The Humble Landlord
By Steve Abramowitz
My father was built like a linebacker and hollered like a coach. One evening in the late 1950s, I accompanied him as he went door-to-door to collect rents. A tenant called Schoenfeld—I only recall his surname—paid his rent reliably, but he was always a month late and he didn’t include the late fee. This drove my father “nuts.” That night, he unloaded on him. When I asked my father why he had to be so hard on Schoenfeld, he had a few choice words for me, too.
“Stevie, you’ll go to one of those pom-pom colleges,” my father said. “I graduated from the school of hard knocks. You’re too soft. Don’t be a wimpy landlord.”