Over the years, we have experienced a few landlords. Since our experience is in house rentals rather than apartment communities, I am not talking about your standard property management office personnel. No, we have dealt exclusively with individual homeowners. Lucky for us, we have known wonderful people, and our experiences have been (mostly) pleasant with a bit of strange occasionally thrown into the mix.
There was Paul, who always came over in nothing but short shorts and flip-flops and called our cat “pussy” so often it made us feel uncomfortable.
There was Matt, who sang in a popular local Irish band. He was actually our friend and neighbor. We rented from him when he wanted to move in with his girlfriend- and then he gave us thirty days to move out after they broke up.
There was sweet Rebeckah, the hoarder. We shared a duplex with her. We never would have known her secret if there hadn’t been that gas leak while she was out of town. Upon entering her kitchen, the men from the gas company were unable to locate her oven for several minutes. Think about that.
And then there was Ken; the young, responsible kid who bought a house to live in while going to college and now rents it out. He isn’t the best handyman, but he is so proud of the work he does himself you just can’t complain.
But the most memorable landlord for us was the Khatar family.
They seemed so nice. Joe and his wife were Lebanese. They had raised their four daughters in that home, and were extremely protective of it. They did not speak good English, so most of our conversations were with their daughter, Laurie. On my first visit, Mrs. Khatar held my hand while dragging me through the house to all the things she wanted me to know about. She showed me where each of her girls slept, where she had marked their heights on the wall, and how lovely her garden was. Continue reading