What Kind of Mischief Is This? Unethical Property Rental Management in Murfreesboro, Tennessee

I haven’t been involved in Murfreesboro’s rental market since 1990, when I was a newly divorced single mom renting a small apartment in a complex across the street from my son’s grammar school. Since then, Middle Tennessee has become one of the fastest-growing regions in the country, and in the last five years or so (I’m guessing), the need for rental property (driven not just by MTSU students anymore) has apparently far outstripped the available properties.

Perhaps that explains the experience we (meaning my family, comprised of my son Jesse and his wife Katie, and my husband Gerry and I) had with Stones River Property Management (SRPM). Jesse and Katie had graduated from Tennessee Tech with master’s degrees in education in May 2017 (and had gotten engaged the next week), and when Katie obtained a position at Oakland High School (assistant band director) in early August, she moved in with Gerry and I in Murfreesboro and began searching for a place to live.

This, we quickly learned, was a dog-eat-dog market. Homes were rented out from under her, for example. They had to apply to be a renter with various property management companies, and pay for the privilege ($50 to $100) of doing so. Nonrefundable! It was all very rush-rush, high pressure. School was about to start, and we felt pressed to find a place quickly.

Finally, Katie found a little home on Sherborne Court (in the Evergreen Farms subdivision) managed by Stones River Property Management. It had apparently sold for $168K just a couple months before (see Zillow).

It wasn’t ideal, but it would do. They moved in on 18 August 2017, discovering right away that the carpet hadn’t been cleaned, nor had the home been painted. There were nail holes all over the walls, even though the lease specified no nails were to be used. The walls were clearly marked by the furniture of the previous tenants. It was a mess.

But they needed a place.

There Were Little Problems

From the beginning, SRPM was not easy to get along with. If a call was made to them, it was not returned until several other calls had been made. An early problem: a double rent payment was deducted from their checking account (it had been set up as auto-pay) and when this was brought to SRPM’s attention, they balked at refunding the second payment. This was a young couple setting up housekeeping; they did not have the cash flow to front SRPM an extra $1200. After repeated demands, the money was refunded.

Katie and Jesse quickly learned that if they took a shower upstairs, it set off the smoke alarm positioned just outside the bathroom. This was reported to SPRM, but got no response. We assumed SPRM was aware of this issue since there were two smoke alarms a couple feet apart in the hall (one electric and original to the house, one battery-operated installed later, perhaps due to the shower/smoke problem). Like previous tenants (we assume), they simply disabled the alarm that was set off by steam.

Yes, I am rolling my eyes.

In April of 2018—after Jesse had left for 9 weeks of Navy boot camp—the air conditioning unit quit working. It was not comfortable in the house. Katie made calls to SPRM and was finally put in touch with the owner of the home directly to solve the problem (which makes me wonder what the point of paying a property management company is). The owner made arrangements to have a repairman come out. Because Katie was in school, Gerry and I met this gentleman at the Sherborne Court home. He quickly determined that the unit was in such bad shape it would have to be replaced, saying to me, “This unit looks like it’s never been maintenanced.” (House was built in 2003.) Indeed it did. So Katie did without a/c for another couple days while the owner was consulted and a new unit procured. During that time, SPRM scolded Katie, telling her it was probably her fault that the unit had to be replaced … but no, I saw it, it was rusted out.

A few weeks later, a light bulb in the upstairs bathroom began smoking (yes, smoking!), and though Katie called SPRM three times, those calls were never returned. She removed the faulty bulb from the socket strip of four bulbs but gave up trying to contact them.

Then, the Move

Jesse and Katie had let SPRM know Jesse had accepted a position with the US Navy. They thought they’d be moving out when Jesse finished boot camp; but as it turns out they ended up fulfilling the entire 12-month lease. However, the last six weeks of it, the house was unoccupied. The Navy came and loaded the furniture on 13 July (the tractor trailer didn’t move until Monday or Tuesday).

