Graduation

When the Inn opened its doors fifteen years ago, its inventory of vacant rooms was legion, reciprocally matched by the scant resources to market them. As do many businesses in similar quagmires, or with generous hearts, we pandered for inexpensive exposure by donating our services to non-profit endeavors, which as a general rule were grateful for a helping hand.
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The stinging exception was The Swan Ball, which - for the uninformed - hosts what could be the toniest of all charity auctions. Its players include the most pedigreed and dandified from here and abroad, from national politicians and international nobility to local millionaires and social luminaries – or more to the point, an affluent and influential market segment.
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When I approached the Ball’s chair, an arrogant blowhard if there ever was one, he spurned our overture. Though he had never visited the Inn, he assumed it wasn’t up to snuff - too rustic to satiate the rarefied appetites of the monied flock he curried. While I’m loathe to admit it and while the bastard certainly didn’t know it, he was right, for peering back on the Evins Mill of fifteen years ago, I now appreciate that we weren’t ready for prime time.
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The overnight accommodations were without the decor, furnishings and amenities they feature today. The Lodge and Gristmill had yet to undergo the additions and renovations of more recent years. The property itself was less tended than it presently is. Though the staff was industrious and well-meaning, none – myself included, had any experience in hospitality, resulting in a less consistent quality of cuisine and service than is currently the case.
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In some respects, today’s Inn is barely recognizable from the Evins Mill of yore – so different in fact that I cringe when someone informs me they visited during those early years, and feel compelled to enumerate on the progress we've made. I may be grading the Inn of yesteryear too harshly, but by present standards, it was rough around the edges.
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With these humble, and humbling, beginnings in mind, you might imagine my delight when more than a decade later another Swan Ball chair, refreshingly gracious and a recent patron of the Inn, solicited our contribution to this year’s auction. We acquiesced, and I understand the bidding was competitive. It felt as though we had finally graduated.
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If this coming of age snippet appears a wee self-congratulatory, we are only as proud of our progress as we are aware of our shortcomings and the work that remains – we still make mistakes, and the litany of proposed improvements grows weekly. If associated with Evins Mill fifteen years hence, I suspect I will grade the Inn of today with as little forgiveness as I’ve assessed its infancy.

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With all the physical and human assets we have, a critical eye may be the most quintessential, for it guarantees that Evins Mill will not become codified and will remain a singular work in progress, soberly striving for but falling regrettably shy of perfection - a struggle that at least ensures it will be slightly better tomorrow than it is today. Hopefully then, we will always be graduating.

Facebook

Within days of creating my Facebook page this past March, a guy named Damon Addison requested my friendship. I don't know Damon and rejected his solicitation, and with some contempt too – I mean, the chutzpah of a total stranger asking ME to be HIS friend. In an ironic if not utterly hypocritical metamorphosis, two months later I had become that very same guy – on steroids, earnestly affiliating with as many facebookers as would indulge me, however tenuous the connection. How did I mutate from detached amusement to headlong embrace? This is my story.

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More than detached, I initially regarded Facebook and its social networking sisters with suspicion and disdain, viewing them as trite playgrounds for teens and twenty-somethings, apparently with too much time on their hands. I diagnosed them as symptoms of a callow and voyeuristic culture and even assigned to their acolytes an effete if unfair stereotype - you know, that of metrosexuals texting from iphones while sipping lattes.
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Though a healthy dose of skepticism may be in order, some of my condescension also arose from my own discomfort with new technologies and unfamiliar platforms. I'm not what they call an "early adapter" but quite the opposite - I used the same cell phone for nearly a decade. Whatever the roots of my initial hesitancy - indignation or fear, the utility of Facebook eventually felled both.
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For the uninitiated, FB permits fellow users to befriend you as you allow. As you've already seen, I originally took the word "friend" at face value, prompting regular struggles over whether to accept certain invitations. Even if I knew the person, I might not like them so much, may not have seen them in twenty years, etc. In short, they weren't really friends at all, and like my touchstone Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye, I do not well suffer disingenuity and viewed many such invitations as precisely that.
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I soon realized I was applying a more rigorous definition of "friend" than may have been intended - a discovery that would prime my Facebook engine. And as soon as I internalized the potential business applications, the floodgates opened. Unsure whether on-line networking is simply fad or seismic shift in the way people and organizations promote themselves, I bowed to the mammon god, and with missionary-like zeal began sharing the gospel of Evins Mill throughout the FB matrix.
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As of this writing I have accumulated nearly 500 "friends." Of these, the overwhelming majority are patrons of Evins Mill, most of whom I've not met in person, and some not at all. At times I fear I've spoiled some unspoken and hallowed protocol, or offended the Facebook pure of heart with this commercially driven quest. If so, I empathize and take no offense should you part my company.
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While the FB faithful, and even I, may be uneasy with this construct, I am proceeding with all the authenticity that I can muster - and that our guests deserve. With tempered regularity, I share with my "friends" items I hope are of value or substance, whether it be an additional discount for a "fan," recipes from Chef Evans, a lovely picture - or an essay like this one. That many "friends" seem to receive these posts with genuine warmth and appreciation has increasingly allowed me to share them with a more genuine heart and from a more authentic place.
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Authenticity aside - Damon, if you'll give me a second chance, I'd like to be your friend now.

