Crazy Stable

Several friends have recently bought big old houses; they've gotten them renovated within months, in a blitz of interior and exterior makeovers. Our time frame is more "geologic"–say, 30 years. But we're getting there.

Early this year, for example, we finally got the hallway plastered. This epic task will be covered fully in another post, but suffice it to say that your Stablemistress decided to "do the trim herself." That would be: 15 paneled doors and one zillion linear feet of molding, all encased in at least 90 years of chipping, cruddy paint. Many moldings have phone wire embedded in them and painted over; the doors bear brutal gouges from multiple mortises for countless locks. Yep, no biggie there.

So I've started scraping off the loose stuff, or as the Daughter puts it, "scratching at the walls," and adding a coat of pop-white Ben Moore "Chantilly Lace" to the creamy golden "Soleil" on the walls...a lot of bang for the buck, considering that we've looked at this soul-sucking dirty-white for all those years.

Yesterday, as I cleaned up the door to the living room, I scraped off something that had always puzzled me—a small, square, round-edged patch that old Mr. Chang in typical fashion had simply rollered paint over. (He also painted over wads of gum on the floor.) The top layer of latex almost popped off as the patch fell into my hand.

This, folks, is original detail, Crazy Stable style!

When we first moved in, a former resident had left behind a pinup calendar in what is now the Daughter's room, opened to "Miss Hawaii." I like to think that an earlier generation of bachelor made this little statement, turning his lonely room into a bit of Hef's mansion. And speaking of mansions...

...the other day I stumbled on the original ad for the Crazy Stable in the New York Times real estate section. I had completely forgotten that it was billed as a "one-family mansion." (It was, in fact, basically a flophouse.) The price was a ludicrously low one even at the time and went lower; the "TLC" is ongoing. But the playboys are gone.

Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.

Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.

In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
Every spring it blossoms anew:
Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.

The consul banged the table and said,
"If you've got no passport you're officially dead":
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.

Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;
Asked me politely to return next year:
But where shall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day?

Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said;
"If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread":
He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.

Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;
It was Hitler over Europe, saying, "They must die":
O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind.

Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,
Saw a door opened and a cat let in:
But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.

Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay,
Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.

Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.

Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
A thousand windows and a thousand doors:
Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.

Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.

W. H. Auden, "Refugee Blues"

Migrants walk to the border with Hungary after arriving by train at Botovo, Croatia October 16, 2015. Reuters/Antonio Bronic