Having our own house was an enormous responsibility, more than I could ever have asked for. Our three-bedroom, colorfully humble abode on Chautauqua proved more difficult than Kelsey, Hannah, or I could have ever expected.
It started with the landlady, Lynn, a strange woman of about 35, showing us an adorable yellow brick house in a prime location, just north of campus. My roommates and I realized there was something a bit off about Lynn at first, but did not initially think it would have too much of an effect on her interaction with the household and caring for us.
To say the least, we were wrong.
About a week after settling into our house, we started noticing the many odds and ends that needed to be taken care of: the broken fan blade in the living room, the light in the kitchen, the broken "dong" of a doorbell, a broken toilet. The list went on — a page and a half on, to be exact.
As any tenant would do, we decided it would be a good idea to bypass Lynn and her strange behavior and go straight to our house's owner, her father-in-law Lyndol. A kind man, he had greeted us during our first roommate room-painting gathering (sea foam green, majestic gold, and lavender lily, to be exact) on a sweltering day over the summer.
"Hi, I'm Lyndol, the owner of the house," he said in a grandfatherly voice, approaching Hannah. "I just wanted to come by and meet you girls. You’re painting this house an awfully mighty color spectrum."
He was funny and sweet, and we liked him. We were comfortable with Lyndol, and while we complained relentlessly about the things that were wrong with the house, we understood we had to give him time.
It turned out that time was much less than Lyndol needed, or even had. On his first call back to me, which I missed, Lyndol informed me that he would not be able to tend to our needs immediately because he was starting chemotherapy that week.
Regardless, and maybe heartlessly, we wanted our house fixed. Immediately. After all, we believed it was Lyndol’s fault for not preparing his house for us to live in.
Lyndol’s son, Greg, showed up at our house only a few calls later. Greg, who frankly reminded us of the "scaly man fish" in the YouTube hit "Old Greg," was a riot. Though our list had been made a long two weeks prior, he took everything on it and replaced it to the max: new light bulbs, new ceiling fan, and a new toilet.
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