In our first two years of marriage, my wife and I lived in twenty different homes in half a dozen towns from Rockport to Steuben. In that same span, we moved more than fifty times.
We were housesitters, hired by international businessmen, insatiable travelers, and stir-crazy millionaires to look after pets and bring in the mail, and our services were in such demand that we could have instigated a bidding war between competing clients.
Our success was surprising because we were far from perfect at housesitting. We were great with animals, but not so good at living in someone else’s house without leaving a lasting impression.
Our troubles started early. In our first assignment, I asked the homeowner’s permission to let a friend and her young son stay the night.
“Sure, just make sure no one draws on the walls,” she joked.
She wasn’t laughing a few days later when I told her about the impromptu mural in her living room.
In another early stay, the kitchen cupboards were packed so tight we couldn’t figure out how to put anything back once we got it out. It was like a kitchen-supply Rubik’s Cube; after just a few moves we had rearranged everything. Coming home to his scrambled kitchen, the homeowner accused us of “something funny going on,” but he couldn’t elaborate what that something funny was.
At another house, after we had wrinkled some elegant cloth napkins, I brilliantly decided to press the napkins back into shape using heavy books from the house’s library. But no matter how many books I used, the wrinkles wouldn’t go away, and by the time I gave up I had no idea where all the books went on the shelves. The homeowner was upset until I explained, then she laughed to the point of tears.
Despite similar mistakes wherever we stayed, we kept being asked back. That’s because, in our area, we were the cream of the housesitting crop.
Once, we relieved another housesitter at a friend’s farm. When we arrived, there were dirty dishes and chicken bones in the sink, the pipes were frozen, and the animals were out of water. Our friend later told us the other housesitter was having trouble with a messy divorce and alcoholism, but that he had no choice but to use him since we weren’t available. In other words, there wasn’t much competent competition for our jobs.
Of course, that winter we left our own chicken bones behind when I forgot to close the henhouse one night. I guess our friend thought chickens were more expendable than water pipes because he asked us back.
Of course, our employers weren’t perfect, either. As housesitters, we were usually the last thing to check off on a pre-vacation checklist, which meant last-minute details got botched.
One couple kept changing their return date mere hours before they were scheduled to return, so we had to move out and into their house four times. Another couple asked us to meet them for a ride to the airport at 3:30 a.m. at Dunkin’ Donuts, but then failed to materialize. But the worst was a client who, right before walking out the door for Thanksgiving vacation called out, “Oh, and don’t use the oven, a cat peed in it.”
Despite these mishaps, it was a great job. We were given the chance to live in homes we never could have afforded unless we had won the lottery. Most of these homes were by the sea and within walking distance of quaint Maine villages.
And every place had its own perk. One kitchen came equipped with a woodburning pizza oven, the other with all the gourmet espresso we could drink. With each house, there were suntraps to find, mysteries to explore (Why was there a human skull in the basement?), old books to read, animals to cuddle.
But moving 50 times in two years can wear a body down. After learning we were pregnant, we stopped taking on new stays. We’ve now actually lived in the same house for 14 months in a row; I think it’s a personal record.
Early on after our daughter arrived, we still had a few calls for housesitting. After all, how much worse is a baby than someone who lets the pipes freeze?
But I think our housesitting days are over, especially now that my daughter has gained some mobility. I can just see her in the near future, crayon in hand, having a great time redecorating someone’s wall. It’ll just be easier if it’s my own.