As I’m starting to ‘kind of’ get acclimated to living in Mississippi – heavy emphasis on ‘kind of’, thus the quotation marks, for effect – I think it time to get into the nuts and bolts of what constitutes “Living Life Lakeside"; and living life lakeside is all about exclusive keyed entry into 2945 Layfair Drive, Apartment # 1122, at the beautiful Reflection Pointe apartment complex, a literal stones’ throw from the Ergon HQ’s at Mirror Lake Plaza.
The Reflection Pointe Apartment complex, (the ‘e’ at the end of the traditional spelling of ‘Point’ indicating an air of elegance; this isn’t your normal old point, no, this point is dripping with…well, something special that warrants it an ‘e’ on the end) is a 100+ unit development that was built in, I would guess, the early 1970’s. They haven’t done much to the infrastructure since then, save for repairing what breaks, as it breaks, in the individual units. My heater/air conditioner sounds a lot like a 1954 Ford truck with bad wheel bearings flying out of control down a gravel road; the few times that it’s kicked on in the middle of the night had me fast awake and scrambling for cover. They are at the point where they’re replacing carpet when the units turn; my unit had fresh paint and new carpet when I moved in, but that still didn’t mask the smell of how many months/years of cigarette smoke infused into the walls by the previous occupants. It was so bad, that even when wearing clean, newly washed clothes that had hung in the closet for a few days, I still smelled of rank, old cigarette smoke when I went out of the apartment.
The 40+ year-old vinyl siding, and all of the interior and exterior wood trim, which is rife with rot, is in desperate need of replacement. My 5’x10’ balcony – quite an accoutrement to this bachelor’s dream pad – is shaky to the point that I hold my breath when I step out upon it, fearing that the extra weight and motion involved in my inhaling and exhaling a belly full of air might pull the deck from its supports, tumbling me headlong into the Mississippi flora and fauna that, year-round, flourishes 10’ below.
I don’t spend a lot of time at Reflection Pointe, as I mostly travel during the week on business. But the weekends alone at Reflection Pointe are special, spent mostly doing laundry at the Reflection Pointe laundry center, located about 150 yards from my apartment. I save my quarters all week, and plod across the green space, around the pool, and into the laundry room, with my basket of dirty clothes in tow. I’m quick to get my stuff in and out, as young neighbors who might venture into the laundry room while I sort and fold my whitey-tighties might look at me and ask themselves, “Wow, what sort of a retro-throwback thing lives amongst us and actually wears, well, what are those elasticized little white things he’s folding?”
I’m gonna come clean here and admit that I am, by far, the oldest dude that I’ve seen living at Reflection Pointe. The complex is inhabited by 20-30 year-olds who work at the nearby medical facilities, National Guard and USAF bases, and/or kids or newlyweds just out of college who inhabit this place as a short stop-off until they age enough or wage enough to buy themselves a house and get the hell on with their lives. Those that notice me have to ask themselves, “What has this poor bastard done to end up here at this point in his life, toting his laundry basket across the green space at Reflection Pointe? Geez, how can I avoid that happening to me? Maybe I should go talk to him. Nah, I’d rather not know. And he's a little scary.”
Part of me wants to go door to door and explain myself, “No, I’m not a newly paroled sex-offender, divorcée, AA-member; I’ve got a good job, a wife and family, and I’m a minority owner (Lucy being the majority owner) of a 13,000 square-foot hotel, bar & restaurant on the Colorado River!” My guess is, the truth would scare them even more, as upon hearing that truth, it would only confirm their pre-supposed suspicions of me not only being a newly paroled sex-offender, divorcée, AA-member, but a crazy, delusional, lying SOB as well. A grey-haired, not quite so good looking John Edwards comes to mind.
I’ll further come clean and tell you that I hate living at Reflection Pointe, alone, in a place that I would have turned my nose up at shortly out of college and gainfully employed. And the key word here is ‘alone’. Julie and I are getting ready to celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary this June. That isn’t an accident; we love each other and have enjoyed living together for 30 years. Living without her, whether it is in Reflection Pointe or the Taj Mahal, sucks!
“Oh woe is me, and woe is my situation!” I've spent a lot of my Reflection Pointe weekend time having this self-pity party. And now, I’ll stumble all over trite and obvious territory and tell it like it is.
Haiti happened, right smack dab in the middle of my 'woe is me' party.
I live in a warm, comfortable one bedroom apartment with running water, a shower and flush toilet, a full kitchen and cable TV. HDTV to boot! I have a sketchy wooden deck with a Weber Little Smoky that I cook on most nights, enjoying the 50+degree Mississippi winter evenings.
The King of Haiti would kill for what I have.
When I look at how the rest of the world lives, what they daily have to deal with, and what constitutes pain and suffering to them, I now understand and appreciate the ‘e’ at the end of my pointe. It is a special place, and I'm fortunate to be able to live at the Pointe. I just wish my wife was here.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Lucy.......The Conclusion (To this Lucy story, at least)
So I’ve strung you along for a few weeks waiting to find out about dog poop. I apologize for this cheap literary device, as I use the ‘To be continued...’ thing as a means to juggle jobs, responsibilities to family and friends and personal time used to watch sports (it’s NFL playoff and college B-ball season, dammit!), which doesn’t leave much time to devote to the blog.
And you, you’ve allowed yourself to be strung along to find out about dog poop; there’s maybe something interesting to that as well, but I’ll leave it lie.
The day after Christmas brought not only more guests, but more dogs: four more dogs, to be exact - four BIG dogs, all in one room. Now Lucy has developed a bit of a reputation when it comes to picking fights with small dogs, and she may have a bit of a violent streak, kind of like Amy Winehouse has a little thing for drugs and tats; but unlike Amy Winehouse, Lucy’s no idiot, and can quickly distinguish between whom to bully and from whom to back down. There were two Labs, one German shepherd mix, and a sled dog/husky sort of thing; they were a united front, and would have drawn and quartered Lucy in short order. Their owners were good about following the Lucy rules, i.e.no dogs in the common area, and we really didn’t even know they were staying with us. We didn’t, but Lucy sure as hell did. The dogs weren’t even up the stairs and in their room before Lucy began planning her post pooch-departure statement. I contend that she didn’t poop for two days, in an effort to make the event really special.
The next two days passed without any significant events; we were busy as hell at the hotel, with all of the rooms being full, and Lucy quietly passed the time making every waking second of Busters’ life a living hell.
“Sure thing Buster, I’m cool with you being here, so long as you’re cool with me biting any and every square inch of your body whenever I feel like it, which is ALL THE TIME, but I promise you I’ll take an occasional break from biting you to flip you over and sit on your throat. So sure, I’m OK with you living here, you little son-of-a-bitch!”
