…the everlasting stranger, who had walked its stones, and
breathed its air, and, as a stranger, looked into its million
dark and driven faces, and who could never make the city’s
life his own.

—Thomas Wolfe: Of Time and the River
__________________________________

“I’m going to be in Philadelphia,” she emailed me a month ago. “Over Easter Sunday. What are you doing that day? Do you have anything lined up?” Oh, boy, I thought. Just watch. She’s going to invite me to Philly. The city. I hate cities. But I answered. Nope, got nothing going on. My church is having an Easter service, sure. And I was planning to be there. But nobody’s invited me home for lunch afterward, or anything. So I’m not committed. Actually, I’d say I’m free.

And a few nights later she called me. Janice, my niece, the wandering efficiency specialist for Waste Management. They fly her all over the country. And that weekend, she would be in Philly. Could I come in for the day on Sunday? Wilm was coming on Friday evening, already. “We’re going to be tourists in the city all day Saturday. Come over then, if you want. You can get a room at my Hotel.” When I didn’t bite, she went on. “It would be great if you could come in Sunday, then, to hang out.” Gaaah, I thought. I knew it. I knew she was going to invite me in there.

I don’t like cities. I don’t trust cities. I don’t go to cities, unless I have to. Doesn’t matter what size. I even avoid downtown Lancaster, for crying out loud. The radius of my daily world always skirts the edges of any city. And now Janice was inviting me into a real, big city. Philadelphia. And I couldn’t turn that down. Didn’t want to. We haven’t seen each other since Beach Week, back in September. I mean, I’ve got to do what it takes to get there. And Philly isn’t that far. I couldn’t see driving, though. I’d take the train.

So that’s what we decided, and that’s how we left it, back then. And I put it out of my mind. No sense fretting over anything. The day would come, I’d walk into it, and it would be fine.

And last week, I checked the Amtrak schedule. A train left Lancaster for Philly at 8 AM. And at 10. The second one would work best, I figured. Give me a little more time. And so, last Sunday morning, I packed a few items in my messenger’s bag and took off for Lancaster. Parked and walked in, past the little booth. The attendant greeted me cheerfully. I’m parking for the day, I told him. “Five bucks,” he said. “What’s your parking spot number?” I didn’t even check, I said. It’s that blue Dodge pickup out there. “That’s fine,” he said, handing me my receipt. “I’m taking a walk out there in a little bit. I’m sure I’ll recognize your truck. I’ll get the number then.” I thanked him and walked into the station.

The Lancaster train station is a dump. Old and battered. They’re trying to repair it some, but I think it’s falling apart faster than they can fix it up. Cheerful little signs stood here and there. Bear with us as we remodel. The ticket lady was cheerful and friendly, too, I gotta say. Out there working on Easter morning. Nineteen bucks. That’s what it cost one way. You can’t beat that. You could never drive in for that. “Happy Easter,” the ticket lady proclaimed, handing me my ticket. Happy Easter to you, too, I said.

I was a good half hour early. A few other passengers were scattered about. More were coming in. I took a seat on a long bench and looked around at the other travelers. They were of every stripe and nature, looked like. There was one big difference from back in the days when I used to travel the land by Greyhound. Back then, people talked to each other. Chatted. Where are you going? We connected, even though we knew we’d never see each other again.

I don’t see how anyone connects with other passengers these days. Everyone is wired. Either pawing at their cell phone screens, cruising the internet on their iPads and laptops, or listening to music through ear plugs connected to their phones. You can hear the music blasting if you’re sitting close by. Brains are frying. And I’m not knocking it, people doing that. It’s just where we are. It is what it is. I just miss how it was.

It’s been years since I traveled anywhere on the train, or any public transportation. The last time was back in May of 2000, when I boarded Amtrak for Clemson, South Carolina, to visit my brother Nathan for one last bachelor’s party before Ellen and I got married in August. That party came down, four guys in a rented RV camper parked inside the oval of the Coca Cola 600 for two days while the races roared on around us. But that’s another story.

On the trip down, I wandered about in the train. In the snack/lounge car, I chatted for a while with a lady who was playing solitaire with real cards. And later, as the sun set and dusk settled over the land, I sat at a table with a small group of guys and we passed around a paper bag holding a pint of Jim Beam that had somehow magically appeared from someone’s pocket. We poured shots from the bottle into our plastic cups of Coke and ice when the attendants weren’t looking. It was all quite illegal, bringing your own whiskey to drink on the train, which of course made it taste even better.

