just out ▼ march 1, 1996 ▼ 33
AMAZON TRAIL
The Center f o r Lesbian
T h erapy Presents:
The housesitter
blues
.WORKSHOPS
Gone are the days when there were plenty of reliable
unfettered folks glad for a change o f scene
,
See Vue
L o d g in g — where mountain meets the sea
by Lee Lynch
hen I was a kid living in New
York, hiring someone to take care
of our apartment was never an
issue. Every summer my parents
packed the cat into a carrier and
off we went to Grand Central Station to catch a train
for the annual two-week visit to all the relatives. My
family couldn’t afford a car back then, much less a
home. Even in the biggest baddest city in the world,
a locked door was protection enough.
Decades later, owning a home is one of the few
ways a queer family has to define itself, to set down
roots, and to take advantage of the few privileges—
mortgage write-offs, insurance discounts—not yet
denied us by the radical right’s rude campaign to
refuse us legitimacy and stability. With these privi
leges, though, come responsibilities.
Cleaning the gutters is OK, especially since
Lover does it. Keeping the gravel driveway from
becoming a swamp in the rainy winters is kind of
fun, like playing in the mud. Over the years the
chimney sweep and the electricii
become family friends. Home
ownership definitely beats noisy
apartment building neighbors
and control- freak landlords. But
I hate hiring housesitters.
My first housesitter spoiled
me. She was the most reliable
person in the universe. A secre
tary who lived with her parents, ?
Joyce would arrive in her classic |
black ’Vette with her case of
Gatorade, pound of bologna an
loaf of Wonder Bread. In those
days, I lived in a condo easily
converted to a closet, so although
over the years we always left her \
ournumberinProvincetown,we
never came out to her. I suspect
it wouldn’t have mattered. All
she seemed to want was her
Gatorade and a place to be a
couch potato in peace.
Those were the good old days.
Housesitters were more like over
night guests. Dykes glad for run
ning water and a shower, kids wide-eyed to get the
run of a house all their own for a weekend, a city
person glad to spend a week in the country. Living
in a counterculture, there always seemed to be
someone at loose ends, unfettered and available.
But at some point all that changed. Finding a
housesitter has become an agonizing—albeit privi
leged and middle class—ordeal. Maybe when I was
younger I knew a lot more unfettered people. Or
maybe, instead of distrusting everyone over 3 0 ,1
now distrust everyone under 30 and mature
housesitters don’t exactly grow on trees. I’ve seen
a new industry evolve: insured and bonded profes
sionals equipped with prepared contracts who want
to be paid by check for tax reporting purposes.
Personally, I’d rather stay home than interview
someone in a job market so slim that playing house
in our house constitutes employment.
What can we do? Here in rural Oregon a month
doesn’t go by without a hate crime. As I write, a
local Jewish family is enduring daily vandalism to
their home. Housesitter, nothing—we need to in
vite the local SWAT team to use our place as a
dormitory if we have to be away overnight.
So I interview housesitters. And since this is not
the most sought-after type of employment, high
turnover is about the only stable factor among these
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innovative
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Sit. Mar. 23 The requirements
groups &
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Sat. Apr. 6 Single: Is there a healthy
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rare and valued workers.
We’ve had some lively experiences. Ethel looked
good. She lived with her gay daughter and talked a
lot about her HIV-positive grandson. She seemed
pretty perfect for us: tolerant, experienced, mature.
We went off to Seattle with confidence. We
arrived at our friend’s home to a hysterical message
from Ethel that she had immediately lost the dog.
Ethel was full of scratches and burrs from beating
the bushes for her. The dog did come home when she
was ready, no worse for the wear. But Ethel was a
wreck, and by that time, so were we.
After Ethel, we found Darlene listed in the paper.
Far from being uncomfortable with our lifestyle,
Darlene may have envied us a bit. She had devel
oped a housesitting business to supplement her
income, but also to get away from her husband and
sons. She was insured and bonded, had a manner
that inspired trust, and never lost the dog. But we lost
Darlene when her husband took a job far away and
she chose him over us. Damn.
Darlene was so good that she didn’t leave us in
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the lurch. She referred us to Helena Housesitter. If
Darlene was a professional, Helena was an execu
tive. She was so devoted she brought all her furry
customers holiday treats. But Helena had 22 dogs of
her own and started a kennel business. Double
damn.
Then came the woman who was so lonely it was
hard to get her to leave. And the woman who, when
I called the first night we were away to see if she had
any questions, told us there’d been an unexpected
problem and she had her infant and toddler grand
children staying at our home. And a friend who was
great—until she fell in love and set up a household
of her own. And the highly recommended young
woman who made a commitment months ahead,
then never called to cancel. And the lesbian who
volunteered, then couldn’t bear to be parted from
her lover.
Not that I blame her. That’s the same thing we
wanted. To go off on our own and pay someone to
be a responsible homeowner for 10 days while we
played. Sometimes I wonder if I destroyed my
housesitter karma by moving across the country,
abandoning Joyce toherparents’ house. Eventually,
though, she married and moved away too, with her
’Vette and her Gatorade and Wonder Bread. But we
still keep in touch. And if she ever divorces...
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