December 28th arrived, and all of the guests eventually departed. We didn’t have anything too pressing going on the next two days except…...except for showing the hotel to two potential buyers!! As you probably know, the Riverside is for sale, what with me living in Jackson, MS away from my wife and all, and we had interested parties coming up at noon on the 28th of December and the next on the morning of the 29th. So we basically had about two hours to bust hump and get 12 rooms turned, the bathrooms cleaned, the downstairs tidied up, etc; we had to flat rock to get the place up to speed, and rock we did. All was going well, until it hit me that I never really nailed down a time for our “lunchtime” visitors, and no sooner did I consider this than, lo and behold, at 11:00 AM, there they stood, waiting for their tour.
All was well downstairs, and I knew Julie was wrapping things up upstairs, so no big deal. I even bought a little more time by getting them coffee and excusing myself to change from my work clothes. I sent word to Julie that the guests were here, and Julie sent word back to “show them the downstairs, and stall!!” So stall I did, lingering in the dining room, stretching out my stories on the past history, taking every opportunity I could to let them examine while I explained. Inevitably, we headed upstairs; first to the “East Wing”, which houses the main hall with the chandeliers, the bathrooms and the bookshelves. Again I stalled, asking them a lot of questions, many a ploy to forestall what, I wasn’t sure, as we headed to the “West Wing” of the hotel, where I believed Julie was still cleaning, as I’d yet to see a sign of her.
“Yes, these books are for all of our guests to read. We’d keep them here if you’d like. Look through them all and see if there’s any you’ve read before. If you see something you haven’t read but would like to read, by all means, have a seat and get started on it! I’d suggest Moby Dick if you’ve never had a go at that one!”
No interest in reading, but continued interest in seeing the rest of the hotel, so off we headed into the unknown. We walked past the bathrooms into the short west hall, (the hall where the ghost was standing that parallels the long west hall) viewed the rooms, and headed into the sitting room in the Tootie suite. Suitably impressed with this room, as it is the largest with the best view, we headed down the long west hall towards the Lennon room. About halfway down the hall, I encountered a sensation that was something akin to getting smashed in the face with a fungo bat; the smell took my breath, and all but buckled my knees. I continued to prattle on, acting like I didn’t notice anything; I’m certain the first question that entered the guest's minds was “Is there a violently churning raw sewage plant that we didn’t notice located immediately next to the hotel?”
We entered the Lennon room, and I hastily pointed to the plaque on the wall detailing his Riverside stay, laughing nervously as I said, “yep, heh..heh..he stayed here, all right..heh..heh”, the guests thinking, "Stayed here? He obviously died here, and we're certain he’s still under the bed!”
I simply couldn't hide it any longer; I had to mention what was as obvious as the pea-green pallor of my complexion.
“Hmmm. Smells a little like dogs in here. We had guests stay here that had four dogs, and wow, that smell’s a little overwhelming; my apologies. We probably shouldn’t allow dogs.” (I’m thinking, yah, the dogs stayed here, but I didn’t know they pooped in here for the last two days and piled it all under the bed, ‘cause that’s what it smells like!!)
The guests were quick to say, “Oh no, this is Colorado, you’ve got to allow dogs!”
Downstairs we go, tour all but complete, and there stands Julie, looking lovely, calm and collected. After introductions, she pulls me aside to tell me the raw truth. No, it wasn’t the four guest pooches that fouled our attempt at selling the Riverside; rather, it was our own little hoyden that did potentially permanent damage to not only our relocation efforts, but to our olfactory systems as well. And this time she didn’t do it outside the door, as is her usual modus operandi for saying goodbye to our big-dog guests, nor even did Lucy have the good grace to simply do it on the room’s floor; nope, she laid it right smack in the middle of the bed, on the comforter that Julie had replaced two minutes prior. This was the ultimate “up yours!!”- a two-day, fine-wine-aged poop, planted deliberately and skillfully, with love and obvious pride of ownership. When Julie discovered Lucy’s contribution to our efforts to sell the hotel, her first thought was to throw the comforter out the window, but she heard us below on the west deck, and thought better of it, as a flying, poop-filled comforter might have been a little tough to explain. Even in Grand County!
The interested party laughed when they heard the story (good that they have the necessary sense of humor to take on a venture like The Riverside), as we had to explain the source of the smell. I’m certain they were relieved to learn that it wasn’t the result of a hotel full of shared bathrooms. It was in fact, another little, and not quite so subtle, reminder to us all, of who really owns The Riverside Hotel; per her exceptional breeding, as she’s just doing her job.
And you, you’ve allowed yourself to be strung along to find out about dog poop; there’s maybe something interesting to that as well, but I’ll leave it lie.
The day after Christmas brought not only more guests, but more dogs: four more dogs, to be exact - four BIG dogs, all in one room. Now Lucy has developed a bit of a reputation when it comes to picking fights with small dogs, and she may have a bit of a violent streak, kind of like Amy Winehouse has a little thing for drugs and tats; but unlike Amy Winehouse, Lucy’s no idiot, and can quickly distinguish between whom to bully and from whom to back down. There were two Labs, one German shepherd mix, and a sled dog/husky sort of thing; they were a united front, and would have drawn and quartered Lucy in short order. Their owners were good about following the Lucy rules, i.e.no dogs in the common area, and we really didn’t even know they were staying with us. We didn’t, but Lucy sure as hell did. The dogs weren’t even up the stairs and in their room before Lucy began planning her post pooch-departure statement. I contend that she didn’t poop for two days, in an effort to make the event really special.
The next two days passed without any significant events; we were busy as hell at the hotel, with all of the rooms being full, and Lucy quietly passed the time making every waking second of Busters’ life a living hell.
“Sure thing Buster, I’m cool with you being here, so long as you’re cool with me biting any and every square inch of your body whenever I feel like it, which is ALL THE TIME, but I promise you I’ll take an occasional break from biting you to flip you over and sit on your throat. So sure, I’m OK with you living here, you little son-of-a-bitch!”
December 28th arrived, and all of the guests eventually departed. We didn’t have anything too pressing going on the next two days except…...except for showing the hotel to two potential buyers!! As you probably know, the Riverside is for sale, what with me living in Jackson, MS away from my wife and all, and we had interested parties coming up at noon on the 28th of December and the next on the morning of the 29th. So we basically had about two hours to bust hump and get 12 rooms turned, the bathrooms cleaned, the downstairs tidied up, etc; we had to flat rock to get the place up to speed, and rock we did. All was going well, until it hit me that I never really nailed down a time for our “lunchtime” visitors, and no sooner did I consider this than, lo and behold, at 11:00 AM, there they stood, waiting for their tour.
All was well downstairs, and I knew Julie was wrapping things up upstairs, so no big deal. I even bought a little more time by getting them coffee and excusing myself to change from my work clothes. I sent word to Julie that the guests were here, and Julie sent word back to “show them the downstairs, and stall!!” So stall I did, lingering in the dining room, stretching out my stories on the past history, taking every opportunity I could to let them examine while I explained. Inevitably, we headed upstairs; first to the “East Wing”, which houses the main hall with the chandeliers, the bathrooms and the bookshelves. Again I stalled, asking them a lot of questions, many a ploy to forestall what, I wasn’t sure, as we headed to the “West Wing” of the hotel, where I believed Julie was still cleaning, as I’d yet to see a sign of her.