And we sat there in a little knot around the table, talking. A couple of black guys from Philly, heading south to see family. A traveling salesman of some kind. Another guy, I can’t remember where he was going. None of us knew each other. We’d never met before, anywhere. But we talked and talked like old friends about a whole lot of things as darkness closed in and the train pulsed and throbbed into the night. Eventually the little pint bottle was emptied, and we all drifted off to find our seats and settle in to sleep. I never saw any of them again, nor expected to.

That’s how you ride a train.

The ticket lady’s voice blared over the loud speaker. Due to the mechanical problems, the westbound train was running 25 minutes late. That’s Amtrak for you. It’s run by the government. Highly unreliable, and, of course, loses billions of dollars every year. But I was relieved, because I was heading east, not west. My train was running on time. Knock on wood.

At ten o’clock, when the train pulled in and hissed to a stop, about 50 people had somehow materialized to get on board. The doors whooshed open, and we poured in. The coaches were half empty, so I had no problem finding a seat for myself. The train slid out, starting so smoothly that you wouldn’t even know you’re moving unless you looked out the window. In a few minutes, we were heading east full speed. I texted Janice. I’m on board. Yay! She texted back.

And I sat there and looked out the window. From a train, you see the underbelly of things. The backyards of homes and businesses. Where people put stuff they don’t want you to see from the road. Grills with tattered covers. Old junk cars. Stacks of firewood. Piles of this and that. Old pop-up campers and junk machinery. It all slid by as we headed toward Gap. And then we swooshed through the little town. I looked for the steeple of my church. Chestnut Street Chapel. And there it was. I glanced at my watch. It was 10:20. On most Sunday mornings that’s about the exact moment I arrive for church. But not this morning. They’d have Easter services without me.

Atglen passed, and other little towns. All with their decrepit old train stations. No longer used at all, many of them. I remember my father talking about when he was a little boy in Daviess County. How they would get on the train in Montgomery, and head west to Washington or east to Loogootee. He saw the high point of steam train transportation in this country. Back when the rails were an important connection to the outside world.

One of my earliest memories came on the train. I was probably about three years old. We were traveling to a funeral in Daviess, where I saw my first view of death. A grandmother, I believe, faintly recalled, lying in a coffin wearing wire-rimmed glasses. I remember more vividly the train trip to the funeral, how the towering dome of the train station fascinated me. I looked up in awe, imagining exotic and distant places, perhaps, even, heaven itself. And I remember how thirsty I was that night on the train, and there was no water. I cried and cried. Mom, Mom. I’m thirsty. She offered me what she had, an apple. “Eat that,” she said soothingly. “You can have water when we get there.” I’ve looked back on that memory now and then over the years, and wondered how my tears must have made her feel.

After a few stops at small town stations, we approached the outskirts of Philadelphia. I looked out at the rows and rows of bleak tenant houses. Slums, is what they are. Who could live there? Who would want to? Maybe people are trapped in their circumstances, I thought. I’d rather live in a tent out in the country.

We slid into the 30th Street Station a few minutes after eleven, right on time. I walked up. No Janice or Wilm. I’m here, I texted. We’re on our way, she texted back. A few minutes later Wilm walked in. I waved at her, and we walked out to where Janice was waiting in her rental car. I got in and gave her a big hug. Janice, dear. And then she shot right out into the traffic and we headed toward downtown.

Mostly, I hate cities because I hate driving in them. Well, that, and getting lost if you don’t know your way around, lost in some bad section where you’ll get killed for looking at someone wrong, or just for being there. Get someone else to drive, and I’m fine. Within minutes, I saw that Janice was utterly fearless. Even though she didn’t know the city that well. Wilm sat in the back seat with a map, and calmly called out directions. Once or twice, we missed our turn and had to loop around again. No problem.

They had the day pretty much planned. First, a late brunch at Silk City Diner, a place that was featured on the hit TV show, Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives. A show I happen to watch now and then, and enjoy very much. I never saw that episode, though. We parked and walked in. A classic little diner, right here in the city. I was amazed. This was the kind of place you find in small towns. We didn’t wait long to be seated at a booth in the back corner. And we ordered breakfast, good greasy food that only diners serve. And Janice and I caught up. She’s been so busy traveling and working all around the country that it makes my head spin. Houston. LA. Boston. Detroit. Buffalo. And other cities. The girl gets around. I can’t imagine such a hectic travel schedule, although at her young age I probably could have.