Click

If 2004 was a watershed year for Evins Mill, it was for me professionally pivotal as well, for business was growing at such a healthy clip I desperately needed an office mate. An introvert and soloist by nature, I was deeply disoriented by the prospect of company. So unsettled in fact, I took counsel with my father - a sure sign of my angst if there ever was one.
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While my dad knows little about hospitality, he is well acquainted - many would say masterful - at selecting the right person for a job. I recall in particular one nugget of advice he proffered - "the two of you have to 'click'." Such a vague observation could be construed as prosaic or profound depending on the context, but it was for me deeply meaningful - and timely too, as days later I began interviewing.
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Admittedly maudlin but equally true, when Laurie sat down for our visit, it was something like click at first sight. Qualification of course must accompany click to the job, and with Laurie it did in spades, for if anything she is overqualified. She got the job of course and has performed brilliantly ever since at whatever task I've asked her to tackle. And I'm not laying it on thick either - if anything, I understate.
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Besides mere competence, she demonstrates commitment more commonly associated with ownership than with employment. Similar to the princess and the pea, an unresolved task like an unreconciled account will keep her up at night. Beyond a striking degree of commitment, she exhibits fealty more characteristic of kin than colleague. Outside my wife and mother, Laurie may be the only person who has read and commented upon every blog I've posted. Now that's devotion!

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And speaking of mothers, I soon discovered she harbors a strong instinct to nurture, which can cut both ways, but her innate impulse to protect her own has served the Inn well. As clouds of recession gathered late last year, Laurie was first to throw herself on the proverbial grenade, voluntarily slashing her hours to one day a week.
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So how should we define this thing my father called "click?" It could simply be an amalgam of shared competencies, commitments and loyalties as reflected above. At its essence though I suspect is much more - perhaps something as simple or complex as a shared sense of humor. That laughter often animates our office when Laurie is around may be the surest sign that our own brand of click is alive and kicking.

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It's a fitting parallel that just as our business began to click in 2004, so too did Laurie and I. To commemorate the fifth anniversary of a dedicated employee, some organizations might bestow fancy watches or much more. Not here - we treat ours to a $10 lunch at the Pfunky Griddle - and, if they're really special, a blog-based tribute, which for Laurie anyway might be the most meaningful gift I can give.

Restless

A loan officer at our bank once noted she would love to do what I do - when she retires. Months earlier at a swank social event, a fellow attendee asked me what else I did for a living. During the fifteen years I've developed Evins Mill into what it is today and will become tomorrow, I've fielded such comments and questions not with regularity, but sporadically enough that from time to time I've pondered the substance of my toils - for such remarks insinuate that what I do is not so much work as hobby, not so much business as pastime. Or that's how it feeeels anyway.

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And as far as feelings go, I appreciate the possibility that my defensiveness may well stem from some lurking insecurity I have no appetite to plumb, but that digression aside, I do wonder how often physicians or attorneys, or for that matter plumbers, face similar queries. On one hand, it may simply be a case of mistaken identity, for Evins Mill does in a few respects resemble a bed and breakfast, a worthy endeavor some couples do in fact take up in their golden years as a less taxing means of supplementing their income.

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On the other hand, while Evins Mill features the rusticity and quaintness commonly associated with a B&B, leisure travel in truth constitutes less than a third of our gross revenue. With several thousand square feet of conference and reception space, complemented by a bevy of chefs, waitstaff, housekeepers, groundskeepers and event planners, the majority of our business actually flows from corporate retreats - a weekday clientele that allows us to field a first-string team we can then avail to our "bed and breakfast" guests.