“Yes, these books are for all of our guests to read. We’d keep them here if you’d like. Look through them all and see if there’s any you’ve read before. If you see something you haven’t read but would like to read, by all means, have a seat and get started on it! I’d suggest Moby Dick if you’ve never had a go at that one!”
No interest in reading, but continued interest in seeing the rest of the hotel, so off we headed into the unknown. We walked past the bathrooms into the short west hall, (the hall where the ghost was standing that parallels the long west hall) viewed the rooms, and headed into the sitting room in the Tootie suite. Suitably impressed with this room, as it is the largest with the best view, we headed down the long west hall towards the Lennon room. About halfway down the hall, I encountered a sensation that was something akin to getting smashed in the face with a fungo bat; the smell took my breath, and all but buckled my knees. I continued to prattle on, acting like I didn’t notice anything; I’m certain the first question that entered the guest's minds was “Is there a violently churning raw sewage plant that we didn’t notice located immediately next to the hotel?”
We entered the Lennon room, and I hastily pointed to the plaque on the wall detailing his Riverside stay, laughing nervously as I said, “yep, heh..heh..he stayed here, all right..heh..heh”, the guests thinking, "Stayed here? He obviously died here, and we're certain he’s still under the bed!”
I simply couldn't hide it any longer; I had to mention what was as obvious as the pea-green pallor of my complexion.
“Hmmm. Smells a little like dogs in here. We had guests stay here that had four dogs, and wow, that smell’s a little overwhelming; my apologies. We probably shouldn’t allow dogs.” (I’m thinking, yah, the dogs stayed here, but I didn’t know they pooped in here for the last two days and piled it all under the bed, ‘cause that’s what it smells like!!)
The guests were quick to say, “Oh no, this is Colorado, you’ve got to allow dogs!”
Downstairs we go, tour all but complete, and there stands Julie, looking lovely, calm and collected. After introductions, she pulls me aside to tell me the raw truth. No, it wasn’t the four guest pooches that fouled our attempt at selling the Riverside; rather, it was our own little hoyden that did potentially permanent damage to not only our relocation efforts, but to our olfactory systems as well. And this time she didn’t do it outside the door, as is her usual modus operandi for saying goodbye to our big-dog guests, nor even did Lucy have the good grace to simply do it on the room’s floor; nope, she laid it right smack in the middle of the bed, on the comforter that Julie had replaced two minutes prior. This was the ultimate “up yours!!”- a two-day, fine-wine-aged poop, planted deliberately and skillfully, with love and obvious pride of ownership. When Julie discovered Lucy’s contribution to our efforts to sell the hotel, her first thought was to throw the comforter out the window, but she heard us below on the west deck, and thought better of it, as a flying, poop-filled comforter might have been a little tough to explain. Even in Grand County!
The interested party laughed when they heard the story (good that they have the necessary sense of humor to take on a venture like The Riverside), as we had to explain the source of the smell. I’m certain they were relieved to learn that it wasn’t the result of a hotel full of shared bathrooms. It was in fact, another little, and not quite so subtle, reminder to us all, of who really owns The Riverside Hotel; per her exceptional breeding, as she’s just doing her job.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Lucy..........Part III
As I hadn’t seen Julie, Rachel or Scott since
Turkey Day, the 2009 Christmas season was much anticipated, especially after spending three weeks alone in Jackson, MS - at my job during the day and my Reflection Pointe bachelor pad evenings and weekends. While I desperately missed my wife and kids, I could at least interact with them on the phone. I missed my pooch as much as the others, but knew I could only get my Lucy fix in the flesh, as my numerous attempts to communicate with her over the phone fell on very pointy deaf ears. As smart as Lucy is, she’s yet to master the phone; emphasis on ‘yet’.
Home in Hot Sulphur on the 23rd, and on Christmas Eve the 24th, our nuclear family was enjoying a wonderful Christmas meal, including our shameless little pooch, her oversized schnozz nestled between my knees below the dinner table, begging scraps with a look that could thaw a Grand County winter. After the meal, it was time for gifts, and what came next for Rachel was indeed the ultimate definition of ‘the gift that keeps on giving.’
No, not a ‘jelly of the month’, not a library card, not even the promise of hope and change; nope, this eternal little reminder of Christmas 2009 was named ‘Buster’. That’s right; not only did my new dog-friendly lifestyle have to embrace Lucy, but I now had to deal with TWO DOGS – 24/7, it was now The Lucy & Buster Show, starring, of course, Lucy!!
This wasn’t a surprise to me, as Julie had been discussing this for the past month. During those conversations, had I a nickel for every time I said “that’s a horrible idea”, my cash shortfall would be non-existent. “But Lucy needs a friend!” was the rationale which Julie offered; “like Mr. Clean needs a haircut”, I countered, “that dog would kick the butcher’s sorry ass if she thought he was trying to supplant her as Queen Bitch of The Riverside!”
Despite my attempts to enlighten Julie regarding the downside of having two pooches in a hotel (one of them being Lucy, to boot!), Julie rescued Buster – an Australian Shepherd/Corgi/Dachshund mix – from the Dumb Friends League in Denver. Buster is cute like the ocean is deep, like Everest is tall, like politicians are crooked – you get the picture; all puppies are cute, but Buster would for certain win some contests.
But Lucy thinks Buster sucks!
Lucy’s thinking “What is this uninvited little koala-bear looking thing, with an adorable personality and an overbite to match, DOING IN MY HOTEL??? I barked, I growled, I notified the bosses of this things’ intrusion, and they’re obviously deaf to my protestations. Whoa, what’s this??? They seem to actually like this intruder, and possibly at my expense! Oh, damn this little thing! I’ll bite its ears, I’ll bite its neck, its legs and its back; I’ll show this little mutt where it lives, and let it know who the landlord is!”
The Christmas Season is principally about peace on earth, and good will towards your fellow man (or pooch); I can now, after having experienced sharing space with two dogs (again, Lucy being one of them), that you can throw that notion right out the Riverside window into the Colorado River. The next few days were nothing but every waking hour being an endless display of a non-stop, doggie rough-housing, one-up-man-shipping, ear-biting, butt-sniffing, ass-in-your-face, who’s-in-charge-here domination contest. Lucy’s normal routine is to awaken at 7-ish for a quick trip outside to do her business, then it’s back to bed – sometimes until 10-11 AM. No more; after that 7 AM nature call, she’s sitting outside of Buster’s door – “Hey Buster, you want a piece of this? You ready for me to Jesse Ventura your ass? Whoa, wait a minute, what’s that I smell? Poop? Damn straight that’s what you smell, cause I just pooped outside your door, you little half-breed!”
And so begins another day at The Riverside. It ends like this too.
But back to the December 28th "In Your Face" poop that may have been the loaf smelled 'round the world; or certainly our world.
....................To be concluded.