Waiting for a table. Janice and Wilm.

The food was better than advertised, and after that we headed out. Janice and Wilm had a few things planned. Touristy things. “We’re tourists.” Janice said. “And not one bit ashamed of it.” First stop was a few blocks down from the diner. The German Society of Pennsylvania. Of course they were closed. But we stood outside and took pictures. “We take lots of pictures,” Janice said. “Of everything and every place. That way, we can go and look it up on the internet and read all about it.” Made some sort of mad sense to me. We headed on then, for the Edgar Allan Poe house. Stood by the big mural and snapped pics. Three young Europeans, two guys and a girl, were snapping pics, too. So Janice handed the girl her phone and asked her to take a pic of the three of us. She gladly obliged. I didn’t even know there was an Edgar Allan Poe house in Philly. I thought he was pretty much a Baltimore guy. I mean, the Ravens are named after his famous poem, and all.

Posing with Poe.

And then we headed out for the main activity Janice had planned. She had texted me a few days before. Hey, we’d like to go tour an old historic prison, here in Philly. Eastern State Penitentiary. It’s the oldest prison in the country. I texted back. Whatever you plan is fine, as long as we can hang out. A prison is going to get me all gloomy and depressed. But, hey, I’m game.

I hate prisons. And I hate the fact that this country has the highest incarceration rate in the world. It’s one of my deepest passions, this injustice, because about 75% of the current prison population in America could be free and productive people. The only reason they are behind bars is because of arbitrary state and federal laws. Most prisoners have committed no crime against any other human being. They simply ran afoul of some insane law, often involving drugs.

It is a harsh and brutal thing, to deny freedom to any human being for any reason. I’m not saying it’s never justified. It is, of course, for actual violent criminals. But those are relatively rare, when you look at who all is incarcerated. And here we are, feeding the giant private corporations that run prisons. Laws are passed and countless people are snagged in the dragnets and locked up, simply for profit. And that is a vile and contemptible crime against all of humanity. It really is. It makes me half crazy, when I stop and think about it, absorb it.

After merrily missing a turn, and looping around a time or two, Janice got us on the right street. And we drove on out. I figured we had a ways to go. But suddenly, there it loomed on the right. A huge castle complex. Old, old stone walls, thirty feet high, with turrets jutting up here and there. I pointed and yelled. The prison. That has to be it. And Janice and Wilm agreed. It had to be.

Not only is Janice a fearless driver in the city, she also has an uncanny knack for finding parking spots where there should be none. And right at the end of the row of parked cars in front of the prison, at the very last possible spot, it was open. She swooped in. We got out. The day was gloomy and overcast. The walls towered high above us. We looked up in awe. I felt my spirit closing in around me, like a cocoon. How many untold unfortunate souls had gazed upon what I was seeing, knowing that they were entering those walls against their will? Knowing they would be held there, to pay their “debt” to society? I couldn’t fathom it at that moment. But I could feel it, their spirit of despair.

We walked in, and paid the admission. They gave us each a little electronic keypad with headsets. It’s all pretty much a self-tour. You walk through. See a sign, with information and a number. You punch in that number, and a voice speaks. Tells you what happened in history. Right on the spot where you’re standing.

It was a bleak and desolate place. All of it. The very concept of its birth appalled me. You take people who have broken the law. Stuff them in dreary stone cells. Keep them in isolation, so they can be penitent of the wrongs they’ve done. No noise. No nothing. For 23 hours a day, day after day. I don’t know who dreamed up this concept. Whoever did was a sadist. Period.

And we walked through. Took the tour, like the tourists we were. The place is crumpling. There is a central hub. All cell blocks flow from that hub. We stood and looked into the cells. Tiny, cramped rooms, with entrances so small you had to bend over to get in. Most of the cells were empty and crumpling, but a few were still furnished with a hard iron bed, a little tiny desk, and a stool. It was all so bleak and so hopeless. There was nothing redeeming about the place. Nothing at all. The vision that had conceived it failed spectacularly.