The lease was up on 31 July, so I got busy and hired a service to clean the house. They came on Wednesday, 25 July. They have experience with move-out cleaning in Middle Tennessee; when they were finished and we did the walk-through, they pointed out one overhead fixture that had a bulb out. We talked about how much work the oven had been and about how the hard water in Middle Tennessee makes cleaning sinks and toilets difficult. They even took before-and-after photos of the sinks and toilets. They reminded me that in the rental business, “normal wear and tear” is expected. The house looked good.

I let Katie know the house was clean, she let SRPM know, and a date (Monday, 30 July 2018) was set for the official move-out walk-through, during which we would turn over the keys. Katie and I both had a copy of SPRM’s “Tenant Move-Out Instructions.” Here’s their list, verbatim, of “items you should thoroughly clean before moving”:

  • Floors-
    sweep wood floors
    vacuum carpets and rugs (shampoo of necessary)
    mop kitchen and bathroom floors
  • Dust and clean: walls, baseboards, closets, ceilings and built-in shelves
  • Kitchen cabinets, counter tops and sink, range, and oven (inside and out)
  • Refrigerator- clean inside and out. Make sure no food is left behind!
  • Bathtubs, showers, toilets, sinks and plumbing fixtures
  • Doors, windows, and window coverings
  • Yard-Make sure grass is cut and weeding done.
  • Replace A/C filters, light bulbs, smoke detector batteries, etc.

(Since their lease agreement clearly states that no nails are to be put into the walls, that item in ALL CAPS seems odd. But whatever. Jesse and Katie used stick-on plastic hooks to hang a few things; when they moved out, they left them, as they interpreted the move-out instructions to indicate the owner preferred to deal with the wall.)

The instructions also contain comments in bold regarding the move-out inspection:

All move-out inspections will take place during normal business hours and will be scheduled by the landlord. Inspections will not be scheduled until we the home [sic] is completely empty and you are ready to turn over keys. You have a right to be present during this inspection. You must call our office a week in advance to coordinate with our inspector. If you do not request to be present at the inspection, we will conduct it within 4 days of move-out and mail you the results. REMINDER: Your failure to attend a mutually agreed upon move-out inspection waives the tenant’s right to contest any damages found by the landlord upon inspection.

Katie had informed SRPM that Gerry and I would be present at the walk-through and would turn over the keys at that time. The gentleman who handles the walk-through inspections for SPRM called me the morning of Friday, 27 July 2018, to confirm for Monday at 10:00am; he gave me his name and phone number. (All of these dates and times are in my daybook, because they were things I was handling.)

On Sunday, 29 July 2018, Gerry and I drove by the house with batteries and light bulbs to do our own walk-through. This is when we discovered that two of the three smoke alarms are electric; we tested the battery in the third alarm, and it was operational. The burned-out light bulb that had been pointed out to us was, it turns out, just loose; tightened, it worked just fine. We flipped on all the other lights and no bulbs were burned out. The socket in the upstairs bathroom that had smoked was empty; but SRPM had been informed of that, and hiring an electrician is not a part of the tenant’s duty.

But when I went out to the garage to get the package of return air filters—oops! I’d forgotten that the housecleaners didn’t do garages. There was a random rag, three or four half-empty container of garage-y things like windshield-wiper fluid, and an old broom … and the thing needed to be swept. All the “stuff” went into the trash can, and I swept, leaving the pile of dirt in the center of the garage; when we came back for the walk-through, we’d come early and finish up. And then, after sweeping, I took the package of extra return-air filters (three of them) into the house and propped it against the wall at the foot of the stairs (the vent is in the stairwell), as a gesture of neighborliness: See? We’ve left you three brand-new filters!

Walk-Through Day

On Monday, 30 July 2018, we arrived around 8:30am. We’d brought a dustpan and a big push broom to give the garage one more going over. Then we pulled weeds.

