Rod Stewart and I have something in common. Besides funky fashions I mean.

I reside in a summer home.

Don’t I wish I mean this one! This lemony behemoth in Palm Springs belongs to Rod Stewart. Not pictured is the beach that comes with. Hand me a cool $13 million and I might summer in style too.

My summer home’s a tad a fuckin’ lot more modest. It has the small rooms, tight corners, narrow spaces and closets and low ceilings characteristic of homes built in the ’60s.

Now. Slobs. Selfish. Smokers.

These are three types that in particular I don’t care to live with, given a choice.

To the list I’d add psychotics and soci0paths, though they do make intriguing and important character studies for a book.

I cohabitate with one of the five – to the best of my determination to date.


A heavy smoker. And a retiree, which returns plentiful opportunity to stink up the house, if I may put it bluntly.

It’s summer and thank god for huge favors and blessings and, not to be overlooked, the fact that Colorado HAS summers for I remember all too vividly certain places that do not and I’m not traveling down that dreary damp death march again.

What makes these tight quarters work is the backyard.

The Anaheim peppers and tomatoes and green onions bordering the grass. The fire pit sheltered by trellises of viney flowery greenery whose name I forget that’s taken over.

The covered patio with two hanging hammock chairs, assorted lounge-y furniture, hanging plant and chimes and oh so luckily an outlet that enables me to blog from outdoors (and I do, daily); this is especially fortunate since my aged laptop battery now has a lifespan of a gnat.

Hot tub. Old-fashioned clothesline — the home’s original. Humongous grill.

You get the sweet picture … speaking of which, one day I shall post a couple of this lovely creation that can be largely credited to the talented roommate Kris, who amongst kin alone inherited her grandfather’s gifts for building and construction.

The yard, which in total square footage probably equals if not exceeds that of the home’s street level, is inviting … relaxing … the perfect place to be in summer.

Particularly with a smoker in the house!

In snowy chilly winter, not so much.

In several short months that shall pass too quickly, all this “goes away.” Buh-bye languid afternoons on the patio. Adios earth and sunny blue skies at my visual fingertips and toes. S’ long clean fresh dry air restoring health.

Hello lungs gasping for oxygen through the toxic cloud.

Presently I escape to the outdoors. That’s my out valve and a good one.

And a necessary one, if I may add, given longstanding chronic respiratory issues of my own, though they might be considered mild in view of hers, emphysema and more and please no questions about the continued smoking, I don’t know.

Indoors, I deal with the smoke by keeping my bedroom door shut.

And before sleeping putting a long pillow on the floor against door. That’s because there’s about an inch gap between door bottom and hardwood floor, the ghost of carpet past.

And the smoke from Marcy’s death sticks, she a very early riser, was wafting into the room, waking me up from a dead sleep. Speaking of dead, oh, never mind. And this occurring even though she was smoking at the other end of the house, hence the fluffy sealer.

You get the picture. It ain’t pretty. In fact, it looks something like this:

All of which leaves only two questions.

One, come the cool season, would it be rude of me to walk around in one of these? It does, after all, discourage dialogue.

And two, where in the world does Rod Stewart winter and when can I move in?


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