Janet was moving to New Mexico and starting work on a new project at Netflix. We had a quick close and she was scheduled to take possession on Tuesday. I was sweeping out the garage when she pulled into the driveway.

“Hi. You must be Rivers. I’m Janet Stahl, the new owner. I know I’m a little early, but I couldn’t wait to get here. I love what you’ve done with the house.”

“Well, hello, . . . Janet . . . and thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person after all the paperwork . . .  I’m just finishing up here, but you’re welcome to come in if you’d like. Tomorrow I guess this little jewel is all yours. Welcome to the Land of Enchantment.”

“Oh boy, I have to say it’s a different world after New York. Let me ask you something: I saw the instruments when I first looked at the property. Who’s the musician?”

“That’s me. I just finished recording a collection of instrumentals featuring resophonic guitars, if you know what that is.”

“Are you kidding? That’s like a ‘dobro’ isn’t it?”

“Exactly.”

“Talk about a small world; we’re hoping to get Jerry Douglas as music producer for this project. He’s married to my cousin Janine.”

“No kidding? I heard about your movie from our real estate agent. She said it’s a western?”

“With Robert Duval co-producing. He plays an aging rancher who is losing touch with reality and about to move into an assisted living facility. We start shooting in August.”

“Wow, talk about art imitating life. What’s the film called?”

“The working title is ‘Dogie,’ you know, like an orphaned calf? Listen, I’d really like to talk to you sometime about who the hot local players are out here. There are a few scenes in the movie that will need live music playing, if you know anybody I should contact.”

“Well, sure. I could give you some names. How about lunch tomorrow. There’s a café about a mile from here.”

“I saw it when I drove over. The R n’R, isn’t it?”

“That’s the place. How’s noon.”

“Earlier would be better. Maybe breakfast?”

“9 A.M. okay?”

“Perfect. See you then.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised. Miracles were a big part of the stories I heard as a child: fat man down the chimney, rabbit with candy, storks and siblings, and ‘it’s all going to work out just fine.’

Harpeth Rivers is a true believer based in New Mexico

Our real estate agent showed the house yesterday to a couple from Marin County. She called us last night with a follow-up report.

“They are shopping for another vacation home and have just started looking in New Mexico, but they loved your house, especially the furnishings. Plus, they are making a cash offer if you are willing to close before the end of the year.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. What kind of offer?”

“They are willing to meet your asking price, and they’d like to make a bid on the furnishings.”

“What? You mean the appliances?”

“Well yes, and everything else that you’re willing to include with the sale. They admired the antiques, the art work, everything. In fact, they asked specifically about the piano and the tools in the garage.”

“Jeez, I don’t know. Our bedroom set came from my grandmother’s house, and a lot of the art work is from Annie’s studio. Wait a minute. Are you pulling my leg? Is this for real?”

“Well, yes. This is clearly not the only property they own, and the idea of moving in to a beautifully furnished home that needs a minimum of changes has an appeal for them. As I said, they were charmed by the ramada in the back yard and the other improvements you’ve made. Maybe you could decide what you’re willing to let go of and list anything you want to keep?”

“This is too good to be true. We wouldn’t have to pack or move anything, just hand over the keys, then go rent an R.V. until we decide where we’re headed next. The problem is, I can tell you right now, Annie won’t be happy with doing a clean slate kind of thing. I mean, she’s a nester. This would be like starting all over, almost as if you are erasing your entire history, but I don’t know if that is such a bad thing? Sooner or later we have to let go of it all anyway. I mean when we die. Do they want the dog, too, because that would be a deal breaker. We’ve only had her a year or so, but Tashi is family.”

“Well, it’s your house, your stuff, your art work, your dog. You can do as you please. Why don’t you sleep on it, and I’ll just say we’ll get back to them in the morning.”

Harpeth Rivers is busy packing when he’s not playing guitar or telling tall tales.

It took a while for her to understand that bringing  together a group of musicians, writing and rehearsing some decent songs, playing a handful of local gigs, developing a website mailing list, buying gear and then more gear, firing and re-hiring the guitar player before performing in the music video that went viral and raised $2,000,000 for UNICEF, getting an agent and doing a bunch of auditions most of which were bogus- that was the price you had to pay in order to book that cameo appearance in that film that wins that Oscar for that “Best Song” and gets you that Rolling Stone Interview that finishes your career, and that all of it was a lot easier to write about than to live through.

She stares down at her boots and tells herself she’s not going to miss the endless packing, unpacking, loading in, tearing down of gear, or saying “Cheese” and making nice with the backstage circus. She wants to replace her dreams of being a performer with sentences describing the thrill of standing in the wings the night they made the “Toast” video, and the way she felt hearing the Mayor introduce the band and express his appreciation for her song that was making international news and bringing all the positive attention to Albuquerque.

Then the stage manager touches her right arm, somebody cues the band, and the lights come up. Jodie runs her hand over the wrinkles on her sleeve which probably nobody will notice, puts on a smile designed to brighten the balcony seats, and walks to the microphone center stage. The band is vamping and smiling back at her winding down the intro with a fermata, and she launches into the song that got us to this gig.

I’m gon-na get me a judge

Gon-na get me a ju-ry

Get me a law-yer, get me a mis-trial

I’ll be the toast of the town, dammit

I’ll be the toast of the town.

The audience is screaming and already singing along because they know the words from youTube, and on stage during the guitar solo Jodie is laughing and wondering where did all these people come from and the whole idea of adults who never grew up being such a large percentage of the population.

As a writer she could also tell how the only time she is ever comfortable anymore is holding a guitar.

Anne Animas lives, writes and hides out in Southern Colorado.

Does anything on the menu look good to you?

I was leaning towards the ribs and a beer. What are you thinking?

I’m not sure. Maybe carne asada tacos? And I want a spicy Bloody Mary for certain.

No kidding. This house hunting is not for sissies. Three different neighborhoods and three totally different properties wore me out.

I’m glad we had the GPS. That made it a lot easier.

None of them felt right to me. The new one on Calle Bonita was pretty nice, lots of light, but those diamond-finish walls? How are you going to hang any art?

Well, you can get those display systems with Plexiglas rods that attach to the ceiling, like they have in the galleries up on Canyon Road. That would fit right in with the chrome hardware and concrete floors. No, the whole idea of hospital finishes is too cold for me.

The big problem was the neighborhood. I like that part of town for all the trees and walking distance to the grocery store, but I counted ten lots in the subdivision and only five houses are built, so you know we would be living with construction for a while.

Still that one was the best of the three. The place on Garcia was tiny. It would have been fine for me in my twenties, but the idea of a communal washer-dryer out by the carport has no appeal. Did you hear the other couple ask the agent how you deal with that in the wintertime? I loved her answer:

Oh we have sunshine three hundred days a year.

That’s what they mean when they say ‘The City Different.’

What did you think of the place on Don Cubero?

Yeah, I told you when we looked at the pictures that one was a long shot. If the realtor doesn’t show any pictures of the interior, it’s for a reason. That house was a disaster, built in 1925, added on to more than once, and the floor plan was inscrutable. I guess a hundred thousand dollar make-over would help. It was charming, but not livable.

The garden was beautiful.

Trust me, you are looking at a maintenance nightmare. The dog would go crazy eating all those leaves.

So what do we do?

Let’s go home and take another look at where we are. It’s not Santa Fe, but I wouldn’t mind at all if we decided we didn’t have to move.

Harpeth Rivers is a New Mexico transplant from all over who has in the last year written songs about isosceles triangles, played bass guitar in a band, and declared himself “Retro-eclectic.” His novel-in-progress is entitled Last Year.