The air is heavy, the place is thick with the spirits of the people who were wrongfully imprisoned and tortured there. It really is. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere around that area after dark. And I wouldn’t live within a mile of that site. I told Janice. I wish they would just level this place. All of it. The thirty-foot high walls. I don’t care how old they are. They should be leveled. And she asked me. “If they would do that, how would we ever sense the wrongs that were done here?” Yeah, you got a point, I said.

In the Bible, prisoners and captives are almost universally described with sympathy and compassion. Set the captives free. Visit the poor and the sick in prison. Care for the unloved, the forgotten. All of which tells me that throughout the long march of recorded history, the vast, vast majority of incarcerations were arbitrary and brutally unjust. People were thrown into castle dungeons and dank holes in the open ground simply on the whim of the king or his corrupt bureaucrats. Or enslaved as the bounty of war. The Lord’s heart has always been open to the cries of the oppressed. Should ours be any less so? Why, then, are so many “Christians” today so garishly eager to “lock’em up and throw away the key” for even minor nonviolent infractions? I think it’s time a whole lot of us searched our own hearts for that answer.

Eastern State Penitentiary remains today, a bleak and desolate ten-acre monument to the evil that is the state. It always was evil, the state. It always will be. It doesn’t matter who’s running it. Whether it’s the Quakers. The Puritans. Or the gangs of murderous goons that infest the cesspool that is Washington, D.C., today. Goons from both parties. If you trust the state in any capacity, for any service, for any promise, you have no true concept of what it is to be free. The state is a monster. A crooning monster, sometimes, but a monster nonetheless. It will arbitrarily reduce you to subhuman status. As a person to be controlled, and if need be, caged, because it says so. Just like that, for no reason other than its own written “laws.” It will continue to destroy innocent lives because it can, at least until enough people rise to stand against the beast. And call it what it is. And that’s about all I got to say about the matter.

Under gloomy skies, we took our time for the two-plus hours of our tour, pretty much walking through every cell block. As we walked out and returned to the car, the rain came down in a steady drizzle, which seemed very fitting for the moment. We settled in and drove around to find a coffee shop that was open on Easter Day. And we found one. A Starbucks.

After drinking coffee and chatting about what we’d seen so far, we headed back to the Loews Hotel, where Janice was staying. A fine old place, right downtown. We hung out in the lounge, while Janice downloaded her day’s haul of photos. And then we went up to her room and relaxed for an hour. Shortly after six, Janice ran us back to the train station. The train was right on time, and Wilm and I boarded for Lancaster at seven o’clock.

The cars were packed, heading west. And right on time, we arrived in Lancaster. I dragged Wilm’s luggage out to the parking lot, then got into my truck and headed for New Holland. At exactly 8:45, I walked into my home. Exhausted, but exhilarated, somehow. It was a good day. An odd day, because I went to the city and back. For me, that’s saying something.

I’m thinking, though, that maybe I should get out a little more.

************************************************************

Well, last week I hit one more little milestone. The kind of thing you never pursue or expect, the kind of thing that just happens on its own or doesn’t. And if it doesn’t, you never know, because you never looked for it. I was featured on my first ever magazine cover. Kind of a wild feeling, I have to say. Here’s how it all came down.

When the book came out in 2011, I never notified any of the schools I’d graduated from. Not Vincennes University. Not Bob Jones. And not Dickinson Law. I just didn’t feel like saying, hey, look what I accomplished. Here’s my book, check it out. I mean, a million other authors are doing that every year, bugging people from their pasts. I figured if the book moved at all, someone from those schools would notice at some point. And if no one did, that would be OK, too.

Then, last fall, I attended the 15th reunion of the class of 1997, at what is now Penn State/Dickinson Law. Reconnected with a bunch of my old law school classmates. Some of them had heard of the book. And I just happened to have a case of copies in the trunk. I sold and signed them at a discount for my old friends. And somehow a copy made its way to the front office. A few weeks later, an email arrived from Crystal Stryker, Marketing and Communications Manager at the school. She’d read the book. Would I be interested in doing an interview? She wanted to publish an article in The Lexicon, the law school’s alumni magazine. Of course, I said. I’d like that a lot.

So a month or so later, she drove out to see me at work. I showed her around at Graber, what I did, the operation of the business. We got along great. A month or two later, she returned with a photographer. Wow, I thought. They really mean business. She’s going to publish a piece about me. And she did. It’s a first for me, to make the cover of any magazine. And I am genuinely honored.

