A Humorous Real Estate Story:

I’ve traveled around the country on a number of occasions, discovering early on that locating a place to live can be much easier if one offers home improvement skills in exchange for a portion of the rent. One such instance occurred in Memphis at the Lowenstein-Long House, a one-time B & B/hostel facility. In need of employment, as the local leather care market had offered a blank card, I mentioned my background in minor house repairs to the hostel employees. It turned out Colonel Long had another piece of property in need of assistance, and within a month of proving my skills, I was offered the resident manager’s position at the rooming house.

This particular Stonewall Street property was a huge three floor structure, not counting the basement area. There were eighteen rooms in all, with fifteen designated as living spaces or bedrooms, and there were six baths. The house was originally built around the 1920’s and somehow became a nursing facility during the 1970’s; the paperwork was still in the basement. It was also during the time of the nursing facility when nine of the bedrooms and three baths were added as a cinder block offshoot of the house. And the Colonel had purchased the property in the mid 1990’s for his son as a renovation project, but that investment option fell through.

When I arrived at the property in February 1999, the Colonel had been hiring out anyone that claimed a hint at home improvement experience, from hostel travelers to a variety of locals. His plan was to sell off the Stonewall house, even if he incurred a loss. He just had to make it presentable. The Colonel was well past retirement age and had his hands full with the B & B and the hostel. Plus, his so-called employees had been taking advantage of the situation at Stonewall and I discovered myself in the midst of a war zone construction party.

I won’t go into the details of the shape this house was in, but try picturing portions of a landfill in each room of your home. And it took the better part of two months removing debris and undesirable tenants, as well as running off those local employees that had no desire to abandon their cash cow. While that aspect of the job was being completed, it was time to hire an electrician to install outdoor lighting and a company to get the wet sprinkler system back on line; there were city codes to meet. In the mean time, it was up to me complete any painting and renovation projects, keep up with regular maintenance duties, as well as maintain tenant relations. It was I who collected the weekly rent.

Out of all the strange circumstances that occurred with the Stonewall property, like discovering someone had run a hot water line to one of the toilets, it was the instance of raccoons that stands out.

The third floor contained a bedroom and bath only, but the central air unit that had been installed for that level wasn’t adequate to properly cool this incomplete space during the warmer months. So, the door leading up was secured and the area forgotten. One day, tracks were discovered in the second floor bathroom. There was only a haphazard path within the tub and after a bit of thought, I decided to check out the upstairs space. Well, it turned out we had ourselves a mama raccoon because her babies had been using the toilet for a pool and the tub for a slide.

I just left well enough alone until I could learn more about the babies. When that lucky day occurred, I proceeded to call a local pest control company. The gentleman that arrived knew his business, discovering in no time the mama raccoon had been using a open exhaust flue on the roof to travel back and forth. He pointed out the claw marks on the bare wood of the attic crawl spaces and it still amazes me that she could maneuver up and down this twelve inch metal pipe. The gentleman also explained how to rectify the situation with chicken wire.

By the next evening, several of the tenants called me outside. They were grinning and laughing and sidestepping every now and then. I looked up where their gaze was fixed and the mama raccoon was attacking the roof, in broad daylight no less, pulling at the shingles and tossing the ripped pieces recklessly over the side. She was after her babies.

There was nothing I could do at that point. I definitely wasn’t going to start a fight with a crazed mama raccoon, so I let the matter be. The next morning, though, I decided to venture up to the third floor. The babies, which had grown considerably to about the size of toy Chihuahuas, had made their home in one of the closets. The first time I discovered the two rascals, one of the babies immediately cringed at the sight of me, while the other hissed and poked out its chest like a modern-day gladiator. But over the last month or so, as I fed them a bit of loaf bread, they had grown accustomed to my presence. To a point anyway. As I eased my way up the stairs, the usual quick sound of scurrying feet wasn’t there. I looked in their closet and it was empty. I then noticed something peculiar. One of the panes of the double hung windows had been broken out. It turned out that mama raccoon had been resourceful enough to rescue her babies anyway.

As far as the Stonewall property is concerned, the Colonel eventually did discover a buyer around August of that year. But it was time for me to travel onward to Omaha, as my work here was complete; the season for leather care was about to open. And where did those raccoons move to? Well, one of the tenants and I were standing at a side entrance door, just shooting the breeze, when he suddenly became quiet and had a strange look in his eye. I followed his stare and there the raccoons were, right next door, under the steps with about fifteen more of the critters. It seemed everybody was into starting up a rooming community in Memphis. I just hope they didn’t have as much trouble with city regulations as I did. But that’s another story.