They were the flotsam and jetsam of the midcoast population. For at least short portions of their lives, usually post-divorce, they were so desperate that they became roommates at Cobb Manor, Camden’s answer to “Animal House.”

Shortly after being evicted by my own divorce decree, I discovered a three-bedroom house in Camden on an acre of land with a mountain view for only $38,000, $500 down. Needless to say, this was 20 year ago. Prices have increased somewhat since then. Now the down payment for a Camden house is $38,000. My children decided to live with the parent and I was left with two perfectly good, empty bedrooms.

During a lunchtime conversation in the epicenter of midcoast social life, the Rockland Coffee Shop, Grady and Larry (last names will be omitted to spare the guilty) complained about their housing woes. I proposed that we move in together and share the house and the grocery bills.

Cobb Manor was born.

Larry lasted until we found him washing his infected feet in the kitchen sink with the dish sponge. Later, I found him cutting insulation with my best kitchen knife.

Grady lasted until she got a job in Augusta. We shared suicidal eating habits and used to eat sandwiches while we were waiting for the nachos to cook in the microwave. We ate so much that skinny Larry would prepare a meal for himself when he wasn’t even hungry, just to get his share of the food. He used to call it “eating in self-defense.”

We had three bedrooms and three phones. Grady would make midnight calls to the other rooms to get the latest gossip, especially about Larry’s latest “relationship.” If you didn’t laugh yourself to sleep every night, it meant Grady was still out on the prowl.

After that, the roommates came and went. With boat building and photographic schools in the neighborhood, someone was always looking for a room. One boat builder moved out and left a $100 phone bill behind. It seems that a girlfriend had called him collect from Dublin. A South Portland collection agency chased him down, finally. Another one called a West Coast porno phone business so often that he exceeded his credit card limit and the charges ended up on my phone bill. Try explaining that to the little woman.

They were strange and stranger. One tent maker used to leave on subzero winter nights to climb the ice on Mount Battie. “If I am not back by midnight, call the police,” he would say. One social worker kept her cat in her closet.

They were a thirsty lot and loved to party. There was a party for any reason, any time of the year. Cobb Manor was the first stop on any high school bottle drive. I believe the manor has paid for more than one field trip and swim meet. We did our part. The police came only a few times. Something about fireworks, I think.

They were not all bad. Newly divorced Donna moved in, painted the house from top to bottom and ordered her father and brother-in-law to build a deck – for free. Good omelets, too. She put up the “Cobb Manor” sign that still waves. We really hated to see her go. Something about a new husband.

Newly divorced Mark was a nearly normal roommate until he bought a Harley and went insane with the women. Every Sunday morning, a new woman would come down the stairs with him. If he really liked them, they were introduced and stayed for breakfast. Most of them were rushed out the door, anonymously. One night, he was entertaining two women and third came banging on the door (with her high heels) and demanded to be let in. Poor Mark had to call the police to get rid of No. 3, who was found hiding under the deck.

Mark not only solved the mystery of power tools, he also bought 100 pounds of lobster every year for the Lobster Festival party.

Walter introduced the radical practice of doing dishes after every meal, a testament to his parent’s teachings.

The last roommate, Big Pete, claims to be an ex-Marine who fought from Iwo Jima to Saigon, with stops at Dunkirk and Omaha Beach. He also claims to be an actor and a screenwriter. We all just nod because he is 6 foot 6 and 300 pounds, and few care to argue. Plus he cooks and cleans, mows and shovels, and loves to pick up the check.

Now, 20 years later, the place is almost paid for and roommates are no longer required. Cobb Manor will become just a memory. My ex-children have called the house a “half way house for divorced men.” A local scribbler has dubbed it “a home for gentlemen of reduced circumstances.”

I call it “The house of 1,000 laughs.” It will be funny living alone again. I should write a book.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmears@msn.com.