The Small House

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

The small house stands on a knoll with views of the Galisteo Basin, Cerro Pelon and the Ortiz mountains. Jay used to live here. Thirty or more years ago, it was among the first in the area, she and friends and family built it. The proportions and design clearly state the Northern New Mexico vernacular. The house doesn’t have electricity or running water. An outhouse stands out back. Inside, the first floor is open and of the space above half is an open cathedral ceiling, half is a second floor loft; a place to sit and read and think and look out the window.

The first time I met Jay it was snowing hard and the wind howled. Drifts formed in low spots and nooks of the landscape. She had walked to my place, cross country, about a half mile. She was dressed in many layers of wool and smelled of wood smoke, her long raven hair was streaked with grey and her eyes were filled with dark fire. She asked if I had jumper cables. I did not, so instead provided her with a cup of hot tea. We visited and became friends. She thanked me and went back out into the storm, her dark form fading slowly into the snow. We have since shared many cups of tea. Jay, of Hispanic heritage, her family has lived here for generations; me, an Anglo transplant from New England with nineteen years. We shared different perspectives, similar values and always lively conversation.

Later, José came into Jay’s life and now I live on the same road as the small house. José would sit on the porch, drink beer and survey the landscape on summer evenings. He would listen to Norteño on the radio in his old Ford pickup with the doors open and volume turned up. Festive voices and accordion and ooom pah pah would float and dance over the land. Jay would tend things, her hair flying about and turning more silver as time passed. Their dogs would stretch and snooze in cool dirt hollows. Occasionally friends and family would gather for a party. Elders would sit and children would run around. Tables were set and feasts had and they would sing along with the Norteño.

José always knew just how long he could play the radio and still have enough charge in the truck’s battery to start it the next morning. Just after sunrise, the engine would slowly turn over and fire and José would be off for work. He was a carpenter on his way to a construction site. José built the staircase in the small house. It is elegant and beautifully made from simple materials. A work of fine craftsmanship.

Despite having to truck water in, Jay planted irises out front. She would give them a drink and their blooms, delicately frilled puffs of lavender would float above desert grasses.

Jay and José have moved to the village. The house they live in now has the modern conveniences. The small house sits vacant. Some day undoubtedly it will change hands. I hope new owners will see the value of it and find a way to use it and maintain its simple integrity, but there’s a good chance they will not. It would be a simple matter to tear it down and build something new. The irises still come up but do not flower.

Gordon Bunker