First Impressions, the Place, and the People
Worldwide, our weaknesses can often be turned to strength, while our greatest strengths can sometimes become our greatest weakness.
After taking out the ton of dirt from the original flat roof now under a pitched tin roof, and removing, treating, and replacing the saguaro ribs used to hold the dirt, and nailing them back on rafters, I covered the ribs with plywood and set myself a sleeping loft.
Then I built a hand ladder to climb up there, and set a foam pad for my sleeping bag, a canteen for water, and a trunk for my clothes and to sit on. At night, I would pull up the ladder, turn off the light bulb, and no one knew I was there. Fresh air came in and out through the non-existing doors and windows below, but that was of no concern to me.
Many a night I heard noises downstairs and would look through the cracks to see a human shadow walking around the dirt floor, digging in certain places. Often, the intruder would shout, “José, old man. Are you here, José?” None of them ever thought of looking up. Apparently, an old drug dealer had previously been serving buyers from this empty house, legends of buried treasures in the dirt floor were alive.
One dark, cloudy day, hearing noises from below, impulsively I hit the tin roof above my head with the hammer, while shouting “Get out!” The surprising metallic thunder that reverberated into a thousand echoes, bouncing off every wall, was sudden, very loud, and even frightened me. The man below, meandering in what he thought was an empty house, vanished faster than a fart in a storm. From then on, in the drug world, the house I lived in became known as a ghost house, and I was left alone and safe from them forever, at least for the next year or two.
With all the house-fronts against the sidewalk, by now a large empty space was left in the center of the block, like the center of a donut, becoming a no-man’s land where it seemed as if any kid with courage enough would play until he was kicked out by older kids who wanted to play there too. To the unknown eye, it seemed rough, but life has many mysteries, and things are not always what they seem.
As I worked on the house, kids would come by and offer help. They were just curious; none of them intended to help, except for two friends, Jerry and José. Both were twelve or thirteen years old. José, very quiet, I thought to be mostly Apache Indian, while Jerry, same age, very talkative, was the younger of two brothers by a single mother of Mexican descent. They quickly became my good friends and I remember them fondly.
I was knocking a wall down when one day they showed up together. Taking the sledgehammer from my hands they were enthusiastic at tearing the wall down, I thought they would be good at building things up, but I was wrong. They had no interest in building anything. Sometimes they brought friends along on their bicycles. They always offered to help to tear things down, but the others mostly only sat and talked.
One day I had taken out my Super 8 movie camera and walked down the street to film the downtown skyline to the north and “A” Mountain to the west when a few kids began jumping up and down in front of my camera, doing wheelies, cartwheels, making faces, and clowning around to spice up or spoil my shots.
So, I turned the camera on them. Suddenly, it was pandemonium. I had more than twelve kids doing all sorts of acrobatics while competing for the attention. What energy! Just like children all over the world.
