Captain Pike's Ship Log II

Yesterday, I went in the house that I hadn't been in since I broke my neck three years ago. We had rented the place out when it became obvious I wouldn't be able to get back in to our home: it's a 150-year-old modified cape with lots of passageways and narrow doorways, small stairways are everywhere you look. I had tentatively felt grateful that some "friends" of ours were willing to move right in and pay us rent while little Mrs. wonderful looked for a new house that I could move around inside of, in my wheelchair, after I came home from hospital.

Our so-called friends really trashed the place; took lighting fixtures with them when they left, they house-broke some dog in there who later developed menstrual problems. Things like baseboard heating enclosures were removed and missing, pieces of molding from various places were just gone when we finally got back into the place -- they had no keys to give us, but, the place was locked.

It was like a dream. I remembered walking around in there on the hardwood floors -- the design of the house was such that you could walk around in a circle and come back to the place you started. I remembered the creaky steps -- there was one step you had to step over if you wanted to sneak upstairs. (Important when providing breakfast in bed) The bathroom was huge with two dormers -- you could see Canada to the North and the sunset out the Southwest; there was a big old antique chair in there that kind of matched the walls, a deep pink (if you can imagine that). I used to love to read and write in that strange bathroom. (Maybe that's why some of my stuff is so poopy!)


I just took the deposit from the new tenant. She seems really nice and has two chocolate labs, who are going to love Rascal. We're doing it "right" this time -- getting a security deposit, for example. It isn't a past life, it's a rental property! Why am I complaining? Just feeling a lot of feelings, I guess. I'm glad to be alive... and collecting rent!