The walk-through guy arrived with his camera just before 10am; he was cordial. As we approached the house, we told him that we’d hired a cleaning service, that we’d done a walk-through with them and again ourselves, that we were satisfied that the house was in good condition. When we went in, his first words were, “Oh, yeah, this looks great, this is good.” He moved rapidly around the house, opening the oven, the fridge, turning on lights, all the while saying, “This is good.”

I pointed out to him that when Jesse and Katie took possession of the house, it was obvious to us that the house had not been painted. Closets had crayon marks in them, and there were nails and nail holes all over. I showed him the furniture marks in the downstairs bedroom; I told him Jesse had taken photos of all these things when they took possession. He said he didn’t doubt this.

He pulled out some paperwork, got our names, asked where we would like the check sent (we gave him our address), asked us to sign that we’d been present at the walk-through. Then—and I didn’t pick it up at the time, because I tend to believe in the good in people—he said, “I’m just going to take some photos, you all can go on.” In other words, he dismissed us; he didn’t want us around for the photography. And I still don’t have a copy of the document I signed for him.

Preliminary Security Deposit Statement

It’s dated 31 July 2018, and arrived at our home on Friday, 3 August 2018. It itemized what SRPM was going to deduct from the $1195 deposit:

$142.56 for maid service
$50.00 to remove stick-on hooks
$50.00 to replace 5 bulbs (!)
$115.00 for carpet cleaning
$30.00 to paint a bedroom door

This made me so ineffably angry that I set the thing aside; I would have to calm down before I could discuss it with SRPM. (The walk-through guy had told us to expect to—ahem—discuss this statement with the office.)

To calm myself, I took a look at the lease Jesse and Katie had signed. This is what it says about the deposit:

SECURITY DEPOSIT: Lessee agrees to deposit $1195 with Lessor as security for Lessee’s fulfillment of the conditions of this agreement. Said deposit will be held by Lessor in a separate escrow account at Franklin Synergy Bank. Deposit will be returned to Lessee within a reasonable time after the premises is vacated if:

  1. a) Rental premises is not damaged and is left in original condition, normal wear and tear expected [sic]; and
  2. b) Lease term or any automatic extension has expired or agreement has been terminated by both parties; and
  3. c) All monies due Lessor by Lessee have been paid

Deposit may be applied by Lessor to satisfy all or part of Lessee’s obligations and such act shall not prevent Lessor from claiming damages in excess of the deposit. Lessee agrees not to apply the deposit to any rent payment, and also agrees to pay $150 for re-keying locks if all keys are not returned.

Lessee has the right to be present with Lessor or Lessor’s representative at a scheduled move-out inspection during normal business hours to determine if there are any damages above and beyond normal wear and tear. Lessee further has the right to request a time for this mutual move-out inspection. The time of the move-out inspection will be set by Lessor and said inspection will occur on the day Lessee has completely vacated the premises, given up possession of the premises, and has returned all means of access to the premises; or within (4) days after doing the aforementioned. Lessee’s failure to attend a mutually agreed upon scheduled move-out inspection constitutes as Lessee’s waiver of the right to contest any damages found as a result of Lessor’s move-out inspection. (Emphasis mine.)

So. It appeared to me that Jesse and Katie had done everything required. This was clearly noted to be a security deposit to cover any damages to the property. It was not a cleaning deposit. Cleaning after each tenant and making the house attractive to the next tenant is simply a cost of doing business. A business expense.

On Tuesday, 7 August 2018 I called the office at 9:48am and left a message. It was not returned. Instead, they texted Katie and told her that they wouldn’t talk to me. Never mind that I had been at the walk-through. Now they were standing on ceremony. Jesse took over.

Oh, My Blood Pressure

That afternoon (the 7th), Jesse called and—you guessed it—left a message. He left messages the next day. He finally received a call back on the 9th around midmorning. SRPM was asking for the invoice showing we’d paid a cleaning service. Jesse requested that they provide the photos taken on the day of the walk-through. The young woman handling the call said she’d have to ask her boss if she could do so. She also told Jesse that the sinks still had hard water spots and the oven was still dirty. But I had seen those things with my own eyes during the walk-through, and they were clean.

