Scotty is known by many people for many things. He’s the second person Diana and I ever met upon landing in Anchorage to interview for jobs 18 years ago, and not by design. Darcy Davis, desperate to abandon her role as director of the Alyeska Ski Club, invited us to her home hoping to talk me into trading places. We had the quintessential Alaskan appetizers, totally foreign at the time, and made polite conversation. When Scotty pulled into the driveway unexpected, Darcy looked in horror and said to her husband Mark, “Oh shit. Scotty just showed up.”

Sacked by the Alyeska Ski Club four years earlier for reasons still shrouded in mystery, Scotty still harbors some less than glowing emotions with regard to his former employer. “I give you two years. Max!” These were the first words I remember Scotty ever saying. Now a painting contractor, he looked us up and down, figured we’d be dumb enough to last maybe one year but not two before being chewed up and spit out by a notoriously brutal board of directors.  Fast forward eighteen years.

Scotty is now “Uncle Scotty.” Sponsor of various Kéa endeavors and a ranking member of our family. He’s also the best contractor in the world. I could give you ten thousand reasons why, but topping the charts is the fact that he won’t take our money. It’s not a great business model, I know. But the customer satisfaction is off the hook. I have no idea how he could have run a non-profit like the Alyeska Ski Club into the ground.

Not only does Scotty reject payment for services, he also invests his own money into your projects. If any of you out there need a contractor, give me a shout and I’ll fire off Scotty’s contact info. He’s unreal. He even springs for good seats to Foo Fighter shows. This guy is all time.  All kidding aside, Scotty flew to Rhode Island on his own dime to help us resurrect our dilapidated failed experiment of a summer home turned shanty. We have 10 days to get this place from squalor to satisfactory.

I know that many of you (3) have been anxiously awaiting this blog. I understand that. Mainly because of the inverse relationship of your happiness and mine. I have been mired in utter dread to begin this project. Our story starts with a brutal red-eye, sleep deprivation, and mind bending bumper to bumper right coast traffic. All fun stuff, but not if the fun is at your expense.

I hate red-eye flights. I’ve never been able to sleep in a seat and there’s something about seeing the 500 pound sledge hammer as it hurls on it’s arc toward your head that hurts worse before it even makes impact. It’s the anticipation of discomfort. Someday I’ll learn how to just suck it up and deal, but for now I still suffer on the overnight expeditions. Jet lag and a chronic lack of internet has delayed the stream of suffering from New England to the far reaches of our globe. Let the misery begin.

After 24 years of bashing the great state of New Hampshire, I have to finally admit it’s a pretty nice place. At least the Seacoast. I was grandfathered into the nine-miles that is the gated community of the New Hampshire Seacoast in 1994 when I slipped through security as an invited guest of the Stram family. Little did they know I would eventually marry into it’s high society land of perfectly manicured properties spaced exactly so among the rugged coastline. Thankfully the background checks weren’t that thorough in the old days. Now they’re stuck with me.

This is the nice part of the story. New Hampshire. Land of Stram, Lobster, Lobster Rolls, Lobster Salad, Lobster Bisque, Lobster Pie, and Strams. After many Strams and Lobsters over the course of three lovely days, it was time to get down to business. I’ve beat around the bush quite a bit in this rambling intro of 91 Why Street, and for good reason. It’s torture. Our 131-year-old home in Wakefield, Rhode Island needs some work. We knew this. Our tenants of the last three years are vacating and it’s time to provide some long overdue differed maintenance. This is the story of long distance slum-lording, and the pain of renting something you love to complete idiots.

Today was day one. And no day one would be complete without ripping the jungle out of your windows, flying in your own contractor because our tenants are not the only complete idiots, and a nice four hour trip to the ER. Stay tuned, this party is just getting started.

Never ever rent your home to anyone. In fact, don’t even invite your friends over.

“I didn’t notice Jack or his Beanstalk, but the Giant is my friend.