Manistee, my new home

My life has resembled a gypsy’s the last 10 or so years.
I’ve lived in six different apartments and spent time squatting in my parent’s basement in suburban Detroit between situations.
Each place had its own story.
While attending Wayne State in downtown Detroit, I lived on campus in the Verona Apartments. It was a sprawling place built in 1896 that seemed to not have been updated much in the ensuing years. The wrought-iron elevator sat helpless and non-functioning on the main floor. My roommates and I were on the top floor, the sixth. By the time we reached the apartment door, it was time to take a knee and catch our breath. The folk singer Joni Mitchell lived in the apartment across the hall in the late-1960s. We had to move out before the lease was up because a furious summer storm toppled the chimney, which tore a hole in our kitchen ceiling.
After that, I lived for a year in a walk-up in the Buena Park neighborhood in Chicago. I paid rent at that place working as a parking lot attendant at a nightclub on Chicago’s Southside, a job I quit when some guy tried to wallop me with a road barricade at four in the morning after I got his car towed for parking illegally.
Then, I moved to the Andersonville neighborhood in Chicago, the historically Swedish area of the city. The apartment was extremely far from the El, and since I didn’t have a car, I had to hoof it a mile and half each morning to catch the train. It took me to my gig working at a bookstore on the Magnificent Mile. I could have taken the bus to the train, but it took longer to wait than it did to walk.
Next was a move back to Detroit. After flopping with the folks for a few months, I moved back downtown into a loft on the river front. It was a basement apartment that afforded me a view of an abandoned field, of which Detroit has many. I used to look out the window and see pheasant running around, one more indication that deserted Detroit is slowly reverting back to nature.
And then I was in Chicago again where, for a few months, I lived on the 17th floor of a high rise right off Michigan Avenue in a studio apartment that was way to expensive but had a phenomenal view of Lake Michigan.
Then, I moved into a carriage house flat in the Bucktown neighborhood of Chicago, which earned its name because it was the area of the city where people raised a lot goats in days of yore. I was on the bottom flat and would sit out on the little wooden porch and watch rats frolic each night about dusk. I lived there the longest, two years.
After a brief sojourn back on the parent’s couch in the basement, here I am, living in Manistee.
The place I’m at is just as colorful. First off, it’s got five sinks. I expected the sink in the kitchen and a sink in the bathroom, but there are also sinks in a bedroom, the dining room and a storage room.
And, yes, they all work. Apparently, the place used to be owned by a religious group who hosted retreats for people who all needed their own sink.
I’ve also noticed that there are a lot of cats in Manistee. What’s up with that? Every time I walk or drive down a city street, a furry little feline is popping out from under a porch or from behind a parked car and darting away.
The other thing I noticed about Manistee is that there are actually kids out playing. This makes me smile.
In the Detroit suburbs, the streets are usually pretty quiet while most kids spend hours a day eating nachos and playing video games or watching DVDs in their houses.
The kids playing on the sidewalks and yards in Manistee reminds me of my own childhood in Bay City, where it was hard for my parents and the parents of friends to get us to come inside when the streetlights came on.
It makes me feel right at home here.