Adventures in Summer Housesitting

IT was the answer to my low student-income prayers. A home, with utilities and air conditioning, offered to me for the minimal price of domestic chores and gardening responsibilities. Who are these fools, and why do they trust me?

They were one of those New England couples who head "anywhere but here" and leave their homes to fortunate housesitters like myself. Ideal in theory, housesitting can have some unexpected downfalls, leaving me with the ultimate question: is a rent-free summer really worth all this.?

I live alone on Brattle Street. Brattle Street in Harvard Square is not exactly the Combat Zone, but, when you live alone in a three-story house, it's not exactly Disneyland either.

The slightest creek becomes Charlie Manson revisted, and I can't help but picture my obituary, two lines in The Boston Globe, describing the early demise of a Harvard junior. "If only she had lived with her friends in an apartment, where she would never have been alone" they would be claiming about my folly.

Folly. Or stupidity? I consider myself a semi-bright student who mastered the art of taking phone messages sometime in my early teens. Yet, as a housesitter, I must straddle the fine line between being honest (that the owners will not be home until August) and being discreet. After all, I'm not sure I want all of Boston proper to know that the owners are gone, and this young, inexperienced and often careless student is now a temporary resident.

MY homeowners left a Fundamental Rule that their number in Cape Cod was not to be given to anyone: "not even the family," said the owner. Who am I to ask personal family questions?

But, then, who am I to tell this woman that her son is hiding out for a month, and I can't give her the number. "I'm his mother," she demanded. I was saved from breaking Rule Number One only by her early realization that whatever she had to tell him could wait until August.

My electronic skills have been tested regularly while performing Rule Number Two: never leave the house without turning on the alarm system. Why a home with one key would have three keys for an alarm system defies logic, but I was willing to go along with it.

Until, of course, I was left alone with the monstrosity. When the police arrived three consecutive mornings, I knew Rule Number Two had to be bent, a bit. I now live with the keys in the alarm system so they are in place when the accidental emergency occurs again. It defeats the purpose of having an alarm system, but it at least keeps the police away.

In addition to Rules Number One and Two, my homeowners deposited the responsibility of their much adored and over-protected garden on my non-botanical hands. My goldfish died while still in the plastic bag, and they expect me to know when their plants are hungry?

I think the roses are the children they never had. Yet, I am still not sure whether the death of a fern constitutes an "emergency" worthy enough of contacting the owners in Cape Cod.

NO, a true housesitting emergency is when the owners call to tell you that they will be dropping in for a couple of hours that night when they are in town for a meeting. When they called, I had nine short hours to undo the damage I had done. I was going to reserve the two days before they came home to clean up everything--the coffee mug-stained tabletop, the disordered CD collection, the dirty master bathroom (no other bathroom had a tub so big.)

But now? Some friends of mine became closer friends when I called them up to beg that they owned me. For what? I couldn't remember, but this was important. By 1800 hours, we were ready.

The most severe inconvenience, however, is that the owners have the gall to return. Despite the downfalls of housesitting, the attraction of a place in the suburbs is a drug, and I'm suffering from "Suburban Syndrome." Less of a problem than a sympton, I've been sucked into playing the role of a homeowner.

I come home after work, look through the mail, fix dinner, do some gardening, and before you know it, I'm falling asleep in front of "L.A. Law." I throw dinner parties. I was sent a form letter to join the PTA, and I read it with interest.

I now refer to their house as my home. Now, they're coming back, and I will have to live in a six-bedroom apartment in Harvard Square, with neither air conditioning nor privacy.

Say, do you know anyone who is going on vacation in August?