Additionally, of course, anyone who does business in this county knows how hard the water is. Within the first month of moving in to our home, we installed a water softener—but there was no water softener at Sherborne Court. So the results of hard water buildup (again, the house having been built in 2003) is, to my mind, normal wear and tear. And we had those before-and-after photos to show how much work had been done on them. Jesse sent them to SRPM. They were continuing to stall on sending him the photos.

A lawyer friend had told us that we should simply file a claim in general sessions court. It would cost us $45 to file and we could appear without a lawyer—but as an LLC, SRPM would have to hire counsel. “They’ll roll over,” he said. I’d looked at the SRPM page on Yelp—one-star review across the board. Jesse and I discussed it.

Three days went by with no response from SRPM. On the 12th I asked Jesse if he’d heard anything. Nada. He left his contact at SRPM a voice message saying he was prepared to take legal action. Still nothing.

On the 14th, Jesse got an email with a couple dozen photos SRPM said were taken at the walk-through. He forwarded them to me, beginning his email with “I guess the garage didn’t get cleaned?” I was puzzled until I looked at the photos. Because tucked among those photos—most of which showed nothing I hadn’t already seen—was a photo of the garage with the rags and the half-empty bottles! This was a photo taken several days before the walk-through. Perhaps even taken before the house had been cleaned—there were a couple other photos I strongly questioned—but I’d stand up and testify in a court of law about the garage photo.

SRPM was trying to defraud us for a lousy $387.56.

Seriously. I was so mad I was shaking. Jesse was mad too.

Not With a Bang But a Whimper

But then something happened. The next morning—after receipt of the photos but before Jesse had responded with the news that we knew they were trying to pull a fast one—his contact from SRPM called and said that the company had just magically, inexplicably decided to refund the full amount.

So the story’s over. I am grateful we don’t have to go to court over this but I feel we were poorly used. The runaround that we were put through feels like something that is well-practiced at SRPM. I wonder how often they’ve taken advantage of people checking out of one of their properties. As noted previously, this is a big college town with lots of students renting apartments, condos, and homes in the community, and SRPM has a significant foothold here.

That’s why I’m telling this story. I’m posting it on Facebook and I’m posting it on my personal blog. I’m going to talk about it on Twitter. I’m considering talking to the folks at Housing & Residential Life at MTSU, to see if they are interested in knowing about unethical landlords in Murfreesboro. I don’t want this to happen to anyone else.


Summer 2018

Oh, now it’s just showing off.

Hardy hibiscus, June 2018.

There’s been a lot going on around here. Yes, we took a two-week trip to Dublin, and yes, a week after we got back I left Gerry with the yard and the animals and went off to Chicago with my daughter-in-law for five days. I have plenty to say about both those trips, but right now I’m catching up on work. Talk to you soon …

Second-Class Something

In preparation for some dental work, my husband needed some prescriptions, including one for pain. The latter triggered a request from the pharmacy for ID. He doesn’t walk around with his passport and doesn’t have a driver’s license, so he whipped out his Temporary Permanent Residency card. But … “It’s expired.”

Oh. yeah. We’re in process.

We started it last July. We have an Official Letter From the Powers That Be that says, essentially, Oh, yeah, this guy, he’s still legal, but we’re awfully busy right now rounding up Dreamers and other immigrants to rip out of the arms of their legal loved ones, busy hunting down the semi-legal immigrants who are still trying to stay alive in the ICE Hunger Games Sweepstakes, so this guy has to wait some more. No, we can’t give you an estimated time of arrival. Shut up.

When we first learned that he’d be walking around with an expired green card for a year, we giggled. Wow, that’s really classy and professional. But yeah, see, we’ve got this letter …

So we went home, retrieved the needed paperwork, went back. Fuming.

