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In a former lifetime, my then-husband and I once searched for a farmhouse rental we could enjoy while saving up pennies to buy our own house.
At one place, the owner and his 11-year old son met us on the front porch. While my husband chatted with the farmer in that man-way that they do – arms stiff in pockets, rocking back and forth on their heels, the boy ushered me through the glorious old beauty. Oh, my!
Hardwood floors, fireplaces with ornate mantles, and those giant thick windows looking out over the gentle fields. Cue the patriotic music. I ask him a question or two, but he responded in such a way that made me think he was a bit soft in the brain.
“Wow! This room is in serious need of some fresh paint, right?” I asked conspiratorially as if we were buddies on the same dodge ball team. Oh, he played dodge ball all right, but he was definitively not on my team.
“No, no,” he said with scorn. “We don’t let the rinters paint.”
Did he say “rinter?” I thought. Does he mean “renter?” It sounded like an undesirable species when it pressed itself out of his child-mouth. When we made our way back to the kitchen, I danced a jig when I saw a wood-burning stove.
“This is incredible!” I said with a laugh, stroking it like a baby’s cheek. “Cooking on this old grandma will hold some adventures.”
“No!” The boy said firmly. His tone was severe, and at first I thought he was talking to the dog that had been shadowing us. But, no, he was talking to me.
“We don’t let the rinters use this stove,” he said as if I had insulted him. “They’re so stupid they’d probably light the house on fire!” he added as a bonus punch.
I stared at him with incredulity, except his view does hold credibility among many homeowners I’ve met. This wouldn’t be the last time I felt prejudged as a renter.
Fast-forward a decade or so, and I moved to Murphy with a hollow heart and an empty wallet. But, as is her way in Murphy, Lady Luck was kind and I found pleasant landlords offering a cheerful house.
I was put in my place rather quickly, though, during one of my first walks around the neighborhood. A woman stood over me on her deck and told me that I drove too fast down the little lane. Strange way to welcome a new neighbor, but OK, maybe that’s how it’s done out here. But the worst was to come.
“Listen,” she said, choosing smaller words she felt my brain could process. “We live here,” she said and nodded as if that explained it. And it kind of did.
She meant, of course, that they owned their house, and therefore held a different status in the neighborhood than I did. I didn’t actually live here; I was just a rinter.
I recently heard a guy casually comment about people living in storage units in town. It was in the context of the housing crunch, but he clearly saw the storage dwellers as “less than,” rather than as plucky or ingenious. He said something like, “Yeah, you can’t trust ’em. Renters will defecate in the bathtub if you let them.”
But the nail on the head of collective opinion happened inside my very own (rented) house. A friend came over for tea. Now I had already been introduced to her view on renters.
“Abigail, if I hadn’t made some of the business decisions I’ve made, I’d probably end up like you,” she once told me, “renting a house.” I laughed but it was a thin laugh. When she came over, her first comment upon crossing the threshold
was, “Wow, it’s so clean in here.”
I’m not on a crusade or anything, but I would like to challenge the homeowners’ claim of superiority over the transient, unintelligent, poop-in-the-bathtub kind of humans who rent. All roads to home ownership are not paved equally.
Me? I don’t make such distinctions. I’m more concerned with the vital issues. Will the hostess respect me? Offer me a slice of chocolate cream pie? Is she any good at Pictionary?
A real home doesn’t fuss about the paperwork; its sole focus is on the good stuff: relationships and memories. Probably best not take my word for it, though; I’m just a rinter.
Abigail Hickman is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Email her at abigailhickman44@gmail.com.