Home in Hot Sulphur on the 23rd, and on Christmas Eve the 24th, our nuclear family was enjoying a wonderful Christmas meal, including our shameless little pooch, her oversized schnozz nestled between my knees below the dinner table, begging scraps with a look that could thaw a Grand County winter. After the meal, it was time for gifts, and what came next for Rachel was indeed the ultimate definition of ‘the gift that keeps on giving.’
No, not a ‘jelly of the month’, not a library card, not even the promise of hope and change; nope, this eternal little reminder of Christmas 2009 was named ‘Buster’. That’s right; not only did my new dog-friendly lifestyle have to embrace Lucy, but I now had to deal with TWO DOGS – 24/7, it was now The Lucy & Buster Show, starring, of course, Lucy!!
This wasn’t a surprise to me, as Julie had been discussing this for the past month. During those conversations, had I a nickel for every time I said “that’s a horrible idea”, my cash shortfall would be non-existent. “But Lucy needs a friend!” was the rationale which Julie offered; “like Mr. Clean needs a haircut”, I countered, “that dog would kick the butcher’s sorry ass if she thought he was trying to supplant her as Queen Bitch of The Riverside!”
Despite my attempts to enlighten Julie regarding the downside of having two pooches in a hotel (one of them being Lucy, to boot!), Julie rescued Buster – an Australian Shepherd/Corgi/Dachshund mix – from the Dumb Friends League in Denver. Buster is cute like the ocean is deep, like Everest is tall, like politicians are crooked – you get the picture; all puppies are cute, but Buster would for certain win some contests.
But Lucy thinks Buster sucks!
Lucy’s thinking “What is this uninvited little koala-bear looking thing, with an adorable personality and an overbite to match, DOING IN MY HOTEL??? I barked, I growled, I notified the bosses of this things’ intrusion, and they’re obviously deaf to my protestations. Whoa, what’s this??? They seem to actually like this intruder, and possibly at my expense! Oh, damn this little thing! I’ll bite its ears, I’ll bite its neck, its legs and its back; I’ll show this little mutt where it lives, and let it know who the landlord is!”
The Christmas Season is principally about peace on earth, and good will towards your fellow man (or pooch); I can now, after having experienced sharing space with two dogs (again, Lucy being one of them), that you can throw that notion right out the Riverside window into the Colorado River. The next few days were nothing but every waking hour being an endless display of a non-stop, doggie rough-housing, one-up-man-shipping, ear-biting, butt-sniffing, ass-in-your-face, who’s-in-charge-here domination contest. Lucy’s normal routine is to awaken at 7-ish for a quick trip outside to do her business, then it’s back to bed – sometimes until 10-11 AM. No more; after that 7 AM nature call, she’s sitting outside of Buster’s door – “Hey Buster, you want a piece of this? You ready for me to Jesse Ventura your ass? Whoa, wait a minute, what’s that I smell? Poop? Damn straight that’s what you smell, cause I just pooped outside your door, you little half-breed!”
And so begins another day at The Riverside. It ends like this too.
But back to the December 28th "In Your Face" poop that may have been the loaf smelled 'round the world; or certainly our world.
....................To be concluded.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Lucy...........Part II
We picked Lucy up from a rescue shelter in Denver, and all we knew of her lineage was “Border collie mix.” As are most puppies, Lucy was so cute and cuddly that I actually felt good about throwing the easy part of my dog-less life away and signing up for a 14 year hitch in the Canine Corps. Not only was this black & white little fur ball adorable, but she had personality out the pooch wazoo; you could instantly tell that she was sassy beyond repair. She expressed herself to us and a constant stream of admiring hotel guests through the deliberate and continual use of her razor sharp little bicuspids: “Oh, look at this little darling, she is soooo cute, OUCH. Oh, that’s ok, she’s just a little puppy and she’ll outgrow OUCH!”
While everyone around me was smitten with Lucy to the point of having to wear drool catchers, I kept my focus and concentrated on the job of getting this little hellion potty-trained, as the notion of tiling a 12,000 square foot hotel was absolutely out of the question. Within a short matter of time, she got it; I supposed we trained each other. After a few weeks of intensive training, Lucy would essentially walk up to me, look me in the eye, and ‘bark’ with a purpose, saying “I’ve got to go outside and do business. NOW!”
Poor old Lucky never got that “I’ve got to go to the bathroom, now!” concept down; Lucy had it nailed in a matter of weeks. Lucky was sweet, but dumb; Lucy is smart, and efficient, but sweet doesn't enter into the picture. As the formative weeks went by, our Border collie-mix didn’t get tall like a Border collie; rather, Lucy grew long. Her front paws splayed outward as she sat and challenged us at our every demand. Her Border collie ears didn’t droop like a Border collie, but spiked straight skyward like, well, like a Corgi. Long body, splayed paws, spiked ears – without doubt, we had ourselves a ‘Borgi’. Lucy is a combination of smart, quick, independent, outspoken, multi-leveled herding dogs, with bloodlines that date back centuries; part of her wants to organize and round people up into groups, and the other part wants to punish and nip the heels of those who won’t comply.
Lucy, not aware of her mixed heritage, carries herself as a royal beauty; unique and unusual looking to the point of people asking “what a beautiful dog, but what is she?” Her head is way too big for her body, her plumed tail a natural and fitting accoutrement to her regal demeanor. Within a very short period of time, this sassy little bitch had full and total control our hearts; people would ask, “Are you the owner of the hotel?”, and my clever answer was always “yes, me and the bank”. But I couldn’t look them in the eye and give them that answer any longer; Lucy now owns this place - just ask her!
All Border collies need a job. As they were bred and used in the old country, their job was to herd sheep and cattle. Lucy’s job is to guard The Riverside. No one comes in or out, nor do they drive by, without her scrutiny and approval. She sits in the front window of the hotel and acknowledges all passersby’s with a low growl, a quiet ‘woof’ or an emphatic ‘bark!’ If Lucy doesn’t acknowledge you when you pass The Riverside, you don’t exist. If you happen to be a dog, she lets absolutely nothing back as she talks the worst sort of inappropriate foul-mouthed smack at you as you walk by that window; and God help your worthless canine ass if you would attempt to enter her hotel.
As The Riverside is a pet friendly hotel, the rules of guests bringing in pets had to be modified a bit with the addition of Lucy. No dogs in the common areas – bring them in quickly and get them in your room, and damn sure don’t have them off of a leash or out of your control. The attached link will send you to Tripadvisor, (http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowUserReviews-g33479-d1153219-r45506009-The_Riverside_Hotel-Hot_Sulphur_Springs_Colorado.html) a site where guests can share their experiences of your hostelry; some of the shared information is actually factual, but not so much with this particular story. If you’re a regular reader of this blog, suffice to say that the authors of this Tripadvisor review fall into the category of “2%-ers.” Enough said.