In between the house and the pharmacy, Gerry decided to just show his passport—which is not expired (and is pretty stinkin’ impressive, actually, with it’s fancy-schmancy visa inside)—and get the pills and get out of there. He just didn’t feel like the hassle of having to call the store manager to look at and read this letter while he stood by, hat in hand. Gerry has spent a lot of his money in this community—on a house, on remodeling, on a car, on furniture, and always, always from local vendors—and yet this whole exercise made him feel not-good-enough.

I support him in the decision but I would have loved to march in there with him with his expired green card and his not-expired letter and say, See? See? I think it would have been a good education for the staff. It’s why I talk/write about this over and over. Because there are a lot of people who live their whole lives and never meet an immigrant. Or don’t realize they have.

At the end of the day, this story works out for us (that is, we can afford to hire an immigration attorney, and we have the time to wait and wait and wait, and we are white and move through society unnoticed, except when we need a drug on the restricted list). But what if my husband had brown skin? Or a funny name? Or a noticeable accent? (Oh, wait …) What if someone just felt like making trouble and called ICE on suspicion of an expired visa?

We don’t blame the good folks at Kroger who were just doing their jobs. The point here is immigrants—people who are neither here nor there—run into a dozen little roadblocks* like this every day. This experience made Gerry feel “less than.” It made him feel second-class. It made him feel as if he’d just been subjected to extreme vetting at the Kroger Pharmacy counter.

This coming October Gerry will have been resident here for three years, and technically we could start citizenship proceedings. Of course, it’s unlikely he will have his permanent green card by then, so we’ll have to complete that process first (so as to remain “legal”), then start on citizenship. Me, I look forward to another progressive voter in the house, working for change in this bloody state.

In the meantime, if anyone says the words extreme vetting in our hearing, he or she is likely to get punched. You’ve been warned.

* Remind me to tell you about how hard it was for Gerry, a decade ago, to open a checking account in this town (because he didn’t have a Social Security number) before we figured out how to game that system. Remind me to tell you how hard it was for him to get a simple credit card here. Remind me to tell you why it was easier for him to pay cash for his first house purchased in the US than to get a mortgage.

I Have Had Enough of Winter …

From the kitchen window.

It’s 34° outside at 1pm, 39° when we left the house for the farmers market at 7:30 this morning. On our way home from the market we saw a homeless man, staggering down the Church Street overpass in the wind. In shirtsleeves.

While we had a late breakfast, this little squirrel sat outside near the fountain and feeding table with its front paws folded up close to its chest, no doubt wondering what had happened to spring and did we skip summer, for Pete’s sake?

Now Gerry’s outside covering up the rose bushes, and I’ve dragged the potted herbs up into a little nook by the back door. It may be April seventh where you are, the joke goes, but here it’s January ninety-seventh. Brrr.

We’re warm inside, but this will be a long night for many of God’s creatures. #enough #grateful

What Language Are You Speaking?

Today I left my appointment with a physical therapist and, since it was just after one o’clock, decided to drop by Panda Express. Call it fast food if you must—and it is, usually, fast—but they use fresh ingredients and you can taste the freshness.

There was a line. And it wasn’t fast today. Behind me, standing a little too close, two men carried on a conversation in a language that sounded vaguely Hispanic. (I say a little too close in the sense that we Americans like our personal space when we’re standing in line. But some cultures are comfortable standing closer, and I don’t believe in letting things like this bother me.)

Then one of the workers announced to those of us waiting: “We are out of to-go boxes and”—he named several of the most popular items on the menu. “I’m sorry, but our delivery didn’t arrive today.”

Several people peeled out of the line and left, but I wanted my Panda Express, dagnabbit, and another worker brought up a bunch of the little cardboard cartons you traditionally see used for Asian takeout, so we were in business. By “out of to-go boxes” they’d meant those awful Styrofoam boxes.

