Baja, where with lots of luck and a little leverage, everything works

We could hardly believe our luck.

The weather was mild. The pipes ran water. There was gas in the butane tank, though not much.

We had brought down a portable eight-gallon tank, in case the 20-gallon tank ran out, but I wasn’t sure I could make the switch with my small wrench.

The only other house in our colony that seemed to be occupied was the new one up near Gomez’s cistern. We had never met the owners.

We sank into our usual Baja lethargy. I had brought down books and magazines, but I decided to reread one of the old Nero Wolfes from the shelf. Its publishing date was 1937. Archie Goodwin figures he can take a young woman to a classy restaurant for $10. He gives doormen 25-cent tips. There are plenty of parking places. In the isolation of our Baja house I was easily transported back to that Spartan time.

My wife had brought down a box of the kind of magazines she can’t throw away. Family Circle. Harper’s Bazaar. Smithsonian. She sat at the bar, tearing out pages to form another pile that she would never find time to read.

So passed the hours.

Suzie, the golden-brown shepherd dog that someone had dropped in our yard, was discovering the joys of Baja life. She was in and out of the house through the open door every five minutes. Obviously she was luxuriating in her freedom. Outdoors she ran this way and that, ears up, pursuing invisible small animals in the mesquite; indoors she curled up on the rug in front of the fire. She had never seen a fireplace before.

My wife said she was afraid the dog would find a rattlesnake. She couldn’t help remembering Samantha, a.k.a. Miracle, the snake-bit dog our daughter-in-law had brought back home from a Baja trip.

“Que sera sera,” I said.

Soon it was time for lunch, and then for dinner.

On the morning of New Year’s Eve, Sergio came by. Sergio is Romulo Gomez’s middle son; he was running the colony in Gomez’s place. We exchanged polite information about one another’s families, caught up on the gossip, and received Sergio’s assurance that next year they would repair the bathroom cabinet.

In our absence, someone evidently had spent a night in the house, leaving a lighted candle on the cabinet top, which was made of local pebbles fixed in resin. Somehow it caught fire and burned through, also burning a drawer and a door to the cabinet below. The top had been replaced with yellow tile, but the cabinet remained unrepaired. The bathroom walls had been blackened by smoke and the paint had oozed. That had been more than two years ago.

Months ago I had mentioned it to Gomez, pointing out how long it had gone unrepaired. He had made some philosophical remark about how time was different down here.

I will have to measure the cabinet and have it duplicated in Los Angeles.

Meanwhile, my wife gave way to the frenzy of housekeeping that usually seizes her in Baja. She mopped and waxed the floors, then decided to clean the bathroom walls, using hot water and some kind of solvent. It was hard, dirty work. The walls are 12 feet high at one end.

She stood on the top of our stepladder and still couldn’t reach the top. I was afraid she would fall and break a hip. But she cannot be discouraged when the cleaning devil has her. She is never happier than when working in our Baja house. I think it has something to do with her hormones. Either that or it’s the Baja mystique.

That afternoon our new neighbor, Ralph Paige, came by with a house guest, Al Gyving. They came in for a beer. Both of them are retired Air Force officers. Retired Air Force officers sounded handy. I told them I might need help switching butane tanks.

We finished our beers and went outside to look. My wife carried the eight-gallon tank from the back of the van and set it on a high stool that was made for that purpose. I tried to disconnect the old tank with my wrench, going clockwise, according to the Mexican way. I couldn’t budge it. Paige held the wrench and I hit it with a hammer. No luck.

Paige said, “We need some leverage. I’ve got a hollow table leg in my van.”

He got into his van and in a minute or two emerged with a hollow aluminum table leg. He slipped the leg down over the handle of my wrench and pushed it lightly. The nut turned. Such is the power of leverage.

We disconnected the 20-gallon tank and connected the eight-gallon tank. We came back into the house and had another beer to give the gas time to flow through the lines. Then I relighted the refrigerator and the two visitors lighted the gas water heater.

Once again, everything worked. Just like the Beverly Wilshire.

I told the two men a sad story. I had chilled a bottle of French champagne to have for New Year’s Eve, but had forgotten to put it in the van.

“We’ve got eight bottles,” Paige said. “Why don’t you come over to our place tonight?”

I told Paige I had also forgotten to bring a flashlight, and I wasn’t sure we could make it over the rough paths in the dark.

He got a flashlight out of his van and said, “See you about 7:30.”

What are neighbors for?