Lucy has developed another peculiar habit regarding the intrusion of canine guests into her sanctuary. After she calms down and acquiesces to the presence of these intruders into her territory, she quietly lays in wait until the offending visitors have departed The Riverside. She will then surreptitiously slink up the stairs, never to be seen by us, locate the room where the gate crasher stayed, and poop outside the door. When I said earlier that she was potty trained, I meant it; this act has nothing to do with having an ‘accident.’
This is an intentional, malicious, wanton act of revenge, an “I spit on your grave!” sort of thing. She’s done this four or five times, but never has her “Eat S**T and Die!” pronouncement been as profound as it was on December 28th, 2009.
To be continued..........
While everyone around me was smitten with Lucy to the point of having to wear drool catchers, I kept my focus and concentrated on the job of getting this little hellion potty-trained, as the notion of tiling a 12,000 square foot hotel was absolutely out of the question. Within a short matter of time, she got it; I supposed we trained each other. After a few weeks of intensive training, Lucy would essentially walk up to me, look me in the eye, and ‘bark’ with a purpose, saying “I’ve got to go outside and do business. NOW!”
Poor old Lucky never got that “I’ve got to go to the bathroom, now!” concept down; Lucy had it nailed in a matter of weeks. Lucky was sweet, but dumb; Lucy is smart, and efficient, but sweet doesn't enter into the picture. As the formative weeks went by, our Border collie-mix didn’t get tall like a Border collie; rather, Lucy grew long. Her front paws splayed outward as she sat and challenged us at our every demand. Her Border collie ears didn’t droop like a Border collie, but spiked straight skyward like, well, like a Corgi. Long body, splayed paws, spiked ears – without doubt, we had ourselves a ‘Borgi’. Lucy is a combination of smart, quick, independent, outspoken, multi-leveled herding dogs, with bloodlines that date back centuries; part of her wants to organize and round people up into groups, and the other part wants to punish and nip the heels of those who won’t comply.
Lucy, not aware of her mixed heritage, carries herself as a royal beauty; unique and unusual looking to the point of people asking “what a beautiful dog, but what is she?” Her head is way too big for her body, her plumed tail a natural and fitting accoutrement to her regal demeanor. Within a very short period of time, this sassy little bitch had full and total control our hearts; people would ask, “Are you the owner of the hotel?”, and my clever answer was always “yes, me and the bank”. But I couldn’t look them in the eye and give them that answer any longer; Lucy now owns this place - just ask her!
All Border collies need a job. As they were bred and used in the old country, their job was to herd sheep and cattle. Lucy’s job is to guard The Riverside. No one comes in or out, nor do they drive by, without her scrutiny and approval. She sits in the front window of the hotel and acknowledges all passersby’s with a low growl, a quiet ‘woof’ or an emphatic ‘bark!’ If Lucy doesn’t acknowledge you when you pass The Riverside, you don’t exist. If you happen to be a dog, she lets absolutely nothing back as she talks the worst sort of inappropriate foul-mouthed smack at you as you walk by that window; and God help your worthless canine ass if you would attempt to enter her hotel.
As The Riverside is a pet friendly hotel, the rules of guests bringing in pets had to be modified a bit with the addition of Lucy. No dogs in the common areas – bring them in quickly and get them in your room, and damn sure don’t have them off of a leash or out of your control. The attached link will send you to Tripadvisor, (http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowUserReviews-g33479-d1153219-r45506009-The_Riverside_Hotel-Hot_Sulphur_Springs_Colorado.html) a site where guests can share their experiences of your hostelry; some of the shared information is actually factual, but not so much with this particular story. If you’re a regular reader of this blog, suffice to say that the authors of this Tripadvisor review fall into the category of “2%-ers.” Enough said.
Lucy has developed another peculiar habit regarding the intrusion of canine guests into her sanctuary. After she calms down and acquiesces to the presence of these intruders into her territory, she quietly lays in wait until the offending visitors have departed The Riverside. She will then surreptitiously slink up the stairs, never to be seen by us, locate the room where the gate crasher stayed, and poop outside the door. When I said earlier that she was potty trained, I meant it; this act has nothing to do with having an ‘accident.’
This is an intentional, malicious, wanton act of revenge, an “I spit on your grave!” sort of thing. She’s done this four or five times, but never has her “Eat S**T and Die!” pronouncement been as profound as it was on December 28th, 2009.
To be continued..........
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Lucy
When all is said and done and we look back on our adventure in Colorado, no matter how many difficulties we’ve suffered or victories we’ve celebrated, there has been one shining light that blinds the memory of all of the good or bad: we found Lucy.
Those of you who know me well, know that my love and devotion to this dog is more than just a bit out of character for me. I’ll be honest and admit that I’ve never been one that you would classify as a ‘dog person’. Lucky, our family pooch of the previous 15 years, was thrust upon me after the fact of her acquisition. Julie and the kids were in Nevada, MO visiting her parents, while I remained in Kansas City for a rare, weekend business meeting. The year was 1991; Rachel was 6 years old, Scott 4 years old and Julie and I young enough to add to our family. After the aforementioned business meeting, I called Julie to check in and she opened the phone conversation with an excited:
“Guess What!!?”
“You’re pregnant??” I guessed, holding not only my breath, but my wallet, my heart, and had I a third hand, you can guess what else I would have held and tried to disable.
“No, we found a dog!” she replied.
“I’d rather you were pregnant.” I said. And I meant it, at the time.
Lucky, a misfit mutt found in the Nevada city park, was the best dog a family could have; sweet, docile, loving, good with children, etc. She never did get the potty trained thing down; her favorite bathroom area was our living room, in which I eventually ended up taking up the carpet and putting down tile. My Dad said “what are you gonna do, tile the whole house? She’ll find another place to go!” In fact we did end up tileing and hardwood-flooring the whole downstairs, but ever resourceful, Lucky found carpet upstairs to pee upon.
After spending her last few years as the neighborhood snack whore – she was all but a furry keg with legs – Lucky gave up the ghost on Thanksgiving Day, 2006. She had a stroke the day before Thanksgiving, and was in obvious pain and disarray as Turkey Day unfolded. Scott and I took her to be put down, brave Scott at her side during her last minutes on earth. I couldn’t do it; after filling out the paperwork and paying for things, I went back to the car and bawled. It was a quiet, teary-eyed, father-and-son ride home, back to family and the impending feast.
It might have been the morning after Lucky died, or perhaps the afternoon, when Julie began the slow, steady, deliberate, resolute chant of “we need to get a dog, we need to get a dog, and we need to get a dog.” “Good grief!” I said, “let’s give it some time.” For unlike true ‘dog people’, I had the good sense to examine the realities and know the consequences of getting a dog; there’s way more to it than the wonderful feeling you get when you acquire your cute, fuzzy little bundle of puppy love. Hell, I’ve seen the worst of it, where you eventually have to rip up pee-stained carpet that you paid good money for and bust your ass tileing the living room.
