was wet Tuesday -- not rain; that was up the Keys; Lower Matecumbe Key got 8 inches.

We got some drizzle before dawn, so all the water here was vaporized. Our neighbor Dennis, who looked as if he'd been hosed off early and repeatedly, asked "Humid enough for ya?" as I trudged to the house, and found Mike and Mr. B working on siding and decking.

I did sundry sultry errands and then went to the polls -- though my T-shirt was too wet for the "I voted" sticker to stick.

So I retreated to the cool, dry archive room at the library, where Tom Hambright, the county historian, is as helpful, bright and nice as he is tall, which is very.

I was curious about one Mr. S.S. Field, who's listed in architectural and tax records as having built our house in 1908.

Tom consulted old city directories -- nothing. Then hand-written city tax ledgers. I made lists of possible names, based on plat, tract and lot, and checked directories again -- and there was our house in 19
. . . 06! Joanna Niles, widow of Nathan, lived there, and so did her sons George and Cleveland, both cigarmakers.

(A light bulb went on for Tom, and he loped over to a city news index he and his wife, Lynda, had put together -- and sure enough: Cleveland was Monroe County sheriff, 1926-33, and is probably our only sitting sheriff to have been arrested for beating his wife, in 1929.)

But Tom was curious. Was that as far back as could be found? On a whim, he looked on the official Sanborn fire-insurance maps from 1899, which are regarded as gospel. There was our house, plus a few tiny sheds (probably bedrooms) on the lot. Ditto 1892. Ditto 1889. What the heck?

So he checked the giant 1884 Bird's Eye View of Key West, and it sure looks as if our house, set back demurely from the street, is there. Earlier than that, you can't peel this onion.

By the way, in 1906 our house was appraised at $100, the lot at $400.

Moonlight express

Another day in paradise

The Citizen put a great story on Page 1:

Passers-by this weekend saw some thrashing in the shallows off Smathers Beach, near the airport.

Various people plunged in, keeping the splasher breathing and calming him while rescue personnel arrived. A passing doctor found him basically healthy. Other rescuers estimated his age at 35, and theorized he'd merely suffered a fishing mishap.

Because of his weight, it took a dozen folks to hoist him onto a stretcher, but they heaved to and got the job done.

The rescue truck took him to Pigeon Key, where he was helped back into the water in a sheltered basin in view of the Seven-Mile Bridge.

He was a bottle-nosed dolphin, of course.

Pegged to last

When the deck wood came in, I thought it would be interesting to juxtapose it -- fresh, smooth and strong -- with a heavy old hand-hewn beam end Ref had salvaged: a tough and tested survivor.

(The beam itself got recycled into the new wall between the living room and bedroom, but its tongue and peg hole, made by the ship's carpenters who framed the old house, were too good to toss.)

I found another juxtaposition a few days later.

Uncle Albert was doing some surgery on the soffit, helped by his great-nephew, the younger Shawn.

It had taken Albert about half a second to identify the beam as cypress -- a lifetime of carpentry, much of it with boats, will do that.

Old, tough and tested, working hard to pass it along to fresh, smooth and strong. Now that's building -- just a thought for Labor Day.

Cool hues

This picture is actually from a few weeks back, but it rained most of yesterday and all of today -- and I just needed something vivid.

What a week

A week ago -- let's see.

No deck. No bedroom doors. No bedroom door pockets. Incomplete house wrap. No low siding.

And that's just this side of the house. Elsewhere, soffits fixed. Pocket doors framed. Second floor interior framed. Staircase dormer interior reconfigured. Windows secured. Dormer faces finished. Gas line laid. Pool plumbing OKd. Preliminary framing inspection.

Whew.

But this was the view Saturday, during the hours I was waiting for the HVAC guys, who said they'd be at work, but obviously had other fish to fry. I can understand people having other things to do, but to make appointments (and I won't count how many) and fail even to call is something I will never understand.

Day glow

(B)Right out there on Middle Duval

How many gallons of sweat?

It was late in the afternoon Friday when Shawn said he was sorry he and his crew hadn't finished everything they'd hoped to do during their week, and I choked up.

In this picture, Shawn is drilling and countersinking the incredibly hard ipe wood, so the screw heads are below the surface. Ben (the "White Rhino"), in the straw hat, is pushing hard to screw in the fasteners (the pre-drilling makes that possible, but not easy); and Charles is using his body weight against a chisel to overcome any curve.

That was symbolic of the whole effort Shawn's crew made this week. What you're missing is the sweated-through shirts, the banged thumbs, the sore hands, the aching backs.

And that week of fine work brought the house so many notches forward, despite one tropical storm early in the week, and two thunderstorms on Friday. They were all amazed at the suddenness with which intense rain started and stopped -- and they were left just as breathless by the spikes in humidity afterward.

At the end of the work week, as they packed up their tools and got ready for a Duval crawl before an early start home Saturday, I asked if they'd mind one more job: signing their work. I had them put their names on a post that supports the flitch beam -- which holds our house together.

They obliged me.

I chose that post because it's going to be faced in wood paneling -- so it will be legible the next time the house needs work. Considering that it's been there since 1908, I figure that will be about 2104.

And whenever that happens, someone will encounter Shawn, Uncle Arnold, Ben, Lil Shawn, Kurt and Charles. I hope they smile and say hello and thanks so very much.