I don’t generally get involved in discussions about writing, much. Write as and how you want. Whatever works for you is fine. Recently, though, a meme on Facebook caught my attention, a quote from a lady. I guess she was a writer. “The role of the writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say.” And I thought, hmm, why would anyone analyze it to that extent, what writing is? And it sounds a little complicated, anyway. If you think you’re saying what others are unable to say, you’re probably a little too focused on yourself. And that self-focus will affect your voice. It has to. There’s no way it can’t.

I’ve said it before, a few times. I guess I’ll say it again, then shut up for a while about writing. Everyone has an opinion, seems like. Here’s mine. The role of the writer is not to “say what we are unable to say.” It’s not to “make a difference,” either. The role of the writer is to live and speak from the heart. You write from where you are. Wherever that is. And you keep walking forward into life. It really is that simple.

And then, gripping their greasy little wads of money, as if
in the knowledge that all reward below these fierce and
cruel skies must be wrenched painfully and minutely from
a stony earth, they went in to pay him.

—Thomas Wolfe: Of Time and the River
_________________________________

It always sounds so perfectly sensible when you read about it in the real estate ads. Two unit on such and such a street. Well maintained. Easy financing. Live in one and rent the other. That’s the killer line. That and, Let your tenant help pay your mortgage. It sounds so simple. And perfectly logical, on paper. But I’m here to tell you, the reality is nowhere even close to that bright little scenario.

I remember how it was back in early 2000, when I stumbled onto the house that has been my home ever since. Ellen and I were engaged. I was struggling along as a novice attorney (I never was more than that, a novice), not making a whole lot. Neither of us had much saved up. And we needed a house. August was coming. And the wedding date.

I happened to mention something to an Amish client one day. A guy who owned a very successful construction business. He’d branched off into investing in commercial real estate. And I did his legal work, writing up leases and such. And one day over lunch I asked him. Do you know of a house for sale that I could buy? I need to find something soon. We’re getting married in August. And he smiled. “You bet I know of a house for sale,” he said. “I have one I’d sell you, over in the New Holland area.” I was instantly interested. Would you finance? “Sure would,” he said agreeably.

So the following Saturday afternoon, Ellen and I picked up the Amish guy at his home, and we drove over to see the house. My brother Steve and his wife Wilma met us there. And we walked through. Nothing fancy. An old two-story brick house. Two units. The upstairs was a separate apartment. Downstairs, where we would live was a little bigger, with an attached porch. Ellen and I were impressed. Nothing fancy, like I said. But nice enough. We could make a home of this place.

And the Amish guy told us. “Bob lives upstairs. He works for me. Drives my crews. He’s good for the rent. Five hundred a month. That’ll help with your mortgage.” We met Bob. A wizened guy, in his fifties, probably. Friendly, not real bright. He lived upstairs with his cat.

We bought the house, and settled in after the wedding. It was nice enough, downstairs. Old wood trim, natural, never painted. The only problem I could see was that they must not have had electricity back when the house was built. Every wall on all four sides seemed to be nothing more than many large, and I mean large, windows. Old windows. Decrepit windows that leaked in the wind.

And it all seemed like it would work out real nice, this landlord thing. Bob went to work every day, and he generally paid the rent on time. Five hundred cool bucks every month. Our mortgage was around $1100.00, so it really helped. And that was our reality for a year or two. Bob was completely alone in the world. He had no one. So we tried to include him when we could. When we had friends over for a cookout. At Thanksgiving. And during the Christmas holidays. He was rough, unvarnished. But he had a kind heart. And he paid his rent on time. At least the first while.

It could not last, sadly. Bob had a fallout with the Amish guy, and quit. Went to work where his heart really was. At the local golf club, as a groundskeeper. Which is very nice, doing what you love. Problem was, the local groundskeeper job paid him about half of what he was making before. And things got real tight, real fast. He didn’t know how to manage his budget. And it seemed like the landlord was always the last guy on his list to pay. We had a few stern talks. Look, Bob. You’re behind two months on the rent. Come on, get me some money. He saw right through me, though, and knew I didn’t have it in me to kick him out into the streets.

