This post is contributed by Barnaby Porter from his archives. Read the previous post here.
I’m a country boy, plain and simple. Except for occasional forays into the city, I’ve spent virtually all of my life surrounded by green grass and woods and water, and, for the most part, I’ve stayed within two stories of Mother Earth.
But I did live in the city once – Portland, Maine; my wife, Susan, and I did, for seven months. It was rather rustic for city living though. We had trouble finding a place to rent and so ended up on the top floor of an old townhouse, which could only be reached by a winding ascent up a rickety old stairway with wiggly banisters.
The rent wasn’t bad; it ranged from $zero to $50 a month, according to how much work I did on the place for the landlord. It needed a lot of work, so we didn’t pay much. The day we moved in we were somewhat jolted to our senses by the reality of the commitment we had taken on.
Plaster hung in big chunks from the ceilings and walls. There was no electricity, only old gas fixtures that didn’t work. There were no windows either, just big open holes where they ought to be. The rooms were filthy. Every surface was covered by black grime, plaster dust and broken glass. The wind and weather whistled through the place like a wind tunnel, and since we had no proper entrance to our home, anyone off the street was able to enter our digs by simply walking in through the door on the back alley, our only way in and out, and up four flights. When he reached the 4th floor, he was there, unannounced and uninvited, without even a door for him to knock on to let us know we had company. And it happened, more than once. Alley cats, too, paid frequent visits, and the landlord’s dog, Moofus, a great white Pyrenees, dropped up once a day, whether we were home or not, to leave his calling card. For his intents and purposes, the 4th floor was a windswept wasteland.
We had no kitchen and no modern conveniences of any kind in the beginning, except for a toilet and a bathtub. This necessitated spending an unreasonable amount of time in the “bathroom” under the flickering light of a candle while we bathed, cooked and washed dishes (in the bathtub). It was a crude beginning, but with wooden crate furniture and a single-burner alcohol stove, we made do, and in time our 4th floor flat became presentable.
We had been promised electricity within the first month, but it never materialized on the 4th floor. As weeks and months passed and our standard of living improved, our desire for something to plug our appliances into took on the character of a serious gripe with the landlord, and I harangued him daily on this matter.
He at last bent under pressure and handed me an extension cord, pointing to the bare bulb light fixture in the ceiling of the 3rd floor landing. Not only that, he presented us with a portable electric oven as a peace offering. It had wings on either side that flapped down to become stove burners. This ancient device said “EUREKA” on the front of it!
The marvel of electricity changed our life. After the oven, we acquired an electric coffee pot, several lamps, a record player and a television set, and each was eagerly plugged into a growing knot of outlet multipliers at our end of that long, black, kinked, frayed extension cord that ultimately looped its way down the stair banisters to the ceiling light fixture on the 3rd floor landing. Susan and I knew we were getting away with something, and I used to listen for (and did actually hear!) crackling sounds in that iffy light fixture downstairs.
With only the stairway for an exit, I worried a bit about fire. For that reason, we had a big coil of Manila rope tied to the railing at the foot of our bed, and each night before retiring, I checked to be certain it was still securely tied. It was also from those days that I developed a habit of hanging my pants on the doorknob so I would know where to find them in an emergency. Susan thought I was nuts.
Then one night we heard sirens, very close by. We both thought they sounded a lot closer than usual. Then we saw red lights flashing around the bedroom walls. “Hmmm,” I thought, and I got up and looked out the window. There were fire trucks and men scurrying on the street below, and to my horror, I saw a fireman with black boots, rubber coat and a red fireman’s hat running to the front door of OUR building with a fire axe in his hands. “Holy mackerel!” I shouted. “We’re on fire!”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Susan said.
“No, I’m not!” I shouted as I grabbed my pants off the doorknob.
“You unplugged everything, didn’t you? You must be joking!” she shrilled at me.
“Yes! No!” I shouted. “Come on!” And I threw the rope out the window. She knew then that I wasn’t kidding.
“Oh my God!” she said. “Oh my God! What am I going to wear?!!!”
I couldn’t believe my ears! This was no time to be worrying about what to wear! “What are you going to wear??!!!” I yelled. “What… Are you going on a date??!!! Put on a hat!” And I made ready to rappel down the front of the building.
Then a fireman on the street, who had seen the wiggling end of my rope, hollered up to me, “Hey buddy! Hold on a minute! It’s only a false alarm!
Well, the relief we felt was considerable, as one might imagine. I looked at Susan, who looked kind of cute in her hat, and we both sat down, shaking. Fire drill or not, this high-rise city life was a whole new dimension in our lives.
Artist and author Barnaby Porter has had a varied career in marine research, aquaculture, and woodworking, among others. Most recently he partnered with his wife Susan as co-owners of the Maine Coast Book Shop & Cafe in downtown Damariscotta. In October 2021, Barnaby completed his tenure on Coastal Rivers’ Board of Trustees after six years of service.