My anti-pooch ass-holiness won out for the better part of two years – no pooch, no problems; then fast-forward to January, 2009, living life Riverside. Before I knew and had a chance to react, Julie pulled a fast one and arranged to have a rescue pooch adopted for us by her sister in Denver. I was busy doing…I don’t know what I was busy doing, when Julie told me, “we’ve got a pooch. We’re picking it up in a few days.” “Oh crap”, I thought, “my days have changed, my nights have changed and my life has changed.”
The morning that we were to leave to pick up the dog, I was visited by our friend, Rick, who manages the hot springs. Rick is a transplanted pig farmer from Iowa, who made his nut and decided he wanted to live in the mountains. He’s an absolute breath of fresh air in these Colorado Rockies, the kind of person who you’d refer to as ‘real people’; a guy’s guy, a straight shooter and happy as if he had good sense. When I told Rick, in a rueful voice, that we were going to Denver to pick up a dog, Rick noticed my obvious distressful/regretful tone and mood and asked “What are you bitching about?? What kind of an asshole doesn’t like a dog??”
My glib, clever, not a dog person-ass didn’t have a quick answer for that one. In fact, Rick shamed me to the core; with his ‘from the hip’ challenge, in the form of a question, he made me question what I was really all about. And I didn't like the answer.
Enter Lucy……………..to be continued.
Those of you who know me well, know that my love and devotion to this dog is more than just a bit out of character for me. I’ll be honest and admit that I’ve never been one that you would classify as a ‘dog person’. Lucky, our family pooch of the previous 15 years, was thrust upon me after the fact of her acquisition. Julie and the kids were in Nevada, MO visiting her parents, while I remained in Kansas City for a rare, weekend business meeting. The year was 1991; Rachel was 6 years old, Scott 4 years old and Julie and I young enough to add to our family. After the aforementioned business meeting, I called Julie to check in and she opened the phone conversation with an excited:
“Guess What!!?”
“You’re pregnant??” I guessed, holding not only my breath, but my wallet, my heart, and had I a third hand, you can guess what else I would have held and tried to disable.
“No, we found a dog!” she replied.
“I’d rather you were pregnant.” I said. And I meant it, at the time.
Lucky, a misfit mutt found in the Nevada city park, was the best dog a family could have; sweet, docile, loving, good with children, etc. She never did get the potty trained thing down; her favorite bathroom area was our living room, in which I eventually ended up taking up the carpet and putting down tile. My Dad said “what are you gonna do, tile the whole house? She’ll find another place to go!” In fact we did end up tileing and hardwood-flooring the whole downstairs, but ever resourceful, Lucky found carpet upstairs to pee upon.
After spending her last few years as the neighborhood snack whore – she was all but a furry keg with legs – Lucky gave up the ghost on Thanksgiving Day, 2006. She had a stroke the day before Thanksgiving, and was in obvious pain and disarray as Turkey Day unfolded. Scott and I took her to be put down, brave Scott at her side during her last minutes on earth. I couldn’t do it; after filling out the paperwork and paying for things, I went back to the car and bawled. It was a quiet, teary-eyed, father-and-son ride home, back to family and the impending feast.
It might have been the morning after Lucky died, or perhaps the afternoon, when Julie began the slow, steady, deliberate, resolute chant of “we need to get a dog, we need to get a dog, and we need to get a dog.” “Good grief!” I said, “let’s give it some time.” For unlike true ‘dog people’, I had the good sense to examine the realities and know the consequences of getting a dog; there’s way more to it than the wonderful feeling you get when you acquire your cute, fuzzy little bundle of puppy love. Hell, I’ve seen the worst of it, where you eventually have to rip up pee-stained carpet that you paid good money for and bust your ass tileing the living room.
My anti-pooch ass-holiness won out for the better part of two years – no pooch, no problems; then fast-forward to January, 2009, living life Riverside. Before I knew and had a chance to react, Julie pulled a fast one and arranged to have a rescue pooch adopted for us by her sister in Denver. I was busy doing…I don’t know what I was busy doing, when Julie told me, “we’ve got a pooch. We’re picking it up in a few days.” “Oh crap”, I thought, “my days have changed, my nights have changed and my life has changed.”
The morning that we were to leave to pick up the dog, I was visited by our friend, Rick, who manages the hot springs. Rick is a transplanted pig farmer from Iowa, who made his nut and decided he wanted to live in the mountains. He’s an absolute breath of fresh air in these Colorado Rockies, the kind of person who you’d refer to as ‘real people’; a guy’s guy, a straight shooter and happy as if he had good sense. When I told Rick, in a rueful voice, that we were going to Denver to pick up a dog, Rick noticed my obvious distressful/regretful tone and mood and asked “What are you bitching about?? What kind of an asshole doesn’t like a dog??”
My glib, clever, not a dog person-ass didn’t have a quick answer for that one. In fact, Rick shamed me to the core; with his ‘from the hip’ challenge, in the form of a question, he made me question what I was really all about. And I didn't like the answer.
Enter Lucy……………..to be continued.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Living Life Lakeside.......Part II
I was in dire need of a haircut. Damned dire need!
For the past 20 years in Kansas City, I would go every two-three weeks to my barber, Rocky, plop myself into his chair and chat away while he did whatever he did to my hair. I never had to tell him what clipper number to use, or ask that he use scissors, not the razor, or tell him “I don’t think I want a bouffant today, not a mullet either; how about my normal same length on the top as it is on the sides cut.” I never had to say any of that; I sat in the chair, discussed sports, or my job, or whatever, and 15 minutes later, my hair was cut – the way I like it.
(Here’s a tip. If you live in a world where you have a barber who cuts your hair the way you like it, talks sports and roots for the same teams as you, shares your political views, and has a cool barber name like Rocky, don’t get off that horse. Keep riding it.)
When we moved to Colorado, I took for granted the small changes and adjustments that leaving our home of 50+ years behind would bring. The big changes were obvious; they were planned for and the required adjustments were assumed. It was the little things that came with relocation – finding a new church, couldn’t buy the same local bread, beer or BBQ sauce, new doctors, no dry cleaners, no Winsteads….new barber. And it wasn’t the big changes that stressed us; it was the little things that gnawed and ate at our “did we do the right thing by moving?” bone.
Never in Colorado did I get a good haircut. I came close, once, in downtown Denver; close, but no Rocky. It possibly explains why so many Colorado inhabitants – men and women alike – opt for the Allen Ginsburg look.
Off to Mississippi.
I work in an office building with lots of guys, and most of them have hair. So I know that a few questions to the right people will get me hooked up with a Southern version of Rocky – down here, his name will be Clem. He’ll talk sports (although it’ll be limited to SEC football), he’ll probably be on the same political plane as me, and as an added Mississippi bonus, he’ll discuss Faulkner with me. Nah, probably not gonna talk Faulkner with the barber, but at least he’ll cut my hair the way I like it.
After a few queries, I took the advice of a fellow worker who suggested a place in Brandon, “down Highway 80, right next to the Blockbuster.” After a morning meeting at our lab, which is right off of Highway 80, I decided to forgo lunch and head for that clip shop. Driving east on Highway 80 – first time driving here and all new to me – I passed a variety of stuff, but never came to Brandon, and never saw a Blockbuster. In fact, I was in the city of Pearl, MS. I passed a few hair salons, and as Highway 80 got into a residential area, and showed no promise of a complex that would house a Blockbuster, I turned around and headed back towards a shop that I’d seen a few blocks prior.
