Margarita and I were just getting started building a 16-sided round house in remote southern Arizona, 20 miles from the Mexican Border, oak-juniper-mesquite grassland, next to the Coronado National Forest. A neighbor lived in a simple adobe house hundreds of yards away on a hill with wonderful mountain views. There was no fence. We had seen her drive up the long dirt driveway in a dusty white pick-up.
At four years old, Margarita was a good companion—an extra set of hands—holding the end of the tape measure, securing string lines, carrying tools and materials from our VW bus. A gentle brown mare would visit often, grazing and curious about our activity. Margarita was fascinated with the beast. It was enough just to pet the animal until one day, when we were both feeling particularly bold and carefree, I put Margarita on the horse bareback. Margarita smiled and I laughed until the horse started walking away. I followed, but the horse walked faster, trotted, and then cantered toward home with Margarita leaning over the horse’s neck, holding tightly to the mane. Finally, on a soft, grassy area, my tough little daughter fell off. Now 44 years old, living in Denver, she often rides her fancy jumping horse. Nine year old Nevina shares the talent and passion.
As our work continued, I needed a safe place to store rough pine lumber as it dried out. I walked over to the neighbor’s house to introduce myself, and ask the favor. A slender, attractive, middle-age lady opened the door, looked at me sternly, and, more curious than friendly, listened to my request. “Okay,” she said, “just keep it neat and out of the way.”
We worked hard on the little house. No electricity, everything by hand.
Valerie helped a lot even though she was pregnant with our second daughter. Neighbor Sue stopped by occasionally to offer her unfiltered opinions. I liked her straightforward honesty, felt kindred with the lady. Not just anybody would live alone in the middle of nowhere, especially someone who seemed to have traveled all over the Western world.
Halloween Day 1984, we moved in with our four-month-old baby. Simple and cozy. Woodstove heat. Some people in the area were suspicious of our character, having built such a “weird” house. Sue helped us blend into the community, having been already six years respected in the area.
I planted apple and pear trees around the house. Sue’s horse liked the fruit as much as we did, so I asked her if she would keep “Bonnie” on our her own property. “Around here we fence out, not in,” was her curt reply. I didn’t have the money to pay for a long barbed wire fence, so I built a short split rail cedar fence around the fruit trees. Sue was cool and distant for months until she finally paid a guy to string the barbed wire.
She offered me work at her house—kitchen cabinet doors, porch roof trim, cement plaster on the stem wall. Crawling on my hands and knees while plastering, I came face-to-face with a rattlesnake. Since the snake didn’t strike, we laughed about it. I would have been in good hands anyway since Sue was a paramedic with the fire department.
We invited Sue for dinner many times. She liked to talk, so we listened, learning much about her life. Growing up in Southern California, educated at Stanford University, she became a travel agent/tour guide to faraway places. She loved the cowboy West, worked for a while at Rawhide, a Western-themed establishment near Phoenix. She met an old cowboy—Cotton Benton—and his wife Lelo. Good friends, she followed them to Sonoita and bought 14 beautiful acres of land next to the Bentons’ place.
We didn’t have much money; sometimes I didn’t have much work. Sue would hand me a bill and say: “Root out $100 worth of catclaw weed for me.” I made an Adirondack chair with salvaged wood that became her favorite place to sit. She hung her Navajo blankets on a “kiva ladder” I put together with juniper branches. She fed our dogs and horse when we were away, sometimes walking through deep snow to get here. She grumbled about it, but never refused.
I didn’t need an invitation to watch major sports events on television with her. She would brew a pot of tea, and make me feel comfortable, like good family, like I could do nothing wrong. I loved the sincerity of her home—everything meaningful, nothing superfluous—fireplace and woodstove heat, no cooling. She was tough, and loved simplicity, integrity highly valued.
Sometimes I wouldn’t see Sue for months, respecting the space, but I always knew she was willing to help out. One day my daughters and I were struggling to lift a very heavy viga onto the top of an adobe wall, at the point of no return. Driving up her road, Sue noticed our predicament, braked her truck, and rushed over to add the strength to finish the task.
Toward the end of her long life, Sue’s wonderful nieces took her back to Southern California to care for her. I hope she really knew how much I appreciated her, not that she ever needed a pat on the back.
An obituary for Sue Hey was published in the February edition of the PRT. Read it here.