And things just spiraled down. His old pickup gave out one day, over in Leola. I went and pulled him home with a tow strap. He somehow cobbled together a small loan from someone for an old clunker of a car. He clattered around in that until one Saturday afternoon when I got home from somewhere. The car was parked in the drive, hood up. Bob stood there, looking perplexed. He’d just hooked up a new battery. I walked up. Little slivers of smoke drifted from various parts of the engine, and wires here and there crackled and popped and pulsed as if alive. “The thing’s smoking,” Bob proclaimed. Well, yeah, I can see that, I answered, checking it out. You got the battery hooked up backward. Positive on negative and negative on positive. I yanked the cables off. But it was too late. All the wiring was fried. And that was it, for his wheels. He just couldn’t win, seemed like. I dug out an old bicycle I had in the garage and gave that to him. And the man got up at 3:30 each morning and biked 6 miles to his job on the golf course, to water the greens before the first golfers arrived.

The end approached. And Bob left us one day. Claimed he’d cleaned everything upstairs. He had not. He left us with a trashed apartment and about $1200.00 in unpaid back rent. He also left some belongings in the garage. Hunting equipment. Bows. Tools, hammers and such. An old tobacco press. And buckets and buckets of golf balls. I had a fire sale on the abandoned items, except the tobacco press. Got about half his back rent back. And paid about half of that to three Amish ladies who live close by, to come and clean the mess he had left. I muttered savagely under my breath. And I never saw Bob again.

After Bob left, we rented the apartment to a brother and sister who had drifted in from western PA to find work. They were from hard, poor stock, and it was always a little dicey, getting them to keep current with the rent. But when they left, the place was clean, and they didn’t owe me a dime. Then came a raggedy line of just flat out losers. The single lady and her teenage daughter. The only tenants I’ve ever had to evict. She burned me for over a grand. Then the friend of a friend, and her friend. Lots of adventures and drama, there. I’ve told it all before. No need to repeat. They left me about even, money wise, just hugely burned out from dealing with people living right above my head.

Like the ads say, live in one and rent the other. Let the tenant help pay the mortgage. Yeah. Sure. That really works.

The last tenant ever to live upstairs was a young guy in his low 20s. Moving out on his own for the first time. “Harvey” was quiet, never made much fuss. Before he moved in, he asked if he could paint up there. Paint what? I asked. “Oh, some of the walls,” he said vaguely. Sure, no problem, I said. Paint away, any color you like. And he did. The kitchen a pale red. One bedroom a hard, hard loud green. The living room, a deep dark brown, almost black. Except one wall. That was kind of yellowish orange, a color I’m sure has some modern name I’ve never heard of. I gaped a bit when I saw what he was doing. But hey, it was paint. What could it hurt?

Harvey was simply the best tenant I’ve ever had. The little real estate ads would be totally accurate, if all tenants were like him. He was quiet. Paid his rent on time. Made no trouble at all. When I’d leave for a few days over a weekend, I’d tell him. Have a party. I’m not around. Be as loud as you want. He had friends visiting from out of town sometimes, but he always told me. I was all set, for a long term tenant, with him up there. Sadly, though, after about a year and a half, Harvey gave his notice. His Mom wasn’t doing well. He had to move back home to take care of her. I grumbled at him. Come on, what am I going to do now? You’re my best tenant ever. Harvey laughed. And he moved out, leaving me with an impeccably clean apartment with wildly painted walls.

And I just didn’t have the energy, to go look for someone else to rent to. It was in early 2011, and I was immersed in the final edits of my book. Plus, I was in a weird state, mentally. My book was coming out in July. In my world at that time, the sun rose and set on the coming fulfillment of that wild strange dream that was coming true. Sure, I told people. If you know of anyone, send them over. I’ll pay a hundred bucks to any person that finds me a suitable tenant. And a prospect showed up, now and then. But nothing ever worked out. And it didn’t bother me one bit. I got to liking it a lot, just living alone in my house. No fuss, no hassles, no chasing after people for rent. I missed the money, of course. But I’d rather live alone than deal with the incessant, draining stress of a problem tenant.

An old house is a money trap. I live in an old house. And that’s what I thought about, when my first check arrived from Tyndale. The house. It needs new windows. I’ll do half of them at a time, I figured. The west and north sides first. That’s where the cold winds come from. Then, if the book does OK, the south and east sides next year. I called an Amish contractor. He came and gave me a quote. And that’s what I did. The twenty-five or so windows were all replaced, over the course of two summers. Now the heating bill would be less. A lot less. I could sure use a tenant upstairs, though, to help pay for all those windows.