I pulled up and parked in front of ‘Amy’s Clip & Curl’. There were several women outside smoking cigarettes, and I asked “can I get a haircut here?” They all immediately threw down and stamped out their butts, and hustled me into the shop.
I’m certain you can all identify with the feeling you have of walking into a place, and as soon as you open the door, that little voice in your head, (the responsible little voice that cares about you; not the dominant, drunken, stupid loud voice that tells you to chuck it all and buy a hotel in the mountains), says, no, screams “turn around right now and get the hell out of here as fast as you can!!” That little voice was working overtime, actually, it was beginning to get hoarse, but I ignored it, and in I walked; mostly out of fear, as if I had at that point turned and run, two or three of them would have pursued and captured me – a haircut would have been well down the list of what they would have had in store for me.
The shop consisted of eight chairs, four on each side; each chair was manned, (although they were females, I’m still going to use the term ‘manned’) by women that all looked like Flo. Some of them had a full set of teeth; the one that cut my hair was found wanting in the bicuspid department – she’d only get about every third row of kernels if she were to eat corn on the cob.
She started out by asking, “So, how ya want’cha hair cut, hon?”
I wanted to answer “Properly”, but thought better of it.
“Do ya normally have it cut with electric clippers?”
“No, the man that normally cuts it, (sniff), only uses scissors.”
“Have ya ever had a razor cut?”
“Do you not have any scissors?”
“I just thought ya might wanna try sumpen different.”
‘A good haircut would be something different’, I thought, but said “Thanks, but I’ll just stick with the scissor cut.”
She ended up using scissors, the electric clippers and the straight razor, giving me a layered look that resembled a style of haircut that Paul Klee might have given had he been a barber. I thanked her, paid her, tipped her and asked for her card so I could make an appointment the next time I lose my mind and decide to get my haircut there.
Back at the office, I told one of my cohorts that I’ll probably go to Madison (the tony, northern Jackson suburb) next time I need a haircut.
“Where did you get your haircut?” he asked.
“Pearl” I responded.
“Pearl” he all but announced, “why that’s known as a fine Mississippi community on the move!”
“Really?? Why?” I asked.
“'Lotta mobile homes, that's why.”
To be continued.......................
For the past 20 years in Kansas City, I would go every two-three weeks to my barber, Rocky, plop myself into his chair and chat away while he did whatever he did to my hair. I never had to tell him what clipper number to use, or ask that he use scissors, not the razor, or tell him “I don’t think I want a bouffant today, not a mullet either; how about my normal same length on the top as it is on the sides cut.” I never had to say any of that; I sat in the chair, discussed sports, or my job, or whatever, and 15 minutes later, my hair was cut – the way I like it.
(Here’s a tip. If you live in a world where you have a barber who cuts your hair the way you like it, talks sports and roots for the same teams as you, shares your political views, and has a cool barber name like Rocky, don’t get off that horse. Keep riding it.)
When we moved to Colorado, I took for granted the small changes and adjustments that leaving our home of 50+ years behind would bring. The big changes were obvious; they were planned for and the required adjustments were assumed. It was the little things that came with relocation – finding a new church, couldn’t buy the same local bread, beer or BBQ sauce, new doctors, no dry cleaners, no Winsteads….new barber. And it wasn’t the big changes that stressed us; it was the little things that gnawed and ate at our “did we do the right thing by moving?” bone.
Never in Colorado did I get a good haircut. I came close, once, in downtown Denver; close, but no Rocky. It possibly explains why so many Colorado inhabitants – men and women alike – opt for the Allen Ginsburg look.
Off to Mississippi.
I work in an office building with lots of guys, and most of them have hair. So I know that a few questions to the right people will get me hooked up with a Southern version of Rocky – down here, his name will be Clem. He’ll talk sports (although it’ll be limited to SEC football), he’ll probably be on the same political plane as me, and as an added Mississippi bonus, he’ll discuss Faulkner with me. Nah, probably not gonna talk Faulkner with the barber, but at least he’ll cut my hair the way I like it.
After a few queries, I took the advice of a fellow worker who suggested a place in Brandon, “down Highway 80, right next to the Blockbuster.” After a morning meeting at our lab, which is right off of Highway 80, I decided to forgo lunch and head for that clip shop. Driving east on Highway 80 – first time driving here and all new to me – I passed a variety of stuff, but never came to Brandon, and never saw a Blockbuster. In fact, I was in the city of Pearl, MS. I passed a few hair salons, and as Highway 80 got into a residential area, and showed no promise of a complex that would house a Blockbuster, I turned around and headed back towards a shop that I’d seen a few blocks prior.
I pulled up and parked in front of ‘Amy’s Clip & Curl’. There were several women outside smoking cigarettes, and I asked “can I get a haircut here?” They all immediately threw down and stamped out their butts, and hustled me into the shop.
I’m certain you can all identify with the feeling you have of walking into a place, and as soon as you open the door, that little voice in your head, (the responsible little voice that cares about you; not the dominant, drunken, stupid loud voice that tells you to chuck it all and buy a hotel in the mountains), says, no, screams “turn around right now and get the hell out of here as fast as you can!!” That little voice was working overtime, actually, it was beginning to get hoarse, but I ignored it, and in I walked; mostly out of fear, as if I had at that point turned and run, two or three of them would have pursued and captured me – a haircut would have been well down the list of what they would have had in store for me.
The shop consisted of eight chairs, four on each side; each chair was manned, (although they were females, I’m still going to use the term ‘manned’) by women that all looked like Flo. Some of them had a full set of teeth; the one that cut my hair was found wanting in the bicuspid department – she’d only get about every third row of kernels if she were to eat corn on the cob.
She started out by asking, “So, how ya want’cha hair cut, hon?”
I wanted to answer “Properly”, but thought better of it.
“Do ya normally have it cut with electric clippers?”
“No, the man that normally cuts it, (sniff), only uses scissors.”
“Have ya ever had a razor cut?”
“Do you not have any scissors?”
“I just thought ya might wanna try sumpen different.”
‘A good haircut would be something different’, I thought, but said “Thanks, but I’ll just stick with the scissor cut.”
She ended up using scissors, the electric clippers and the straight razor, giving me a layered look that resembled a style of haircut that Paul Klee might have given had he been a barber. I thanked her, paid her, tipped her and asked for her card so I could make an appointment the next time I lose my mind and decide to get my haircut there.
Back at the office, I told one of my cohorts that I’ll probably go to Madison (the tony, northern Jackson suburb) next time I need a haircut.
“Where did you get your haircut?” he asked.
“Pearl” I responded.
“Pearl” he all but announced, “why that’s known as a fine Mississippi community on the move!”
“Really?? Why?” I asked.