So I and the two gentlemen behind me fanned out in front of the buffet to see what was available, which was when I got a look at them. One of them had a full head and mustache of white hair and could have been mistaken for Omar Sharif. The other was younger, but probably not by much. They used English to speak to the restaurant worker and to commiserate with me, smiling, then turned to each other and had a conversation in …

“What language are you speaking?” I asked, putting my hand on the younger man’s arm* to politely interrupt. “I’ve traveled a little, but I’ve never heard this.” Oh! Those rolled Rs! This language was like music.

“Arabic,” he said, and they both smiled. I smiled. We were all smiling. The younger man said, “You should visit Jerusalem,” in the manner of passing on a well-kept secret. “It is beautiful.”

And that was it, just a few words, but it made me happy today.

* Later I wondered if, by touching him, I’d violated some social custom. But they are here in Tennessee, and I am a woman who touches people when she talks to them. Also, they didn’t react in any way other than to smile and keep the conversation going.

Not by appointment do we meet Delight
And Joy; they heed not our expectancy;
But round some corner in the streets of life
They, on a sudden, clasp us with a smile.
—Gerald Massey (1828–1907), The Bridegroom of Beauty


In December, Everything Came to a Head

We’ve had a lot going on here. My workload’s been heavy (that’s good, actually) but with deadlines that moved up and down my production schedule (publishers and authors sometimes shuffle things around), which caused bottlenecks and logjams that raised my stress level. (In fact, my young whippersnapper doctor put me on a low-dose blood pressure medicine late in the year. But that’s another story entirely.)

In September we learned our beloved cat, Bean (that’s her photo at the top of this blog), was sick—probably lymphoma, which is incurable, but we continued to try various meds and nutrition changes, as well as an ultrasound and needle biopsy on the sixth of December. She was weakening, and my heart was breaking.

In October our annual termite inspection yield the information that our master bathroom floor might fall through, so while we wrangled with the insurance company, we decamped to the upstairs bathroom for our daily ablutions. It took weeks to get the paperwork settled, and work finally began on December fifth. There was dust everywhere. Thank goodness we hadn’t had time to put out Christmas decorations, or they’d have been dusty too.

In November, finally, some good news: my son and his fiancée married. Actually, that was a really special day amidst a month of growing strain. I was working night and day to dismantle my logjam. Bean needed meds and you try giving a cat a pill. It was just … a crazy time. Not good, not bad, but a lot.

Happy couple a few days later: Thanksgiving at our place.

And then, on December eighth, we got a call from Dublin in the very early morning that we’d been worried would come. Gerry’s eighty-seven-year-old mother had been in and out of the hospital all year. Her body wasn’t well but her mind was still just as sharp as a tack. Since Gerry had married me and returned with me to the United States in late 2015, his younger brother, Richie, and Richie’s wife, Isolde, had taken on the responsibility of keeping an eye on Bridie. It hadn’t been an easy year for them either.

The call was from Richie: Bridie had gone to the hospital that morning. The question had already been asked (“She has a son in America—should we call him home?”) but the answer we received at 5am was “Not yet. Let’s wait and see.” So I went off to my doctor for my annual physical at 8am and, of course, my blood pressure was through the roof—I left with a prescription for the low-dose bp meds, madder than a wet hen about it too. Which did nothing to lower my bp.

• • •

(Here’s a tip about that. In those crazy early morning hours, I’d had a cup of tea and a piece of toast, forgetting that they’d take blood at my physical. By the time I got back to the clinic for the bloodwork, it was after Christmas and my blood sugar was up too. A nurse friend of mine rolled her eyes at me, reminded me that stress also causes blood sugar to rise, and said, “Jamie, don’t ever schedule a physical during the holidays!” And I won’t.)

• • •

            By the time I got home, though, “Wait and see” had become “Come home now.” Gerry had already made arrangements with our phone carrier for an international plan, and we came up to the office and sat down at our dueling computers and started looking for a flight for him. I would not be going with him. (Cats, meds, dog, deadlines, and so on.)

Back in the day—you know, when America was great and all that—the airlines offered a sympathy discount for hardship cases like final illnesses and funerals, but no more. We were shocked at the cost of a round trip flight from Nashville to Dublin: the cheapest was British Airways at $3135. It was enough to make us weak in the knees. So we called them. It never hurts to ask, right?

