A Modern Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, across from the house on the Worst Corner in Town, in a lot nobody paid much attention to, a ramshackle garden sprang up.  Over the years, people tilled the soil, planted, and harvested.  At some point it was officially named, became a non-profit, made small improvements, and was fenced in with an unassuming chain-link fence.  In recent years, each growing season, 40 families have farmed their little plots within that garden, pretty much undisturbed.

Recently Habitat had determined that the Land of Hudson was fertile ground for their housing projects, especially since, as one of their board members admitted, Hudson gave them free land, where no other kingdom would.  And since even Hudson was running out of "free" land to give them, they decided they wanted the four building lots that comprised the Community Garden.  The land is owned by one of the alphabet-soup city agencies, whose purpose, though foggy for twenty years, has been to encourage housing. So the king and the princes decided to give the lots to Habitat.

The good people of the land rebelled, and collected over 1500 signatures on a petition, asking the royal family to leave the garden alone, as it served far more families than four houses would.  But, even though their numbers were mighty in a realm of less than 7000, their pleas went unheeded.

Thinking they were making a Solomon-like decision (never mind that Solomon never completed what he suggested -- that, in fact, it was just a test) the Royals decreed that the land should be split in two -- with the larger portion going to Habitat, and the smaller parcel (which unfortunately included a large tree which hid the sunlight) being left for the garden.  And even that small piece would only be lent for another year.  And it was made so.

The moral of the story, boys and girls, is that there isn't always a fairy tale ending.  Another reason I won't donate to Habitat.

You Know You're a Landlord When...

...a very nice tenant shares the happy news that she's going to have a baby soon, and, while your mouth is making appropriately nice noises, your brain is actually thinking "Damn.  Now they'll be using more water and stressing the well."

Great Guns!

So although Hudson has become decidedly trendy, and we're attracting new residents and visitors from all over, there's still, as in every city, things that go on beneath the shiny veneer.

The Girly House is one of the few on Warren with a front lawn, and, as a result, we're always picking up street litter that blows into our yard.  So one morning not long ago, I'm coming into the office and spot a yellow ShopRite bag wedged between the hedges, tucked away up against the building.  It was in a hard spot to reach, but since it was bright yellow and made the place look trashy, I sighed and went over to pick it up.  As I went to lift it, I noticed it felt very heavy for something that blew into the yard.  So I peeked inside.  There was another black bag inside of the yellow one, with something wrapped up in it.  It was still too heavy for a discarded sandwich, but I still I couldn't see what the thing was.  So I pushed that bag around to find yet a third black wrapper.  Now I was really curious.  Opening the innermost wrapper I spotted a gun! A real, live handgun, which I've only seen before either on the hip of some cop or on TV!  I called the police, stood guard over it until they came, and they took it away.  All the time I'm waiting for the cops, I'm picturing the jerk who planted it looking at me from some nearby hidey-hole, watching his gun go bye-bye.

But here's my real question:  why would some idiot, who obviously carefully wrapped and left that gun there for another idiot to pick up, put the yellow bag on the outside where it would be noticed, when he obviously had more subtle bag colors to choose from?

They should give IQ tests before they let just anyone have illegal handguns.

Redundancy

I've come to realize that, for the last twenty years, more so in the last five, I've been sleeping in Claverack, but living in Hudson.  It's Hudson where neighbors recognize me, where I eat out, where I walk the main street, where long-made business connections exist.  Claverack, on the other hand, is where I sleep, bathe, sometimes eat, and get in my car to go elsewhere.  So, despite the incredible prices Hudson buildings are bringing, the thought of selling our last remaining building, the old crack house where my office is located, leaves me extremely conflicted.  I've been trying to figure out a way to both sell (to eliminate the work The Man has to do, not because of the money) and yet stay.

I made a deal with The Man.  Well, it was actually a one-sided deal.  We would sell our Claverack house, live on the lake for the summer, and move to Hudson for the winter, interspersed with trips to warmer climes. Since I was the only one who thought that was a good idea, The Man has been less than enthusiastic about both selling the house he built and we've lived in for 35 years, or moving to Hudson.  He's a boy from the Bronx who's really country at heart.  

So yesterday I went to see the Armory Houses, as they've been dubbed.  A developer has been buying and fixing up tons of buildings.  One particular house has always caught The Man's eye, so I drove by to see how things were progressing.  Even though the thought of going from landlord to tenant makes me feel unsettled, it might be a way to ease his transition into city living if we can buy or lease it when it's done.

Two men who obviously had something to do with the work were talking outside, so I asked if I could go on the porch to peek in the windows.  Probably without realizing it himself, he quickly scanned me, and then politely told me that he would prefer I wouldn't, because it was a construction zone, and he had to think of safety.

At that instant I realized that, to them, I looked like an old woman who they had to worry about. I myself have caught sight of that stranger, usually reflected on a store window as I walked by.  But the person I am, the one they didn't see standing before them yesterday, is the capable, sure-footed person who spent her career crawling around job sites.

The Brits have a good word for it:  redundant.  Hell, not without a fight.

A Walk on Warren

Today, taking my constitutional, I stopped at the thrift store.  It's about at the halfway mark, and a nice reward for walking.  There, browsing, or should I say, nervously twitching amidst the merchandise, was Ed, an old tenant.  Ed lived in one of our buildings for years, until we sold it.  His apartment was spotless, and, despite being under the long-term care of Mental Health, never disturbed anyone.  But Ed had one weird habit:  he cross-dressed.  No, not like a drag queen, more like a disheveled old bag lady.  Today's outfit consisted of a printed skirt and top, but two completely different prints, accessorized by a ratty purse straight out of somebody's grandmother's closet -- the top shelf, rear, where it hadn't been seen since 1950.  He also sported a full, straggly beard, long stringy hair, and hairy legs shod in size 12 sneakers - no socks - hanging out below the hemline.  He looked like an aging '80s rocker who crash-landed into his grandma's closet.  Quite the vision.

