A Hundred Year Story, Part 41

By Elton Camp

The tenants of Highland Hall and my apartment

A steady stream of renters came and went at Highland Hall, the old mansion where I lived
in Columbus, Georgia in the 1960s. Some of them were strange characters.

Living upstairs were John and Sandy Case. He’d been drafted into the military. John
made no secret of the fact that he highly resented his involuntary servitude. Their car was a
formerly beautiful 1959 Ford Convertible, but since they’d lived in the north, salt on the roads
had eaten large holes all in the lower body. Mrs. Smith lent them money to get it fixed. Sandy
was pregnant when they left. One weekend they went to Guntersville with me on a visit. I’ve
often wondered how things worked out for them.

Jack Hawk was a boy directly out of high school who came to Columbus to attend an art
school. He was severely handicapped with withered arms, but he had enough control of them to
be able to manipulate a paintbrush. Once he brought an example, a lighthouse, for us to see. He
was obviously proud of it. I thought it was rather well done, but Mrs. Smith openly criticized it.
Her criticism stung. It was obvious that it both angered him and hurt his feelings. She’d been an
amateur artist, so was doubtless a better judge of such matters. Several of her paintings hung
throughout the mansion.

The most obnoxious renter was Lt. Horn. As a lowest-ranking officer, he was entitled to
housing on the base at Ft. Benning, but he decided to take a room in town. Military ardor and
arrogance were his chief attributes.

“I think he wants me to salute him each time we meet,” fumed John Case who was a
private. “That’s one reason we live off the base. I hate that kind of thing. I’ll move before I’ll
salute him.” Horn never pressed the issue.

Occasionally, Ft. Benning would call in the early hours of the morning for Lt. Horn to
come. The only phone was in the common area. Although he had to know it was for him, the
man never got up and answered it. The ringing would continue endlessly until somebody, usually
me, got up and responded. The last time that happened, I asked, “Do you know it’s four o’clock
in the morning?” I slammed the phone down. Shortly after that, Horn moved back to the base.
The man rudely assumed that everyone around him shared his nationalistic views. It was good
riddance.

Once the landlady grudgingly rented to a young woman. Normally she didn’t take
females, but the room had been vacant for some time. She wanted the money. The main thing I
remember about that renter was an occasion when Mrs. Smith and I were sitting in the commons
area when she strode up in a new light pink pants suit for us to admire. The girl spread out her
arms and asked, “How do you like it?” Mrs. Smith got an angry look on her face, slammed both
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arms down onto the arms of her chair, but said nothing. When I’d told her how nice she looked
(the only acceptable analysis) the girl went back to her room. By that time Mrs. Smith had
realized that her failing eyesight had deceived her. “I thought she was naked,” she whispered. I
wanted to laugh, but didn’t dare.

On another occasion she rented to a stuffy middle-aged woman who caused serious
difficulty. “My mink coat cost thousands of dollars. I’m worried that it might be stolen. Is it all
right if I have a deadbolt installed on the closet door in my room?” Mrs. Smith gave permission.
A locksmith came and made the installation. The mink was supposed to be secure. After a few
months, the two women had a serious dispute.

“I don’t have to stay here and won’t,” the renter declared angrily. “It isn’t a fit place to
live anyway.”

“Be sure to give me the key to the closet before you leave,” she asked as the woman
stalked out of the house.

“I paid for that lock, so the key’s mine,” she retorted. “It’s your problem now.”

“Do you think you can get the lock open?” Mrs. Smith asked me later in the day.

It was easy. In about two minutes I had the door open. The lock had been no protection
to the costly mink. Mrs. Smith placed layer after layer of tape over the mechanism so that it
couldn’t be locked again.

At one time, she’d rented the upstairs apartment to a soldier who had a German wife. The
woman wanted to visit her parents in Germany, but couldn’t afford the trip. Soon after that, Mrs.
Smith’s diamond watch came up missing. The watch actually existed as I’d seen it on numerous
occasions. It was a beautiful thing with many good-sized diamonds. I’m reasonably sure the
tenant stole it as she quickly left for the “unaffordable” trip to Germany.

Mrs. Smith collected the value from her insurance company, which highly pleased her.
The money was far more important to her than the watch. She never made the connection with
the tenant as the likely thief. I didn’t suggest the possibility due to lack of proof.