Welp … nope. No family emergency discount. However, the clerk took pity on us and gave us a tip, which I’m passing to you in case you don’t already know it.

• • •

When you are buying tix online, you’ll be asked to choose if you just want the flight, or if you want flight+car or flight+hotel or flight+car+hotel. Let’s say you choose flight+car. You print out a little voucher for a good rate at the car rental place. You don’t pay for it then, you just print the voucher. Magically (!) your flight cost is reduced by half. No joke: the cost went to $1572. The clerk said, “When you reach your destination, just drop by the Hertz window and tell them your plans have changed.”

• • •

            And so he did. Thanks, BA.

I didn’t work much that day. I just helped Gerry gather the things he needed to pack for a two-week stay. (I am proud of the fact that I had stashed 50 euro in bills leftover from the last trip—and several one- and two-euro coins—so Gerry didn’t have to fly off without cash other than dollars.) We were both rattled. And that afternoon I drove my husband to Nashville and put him on a plane to Dublin in the hopes he could see his mother before she parted from this world.

I came home and started sending emails to Gerry’s former work colleagues and other friends of ours, to let them know Gerry would be in Dublin and why. I let our family know. I let our Facebook friends know. I scribbled lists of things I needed to do. I went up and down the stairs letting the dog outside—she stands in the hall and does this low growl until she has your attention—gaining a new appreciation for just how much time Gerry spends letting Suzy out to pee. 🙂

Bridie died Friday just before midnight Dublin time (that would be 6pm our time). Gerry was waiting to board his flight in Chicago, having spoken with her on the phone a little earlier. One of the nieces sent me an electronic message.

Gerry arrived in Dublin in late afternoon on Saturday, precisely twenty-four hours after he’d departed Nashville, and Richie and Isolde took him home and fed him breakfast for supper and put him to bed. The funeral was scheduled for Wednesday. He spent the rest of his time in Dublin emptying the house, speaking with the solicitor, speaking with the realtor, speaking with the bank, and so on. Richie was right there by his side. It was exhausting.

Here at home, the rest of us tottered on. The diuetic I’d been prescribed for the blood pressure made me feel like I’d been run over by a truck. I could barely climb the stairs I felt so fatigued. Also low-grade nausea. But. Just. So. Exhausted. Aaaaagh. (Fortunately it only lasted for a few days.)

Suzy wasn’t getting walked, and she missed her guy. The two of us were walking wounded. On Facebook I posted Opportunity of a lifetime! Take a stroll around the block with the world’s sweetest dog! but got no takers. December is a really busy month for everyone.

The construction in the bathroom continued, which meant our backyard gate was often open. Gerry’s very cautious/aware about these things, but one morning I let her out to do her business, failing, while I was on the phone informing the dentist that Gerry would not make his appointment on Wednesday, to notice that the gate was open… and when I called for her, she was gone. I called and called: Suzy! Suzy!


So instead, I called for Spot the cat, using his mealtime call: SPIT-Spot! SPIT-Spot! He responds very well to it. So does Suzy. So what to my wondering eyes should appear but a seventy-pound yellow Lab who never misses a meal. She was on the driveway between the front yard and the back yard. Came on the run.

I always checked the gate situation after that. We’d had enough trouble.

Yes, Suzy finally took me for a walk today (dragged me around the block). That’s a plastic cup I scooped out of the gutter when I realized I’d forgotten a poop bag. Fortunately I didn’t need to use it.

Those two weeks seemed like two months. I had to let go of a lot of my personal expectations—put up a Christmas tree, decorate, send Christmas cards—and reached a peace with myself. I told myself I’d get to some of it when I could, but for the moment, I just tended to my work and my pets and sat in the hot tub, and knew that all of us would be happy to see Gerry on the other end. I wrapped one present a day and stacked them on the piano.

When you don’t have a tree, the Christmas Piano will do.