There was a group of three people near the cashier, and, as Ed nervously made his way past them, one commented loudly "What the hell was that?".  Not content to leave it at that, they went outside to watch and laugh as he made his way up the street.  Well, I would've let their first rude remark go, but when they went outside for a better look, and to continue mocking, I spoke up.  I told them that Ed was a nice guy, I'd known him for 20 years, and he was dressing that way before it was fashionable.  I also pointedly told them that everyone has problems, but some are more visible than others.  With that they all shut up.

But here's the best part:  with the nearest food store over two miles away, those three nonchalantly picked up their grocery cart, which had been curiously standing outside the store, and proceeded up fashionable Warren Street, looking for all the world like three homeless bag ladies--correction:  2 bag ladies and 1 bag man!

Seriously?  And they were laughing?

Deja Vu All Over Again

Some days I think I'm better at getting rid of applicants than I am at actually renting my apartments. I already knew on the phone that I wasn't going to rent to this girl.  She had all the right answers:  yes, I have good credit and rental history.  My income is from SSD & my child gets survivor's benefits because her father died.  But something was being left unsaid.  Still, without a concrete reason to deny her, I agreed to an appointment to see the apartment.

When she came (with her mother) she elaborated:  she'd been living for the past 2 years with her mother in Austerlitz, but she didn't have a car, and wanted to move somewhere that she could get around and "have fun" without one. I lived in Austerlitz, coincidentally on the same road as they do.  Nobody lives there without a car.  Even George the Hermit had an old Jeep!

I told her that it would be hard to get through the screening, because she hasn't rented anywhere in the past 2 years, and her sources of income are protected -- in other words, if she didn't pay her rent, it would be impossible to get the money from her social security checks.  Her mother offered to co-sign -- said she was a professor in NYC for 20-plus years.

Things that made me go "hmmmmmm":
1.  Austerlitz.  No car.  Hmmmmm.
2.  Why was mamma so quick to offer to co-sign, effectively getting rid of her "disabled" daughter & granddaughter, hmmm?
3.  She had no visible disability -- she was an attractive, late 20s girl with all her fingers and toes;
4.  Getting social security money garnished if she wigged out & didn't pay would be impossible;
5.  Her mother actually got the check in her behalf.  (Why wasn't she in charge of her own finances at 28?)  Hmmmm, hmmmm, and hmmmm.

But the weirdest thing was that, about 20 years ago, I had an almost identical situation in the very same apartment!

In that case the mother was a lawyer, they lived not far from these people today, the girl had no car, mom offered to co-sign, and stepdad had her things on the back of the truck the same afternoon.  I lived to regret taking her, as she was a big druggie who got back in the groove when she moved to Hudson.  It was a short and tumultuous tenancy.

So today, as I was making polite small talk, a loud voice in my head was shouting:  DRUGS! DRUGS!  DRUGS!  Still crazy after all these years. (Sorry, Paul.)  And I may have to get a shaman to cleanse the place now.

P.S.  Is the Chatham/Spencertown/Austerlitz area the place that parents bring their children to dry out?  And do they really think Hudson in the '90s, with the service road behind our building nicknamed "Crack Alley" is the place to re-introduce them into society?



    

The Butterfly

This has been a bad week for death, or maybe, a good week for  a Death with a sick sense of humor.  Two of my past tenants have died, neither of natural causes.  Mr. Hunt, 73, drowned in a fishing pond when his boat capsized and he couldn't get out of the water before help arrived.  And Bach Vo, 50-something, was stung by bees so severely when making repairs on his new mobile home that he collapsed on the ground trying to get help, and also died.  Both these deaths were bizarre, but Bach's reminded me of an incident some 40 years ago.

I was a young wife, driving down the highway with my visiting teenage sister, when she started motioning wildly while trying to speak.  She couldn't describe what she was looking at:  a butterfly had gotten wrapped around our car antenna, and the car's speed prevented it from getting free.  When she was finally able to explain it, I quickly pulled the car onto the side of the highway, whereupon the butterfly promptly fell to the ground.  We both got out, and my sister, tending towards teenage melodrama, began petting and encouraging it, saying "You can do it.  Please, come on, little butterfly, get up and fly". Well, unbelievably, the butterfly actually started moving, then lifted off the ground, a little wobbly at first, but finally flew normally across the highway -- where it was hit by a tractor-trailer coming in the opposite direction!

Bach's life reminded me of that butterfly.  He came to the U.S. with the first wave of refugees commonly known as the Vietnamese Boat People, a harsh beginning to life in a new country.  He lived alone, cocooned in his apartment for about 15 years.  Then, returning from a visit to Viet Nam, he brought back a wife.  Life was undeniably good.  He quit smoking, their apartment was aired and cleaned, he looked healthy and happy.  A few more years passed, and recently he'd told me they'd bought a mobile home in a local park and would be moving out.  I was happy for him.  It was only about a month after moving that Bach was repairing something in the ceiling of his new home when the bees attacked him.

On the occasion of the butterfly's temporary escape and subsequent untimely demise, we stood by the side of the road, both laughing at the absurdity and crying for the butterfly.  This time there'll be no laughing.