Other tenants occasionally mistreated her in various ways. At times, she seemed to find
things they did amusing. A favorite story of hers involved a couple renting her cottage. After a
couple of years, his job took him elsewhere. Their last day was February 29th. “Here’s the check
for this month’s rent,” the man said. “I’ve apportioned it since we won’t be here a full month.”
The renter had divided the monthly rent by thirty to get a daily rate and then multiplied by
twenty-nine to arrive at the amount. Mrs. Smith was astounded at how petty he was.

“What about all the months that had thirty-one days?” she asked. The man gave her a
blank look. He didn’t seem to get the point. She laughed and then stuffed his check into her
billfold without further argument. “People can be strange,” she commented to me with a chuckle.

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 At the start of my fourth year, when the upstairs apartment at Mrs. Smith’s house went
unrented for a considerable time, she offered it to me. “You can have it for $40 a month.”
That was only five dollars more than I paid for a single room. I accepted immediately since I’d
have so much more room, better privacy, and an unshared bathroom. A long, steep staircase
provided the only access to the apartment. If a fire had broken out, I easily might’ve been trapped.
I thought that unlikely enough to be worth the risk. It would’ve been possible to go through a
window to a roof and drop to the ground in an emergency.

Staircase to My Upstairs Apartment, Interior Below

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 The Spartan apartment had a combination bedroom/living room, a kitchen, a
bathroom, and a large walk-in closet. One wall was filled with windows that ended about
half way down. The back wall had four windows. These provided a commanding view
of the surrounding neighborhood plus plenty of light and fresh air. It was a sharp contrast
to the gloomy downstairs of the mansion. Old Venetian blinds were all that covered the
windows.

The furniture was scanty, shabby, and crude by any standard. It was nothing like
furnishings in the rooms on the first floor. Part of it was lawn furniture. I didn’t mind.
The extra privacy was grand. I managed to move a glider-type couch from a useless
position on the landing at the top of the stairs into the living room. Others who’d lived
there apparently didn’t figure out how to do it and I must admit that it was difficult. The
move took me over an hour. I had to shift it inch at a time to make the sharp turn into the
room. Looking back, I realize that I should’ve disassembled it and reassembled it in the
living room. That simple solution didn’t occur to me. It looked almost like the glider,
bought at Sears, Roebuck, and Company, that’s now in our courtyard at Russellville.

The bed had metal head and footboards that slanted noticeably inward. I shoved
coins, as makeshift shims, into place enough to straighten it. The mattress was old and
swayed in the middle, but was actually quite comfortable. An old dresser with large
mirror and a bedside table were the only other items of furniture. A cheap green area rug
covered part of the painted plank floor. The only light was from a ceiling fixture. I
supplied my own lamp.

The heat was a dangerous unvented gas space heater in poor condition. It gave
off a sharp odor of gas, so much that I was afraid to use it more than a few minutes at the
time. Some of the ceramic grates, designed to radiate heat into the room, were broken. I
felt, in view of the bargain rent I paid, that it’d be wrong to ask her to have the device
repaired. I found a way to heat the room without using it.

The bathroom had the normal fixtures, but the claw-foot tub had no shower. I
fixed this problem with a hand-held showerhead from the hardware store. It fit right onto
the faucet. The small gas heater in that room worked satisfactorily. During the winter, I
learned that it would heat my living quarters if supplemented by a small electric space
heater in the living room. Leading off the bathroom and with a door on the opposite side
to the stair landing, was a walk-in closet that provided more than ample storage for my
few belongings.

The kitchen had continuous windows on both exposed walls, but no coverings.
Here also I had a fine view and excellent natural light. The fixtures were the standard
white, but with a gas stove which I didn’t like. Heat for that room, apart from warmth
from the stove, wasn’t available.

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 Rear of House Showing Upstairs Apartment

The small kitchen table had drop leaves on both sides that interfered with
placement of chairs underneath. After a time I removed the troublesome leaves. Two
years later, I hastily reinstalled them just before I moved away from Columbus. I heard
that the couple renting the apartment next experienced a collapse of the table while
loaded with food. I should’ve attached the screws more securely.

(STORY TO BE CONTINUED.)