“'Lotta mobile homes, that's why.”
To be continued.......................
Friday, December 4, 2009
Are There Ghosts at The Riverside?......Conclusion
OK - I admit it.
I’ve fallen prey to the same flights of fancy that I’ve impugned others for ascribing to; i.e. letting your imagination, as it is molded and then overwhelmed by this grand old building, kidnap and stifle your common sense. It could be that I’m simply, and somewhat irresponsibly, letting myself get caught up in the moment; kind of like letting yourself get hornswaggled into going to a KC & The Sunshine Band concert, having a few too many beers and then mid-concert saying to yourself, “hey, this ain’t half bad.” You know better!!!
My nephew used to live at The Riverside when we first purchased the place, and he was full of stories like this one: “I left my glasses out in the lobby, and went to get them at 3:00 in the morning, and in the room above the lobby, I heard someone stomp their foot, and there was nobody staying up there.” So you’re telling me a ghost seized the opportunity of you being in the lobby at 3:00 AM in the morning to stomp his foot, just once, on the floor? I would think a ghost would be a little more, well, creative in its attempts to terrorize the living; maybe rattle some chains, slam some doors, or at the very least, let off with a long, sustained moan of some sort. But a single foot stomp? Pu-leeeeze!
This collision of what we know, what scientific proof exists and what we want to believe is played-out weekly in one of those ghost shows on whatever cable channel it’s on; for an hour they build the suspense, showing nothing of substance, until the end where they've filmed a little flash of light, or a quick blur, the host saying “there!....look closely…there it is...Oh my God, did you see that?....let’s look at it again…there it is…see that blur!....did you see that little flash?”
Did you hear that foot stomp?
We’ve had several guests that have said “this room has a feel”, or “I’m not comfortable in the west wing, because of the spirits; I need to stay in the east wing”, or “I’m not comfortable in the east wing, because of the spirits; I need to stay in the west wing.” So you’re telling me the whole damn place is haunted? Truth be known, some of these people were probably scarier than any ghost you’d ever encounter; lovely people - please come back and visit us - but scary.
To those of you who might read this and say, “No way am I staying at this place!”, please know that in the 100+ year history of the hotel, no guest or resident has been maimed, hacked-up, garroted, disemboweled or beheaded by a ghost. No one has ever actually even reported seeing a ghost. This revelation might be a bit of a letdown for those of you who’d like to visit The Riverside for the purpose of having an encounter with the paranormal; unfortunately, I can’t guarantee you anything ghostly beyond a re-telling of my potentially ‘caught up in the moment’ experiences. And to those of you who shudder at the thought of spending the night in a haunted hotel, let me profess this: there is no bigger chicken in the world than me - if I can live here, and even stay here by myself, then you have absolutely nothing to fear. Except for maybe Lucy, if you're a Bichon Frise. Really!
I saw an old man standing in the hall. Right!
I saw a shadowy figure walk along the patio perimeter. I’ll swear to it!
A bathmat floated down the hall and ended up folded on a bathroom chair. What else could have happened?!
A phantom reached into the shower stall, when my eyes were closed, and turned the water off. Would you have a better explanation?
Are there ghosts at The Riverside? I honestly don’t know.
Are there ghosts anywhere? You tell me.
One side of me desperately wants there to be ghosts; it tells us that there’s more to our lives than this single radar blip of time that we’re here on this earth. In the event that I can come back, I’m going to save some money so I can scatter it about The Riverside for the brave souls who end up as the stewards of this place when we’re gone. I might slip ‘em a bottle or two of gin as well - for as sure as there are ghosts at The Riverside, they’ll need all the help they can get.
I’ve fallen prey to the same flights of fancy that I’ve impugned others for ascribing to; i.e. letting your imagination, as it is molded and then overwhelmed by this grand old building, kidnap and stifle your common sense. It could be that I’m simply, and somewhat irresponsibly, letting myself get caught up in the moment; kind of like letting yourself get hornswaggled into going to a KC & The Sunshine Band concert, having a few too many beers and then mid-concert saying to yourself, “hey, this ain’t half bad.” You know better!!!
My nephew used to live at The Riverside when we first purchased the place, and he was full of stories like this one: “I left my glasses out in the lobby, and went to get them at 3:00 in the morning, and in the room above the lobby, I heard someone stomp their foot, and there was nobody staying up there.” So you’re telling me a ghost seized the opportunity of you being in the lobby at 3:00 AM in the morning to stomp his foot, just once, on the floor? I would think a ghost would be a little more, well, creative in its attempts to terrorize the living; maybe rattle some chains, slam some doors, or at the very least, let off with a long, sustained moan of some sort. But a single foot stomp? Pu-leeeeze!
This collision of what we know, what scientific proof exists and what we want to believe is played-out weekly in one of those ghost shows on whatever cable channel it’s on; for an hour they build the suspense, showing nothing of substance, until the end where they've filmed a little flash of light, or a quick blur, the host saying “there!....look closely…there it is...Oh my God, did you see that?....let’s look at it again…there it is…see that blur!....did you see that little flash?”
Did you hear that foot stomp?
We’ve had several guests that have said “this room has a feel”, or “I’m not comfortable in the west wing, because of the spirits; I need to stay in the east wing”, or “I’m not comfortable in the east wing, because of the spirits; I need to stay in the west wing.” So you’re telling me the whole damn place is haunted? Truth be known, some of these people were probably scarier than any ghost you’d ever encounter; lovely people - please come back and visit us - but scary.
To those of you who might read this and say, “No way am I staying at this place!”, please know that in the 100+ year history of the hotel, no guest or resident has been maimed, hacked-up, garroted, disemboweled or beheaded by a ghost. No one has ever actually even reported seeing a ghost. This revelation might be a bit of a letdown for those of you who’d like to visit The Riverside for the purpose of having an encounter with the paranormal; unfortunately, I can’t guarantee you anything ghostly beyond a re-telling of my potentially ‘caught up in the moment’ experiences. And to those of you who shudder at the thought of spending the night in a haunted hotel, let me profess this: there is no bigger chicken in the world than me - if I can live here, and even stay here by myself, then you have absolutely nothing to fear. Except for maybe Lucy, if you're a Bichon Frise. Really!
I saw an old man standing in the hall. Right!
I saw a shadowy figure walk along the patio perimeter. I’ll swear to it!
A bathmat floated down the hall and ended up folded on a bathroom chair. What else could have happened?!
A phantom reached into the shower stall, when my eyes were closed, and turned the water off. Would you have a better explanation?
Are there ghosts at The Riverside? I honestly don’t know.
Are there ghosts anywhere? You tell me.
One side of me desperately wants there to be ghosts; it tells us that there’s more to our lives than this single radar blip of time that we’re here on this earth. In the event that I can come back, I’m going to save some money so I can scatter it about The Riverside for the brave souls who end up as the stewards of this place when we’re gone. I might slip ‘em a bottle or two of gin as well - for as sure as there are ghosts at The Riverside, they’ll need all the help they can get.
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