And right at a year ago, it came to me. A real estate guy. Talk to one. They find renters, for a fee. So I called one, an acquaintance. A highly respected local agent, totally connected in the area. A guy who had a reputation for renting apartments and houses. Would you help me find a tenant? “Sure,” he said. “Let me come around and check out what you have. I’ll take some pictures and post it on my site.” Great, I said. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Go right on up and check it out. And that’s how we left it. He came. And I waited to hear from him. Nothing. Well, he’s surely got it linked to his site, I thought. I was busy, with a lot of book-related things. So I let it slide for a couple of months. Still no word from him. So I called one day and left a message. Haven’t heard from you, or from any prospective tenants. What’s going on?

He called back. “I thought I left you a message.” Well, you didn’t, I said. “I can’t take your apartment,” he said. “It needs work. A total overhaul. New carpet and painting. New cabinets, new appliances. The way it is, you’ll attract no one who has any credit.” Well, thanks a lot, I thought. For letting me know. I’ve been waiting for two months. And I asked him. How much do you think it’ll take to fix it up? “Oh, $6,000.00 to $10,000.00,” he said breezily. “That’ll get it nice. I’ll be able to rent it out then.”

I was pretty furious at the guy. Not at what he said. My apartment is a dump, was what he was telling me. And that was fair enough. But that he didn’t get back to me. I wasn’t worth the time for even a simple phone call. I won’t name him, but I will say this much. When you’re selling a service, I don’t care how unimportant your client seems, or how dumpy the apartment is that he’s trying to rent out, you better call him back. You just better.

Generally, nothing happens on its own. Not if you don’t shake things. So no tenant showed up. I walked upstairs now and then. Kept the place clean, kept the mouse poison out. I realized, though, that I needed to get someone in there. A place that’s not lived in falls apart on its own. And about a month ago, it all came together. The plan.

I was over at my friend Tricia’s little salon one evening after work, getting my hair cut. I’ve known Trish for more than twenty years. She’s pretty much the only person in the world who’s been allowed to cut my hair during that time, except for when I was out of the area. And no other hair stylist anywhere has ever met her standards. We’ve become good friends over the years. I saw her raise her children. Move around the area, here and there. I always followed her, wherever she went, to get my hair cut. Way early on, I told her where I’d come from. She saw me graduate from college, go to law school. And she was there through everything that’s happened since. Good and bad and good. Yeah, I’d say we know each other pretty well.

Back in 2004, she got her real estate license and went to work part time at Hostetter Realty, a very solid and respectable firm in the county. She told me about it, how it went, all the adventures involved. And that night, I told her that I’m actually looking for someone to rent my apartment. Is that something you could do for me? Find a good renter?

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll stop by next week and put up a sign. I’ll put it on our website. We’ll find you a renter.” It’s not a high class place, I told her. The other realtor basically told me it’s a dump. “I’ll get you a renter,” she replied.

And she stopped by one evening, as she’d promised. I took her upstairs and showed her the place. And I give her plenty of credit. She had to be shocked at the paint job. But she smiled bravely. “We’ll see what we can do,” she said. I took the large metal sign from her and punched it into my yard out by the road. Apartment for Rent. Call Hostetter Realty. If this didn’t work, I figured, I might as well give it all up. Either spend the money to remodel the place, or just live without a renter.

It didn’t take long for the first prospect to show up. A few days later, a text from Trish. I got a guy wanting to stop in tonight at seven. He’s good. I ran the credit check. OK, I texted back. And that evening, right at seven, a knock on my door. Heavy set guy with a naturally tonsured haircut. He introduced himself. “I’m from Jersey. I worked for 30 years as an engineer for a defense contractor. Got laid off, and now I’m working locally here. I’m around only during the week.”

That’s good, I thought. Laid off from a defense contractor. I wish a whole lot more people would get laid off from jobs like that. Merchants of blood, is what defense contractors are, feeding a perpetual stream of murder in the racket that is war. Looking at the guy, I knew he wouldn’t take the apartment. We walked up. He peered around a bit, asked a few questions. “It’s a little bigger than I need,” he mumbled. Yup, I said. That’s fine. He fled to his car and left. Strike one, I thought.