I started checking flight status early and learned that Gerry’s plane out of London Heathrow was delayed. His Chicago flight was due in Nashville at 10pm … but who knew? I’ve been on more than one flight that was held for someone making a tight connection, so I was hoping for that. I checked the flight roster—there was one more flight out of Chicago that night. So I went and brewed a pot of tea.

Ultimately, the fully boarded flight out of London was delayed by an hour and 45 minutes. Why? Because somehow someone had been allowed to board the plane to Chicago whose “paperwork was inadequate to enter the US.” That person was removed from the plane, of course, but the main delay was removing that person’s luggage from the plane. How does that even happen? I still don’t have an answer.

• • •

            But here’s a third tip: If you are flying from Ireland to the US and you have a choice, use a flight that goes directly to the US (Chicago, Boston, NY, DC, Newark, Charlotte, Atlanta … probably others). This allows you to pass customs in Dublin before you ever board a plane. It’s a hassle, you have to be there even earlier than normal, but it’s much less painful than landing in the international terminal, going to baggage claim to collect your luggage, passing through customs, then changing terminals, re-checking your luggage, passing through security, and boarding the next plane.

• • •

            Nonetheless, we took the tickets we could get two weeks ago, and this is what Gerry had to do. There was one last flight to BNA from ORD that night and British Airways took care of booking him on it while he was still in the air. So he collected two pieces of luggage, took them through customs, found his gate, checked the luggage again. As he was boarding for BNA, he got a text from the airlines: “Ooops, sorry, one of your bags didn’t get on the plane. It will follow on the first flight in the morning.” (We’re still puzzled by this. He was there in plenty of time for this flight. He checked them both simultaneously. But one didn’t make it? Why?)

The flight landed at its advertised arrival time of 11:20pm. I was sitting in the huge new park-and-wait and had been since 10pm. Waiting. Tired. Gerry called and said “Don’t come to the terminal until I have my luggage.” So I waited and waited and waited … until 12:30am. Why? Because Gerry had to prove who he was (him with the oops email from the airlines!) and document every leg of his trip, before anyone at the airlines would even agree to say they knew where his missing luggage was! And more paperwork! And me sitting in the park-and-wait having these fantasies about hugging my husband close when I finally laid eyes on him.

“I’M COMING TO GET YOU NOW,” I texted in all caps. “THIS IS RIDICULOUS.”

You would think that the Nashville airport would be reasonably quiet and calm at 1am. But if it’s two days before Christmas, you would be wrong.

Side note on the new arrivals lanes at BNA: They suck. In years past we had a simpler system, a thing of beauty, really, but sometime in the last couple years, airport expansion construction eliminated the ten-minute pull-in parking for loading arrivals and left us with three lanes plus a fourth separated by sidewalk, and it’s insanity because people don’t know how to use it. Drivers are stupid, stopping in the middle two lanes to load their people, thus holding up the entire process, rather than pulling to the two available curbs (lanes 1 and 4) to load, leaving lanes 2 and 3 for through-traffic.

By the time I decided to drive to the terminal, these lanes were backed up well past the curved arrivals entrance (if you know BNA, you know what I mean). And it was raining. When I pulled to the curb, Gerry was banging on the trunk, waiting for me to pop it. He had the suitcase in the trunk before I was out of the car. “This is madness!” I shouted over the roar. No tender hug. “Take me home now!” he shouted back.

• • •

Future tip for airport pickups (especially at holidays): pick up your beloved arrival at departures. Traffic in these lanes is moving quickly, so everything’s more relaxed. In Nashville departures are up one level from baggage claim, and you’re tired and dragging luggage, but pickup goes a lot more smoothly, I’m told.

• • •

            We fell into bed around 1:30am. Gerry awoke at 5am, still on Dublin time. I slept until 6:45am (late for me). We have had breakfast. We are, otherwise, an advertisement for the Walking Dead. But he’s home, and we’re a little travel-wiser. Merry Christmas!