A week or so later, another text from Trish. A guy wants to stop in tomorrow night at seven. Great, I texted back. And the next night, a very fancy late model Toyota SUV pulled in. Seeing that, I knew it wasn’t going to work. A man and his wife got out. I met them in the front yard. They lived in Virginia, and their son attended college in the area. So he’d live here, and they would show up once in a while.

The man was nice and polite. His wife was not. We walked up, and she grimaced visibly at the loud paint on the walls. Wrinkled her nose a good bit. Asked a couple of curt questions. The man and I chatted, off to one side. She walked through, poking through the kitchen cabinets and staring grimly at the appliances. Then she returned to where we stood at the top of the stairs.

“I’ve seen enough,” she sniffed. That was viscous. It really was. Well, what do you expect, woman, for $525.00 a month in this area? I thought. If you weren’t so cheap, none of us would have wasted our time, including Trish. Go pay $800.00 a month for the place you figured you might find here. I bit my tongue, though. Her kind husband smiled a little plaintively at me. “We know where the realtor is, if we decide to take it,” he said. Yes, yes, I smiled back. They showed themselves out.

I stayed upstairs and peeped out the window as they walked to their SUV. The man stopped and picked up a tiny branch on the drive and carefully placed it on the grass, so it wouldn’t sully the shiny tires on his vehicle when they drove out. Lord, protect me from people like that, I thought. I’d rather have no one up here than to deal with that woman. And I texted Trish. It did not go well. Those people were snobs. Send me a redneck. We’ll find someone, she texted back. And I realized at that moment that the main reason she had ever agreed to try to rent my apartment was because she was my friend.

And last Saturday afternoon, she got me the person I was looking for. He showed up promptly at five, as scheduled. An older guy, probably ten years older than me. Lean and fit and talkative. He worked in Leola, had a good job for years. A nice house and a wife. And last year, he said, after 27 years of marriage, she had decided to divorce him. Ah, that’s gotta hurt, I said. Mine only lasted seven years. My ex decided to divorce me, too. So I know a bit about how it is, that pain. But not 27 years’ worth.

He seemed to like the place. Could he paint the walls? Absolutely, I said. Any color you want, as long as I don’t have to pay for it. I don’t care what you do, as long as you don’t structurally damage my house, you pay the rent on time, and you don’t disturb my peace. Heck, run a moonshine still up here, for all I care. He laughed. And we got along just fine. He took my phone number. And just as he was leaving, another prospect was waiting outside. Trish had craftily scheduled two, right after each other. This is a busy place today, I said, conversationally. Lots of tenants lining right up.

I showed the apartment to the second prospect, a nice lady. And just as she left, the first guy called back. He wanted it. Could he stop by tomorrow? He could, I said. And he did, the next afternoon. I had the lease ready. We went over it. The lease starts April 1st, but he has immediate access, to get his painting done and get the carpets cleaned. We both signed two copies, and he gave me a check. Here’s hoping that I will have no more tenant adventures to write about again. Ever.

The next day, I sent Trish her finder’s fee, one month’s rent. She put in a lot of work, for that measly amount. But she came through for me, as only a friend could. Had I been just some guy off the street, she would have called me back, though. Unlike that other well-known realtor. She would have, because that’s who she is. I highly recommend her, if you’re ever in the market for real estate here in Lancaster County. As a buyer or a seller. She will do what she tells you she will.

And that’s the story of how I got a tenant, after more than two years of living without one. Believe me, if I ever move to another house, there’s one thing it will not have. It will not have an apartment to rent to help pay the mortgage. And I will be one happy guy.
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Well, spring is here. At least the date, if not the weather. March is moving right along at a good clip, seems like. Way faster than February did. And next weekend, baseball season opens. I’m liking that a lot. A sport I can actually “watch” every night. I can’t wait to have my writing noise back again, off to the side.

Next weekend is also Easter Sunday. A day to reflect on the most important historical event any Christian will ever celebrate. Jesus came for the captives. He came for us. Yeah, that means you. And yeah, that means me. It means anyone who believes and trusts in Him. And here I speak to those who do believe, wherever you are. Even if your faith is very small, like a mustard seed. Like mine is, way too often.

Because He rose again, we are free. Free in the joy of our salvation. And free to live and speak our hearts.

I wish a blessed Easter to all my readers.