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So what exactly is Evins Mill if not a B&B? It's not an idle question - my wife just recently asked me how to respond when people ask her what I do. I suggested she say I manage a "boutique resort." She was nonplussed, and I don't blame her. Do you have any ideas? Maybe there's a contest here just waiting to happen. Whatever the appellation, I know who we are and what we do and am confident that a majority of our guests are pleased with both - which in the end is all that should matter.
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Which is to say, this should be a fitting end to the story, though I remain restless. I am after all the scion of a successful entrepreneur and attended one of the nation's finest business schools, many of whose graduates went on to pursue sexier careers in high finance, consulting, commercial real estate and the like. I may have built something more than a quaint bed and breakfast, but still, what I've created is relatively diminutive. Am I playing below my grade? Maybe I should have been a CEO, a titan of industry - a "contender" as it were. As it is, I chose the path of a shopkeeper, who every day opens and closes his store by changing the voice greeting to reflect the current date.

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Shopkeeper or not, most would agree that it is one hell of a shop. This, and the fact I built much of it, is a welcome though not necessarily needed boost to the ego. I feel better now - and a good thing too as my time is up.

Gutbomb

Midway between my home and the Inn's reservation office is a Krystal. For the uninitiated, Krystal is a fast-food restaurant that sophisticates would say serves a questionable product to an equally questionable clientele. Much of the chain's dubiety derives from its signature "entree" - a hamburger that is also known by the sobriquet "gutbomb" - apparently in conjunction with the funk some lightweights experience the morning after consuming them.

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That many, including its detractors, patronize Krystal to cap off a night of heavy boozing when few other troughs are available, suggests this funk may be as much the function of a hangover as a hamburger. And while those with a dim or condescending view of Krystal may be in the majority, this mutt of a restaurant inspires cult-like adoration among a jaded minority, of which I proudly count myself a member.

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Now to the point. Once every week or two after dinner, I'll revisit the office for a few hours. Returning home I pass the Krystal on Franklin Road, where once or twice a month with pilgrim-like devotion, I hit the drive-through. I've performed this ritual with waxing and waning piety for five years, placing the same order every time - two Krystals and a small fry. My patronage so tenured and my requisition so consistent, the manager Eric knows who I am as I place the order, and treats me like royalty - or perhaps "like clergy" is a more apt simile.

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On one visit about six months ago as I'm retrieving my repast, Eric announced "this one's on the house." I felt like I had died and gone to gutbomb heaven. Not three months later, Eric extends the same gesture! If the first occasion was a novelty, the second deserved a response. Without a gift budget this year, I decided to give him the only thing I had to give - a certificate for a night's stay at Evins Mill.

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I arrive at the drive-through a few days later, not to place an order but to deliver the present - a singular moment in Krystal history I suspect. As I gave it to Eric, he was at a loss for words, maybe even dumbfounded. I drove away before he opened it, but when I placed my next order six weeks later, Eric must have seen me pull in, for as I'm about to request my usual, I hear through the speaker "two Krystals and a small fry?" Eric had enclosed with my order an envelope in which I later found a heartwarming thank you note and a Krystal's gift card.

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As we spoke that night, I learned he will celebrate his third anniversary at the Inn this July. What is most meaningful to me about this whole exchange is the thought of Eric vigilantly waiting for six weeks to give me that card, not knowing when I would alight next. During those long late night shifts, he must have been holding that card close at hand - if not close to heart. For my part, these reciprocal kindnesses reminded me that thoughtful gestures, however modest, pack a powerful punch - a notion that now more than ever will inform how the Inn treats its own devoted clientele.

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All this mawk and mush has stirred my appetite. Eric - see you momentarily.

Discriminate

In 2004, a bride called to see if the Inn was available to host her wedding. Already sold on our location, she was elated to learn we were game - and then fumbled around what she perceived to be a potential impediment. In most cases when a bride hesitates, it relates to Evins Mill – it may be too small or big, too rustic or posh, too expensive or cheap, etc.

Not so with this bride – everything was just right, but dither she did. Though she was confident of us, she feared we might be wary of her, or at least her same sex wedding. The timidity of her approach confirmed the discrimination she described at other venues and from other vendors. Believing that homosexuals should share equally and officially in the joys and aches that constitute heterosexual unions, I welcomed the chance to offer sanctuary in an apparently unwelcoming milieu. Lest you write me off as a fuzzy-minded, soft-hearted liberal, I may or may not be that, but would note that the cold hard calculus of financial gain was an equally compelling consideration.

Now we do discriminate - in the sense that we make distinctions. All businesses do of course. We discriminate against pets for instance. Nothing against them – I’ve been blessed by the company of dogs for eleven years, but pets, all of whom I'm told are well-trained, could alienate guests allergic to them or kept awake by them. On many weekends, we even discriminate against children. Nothing against them either – I'm smitten by our four year old daughter, but children, all of whom I’m told are well-behaved, may estrange guests who came for the precise purpose of escaping them. And so on.

That we discriminate is beside the point, and it should be noted that “discriminate" is at its root a value neutral word. While discriminating tastes regarding fine art, fine food, fine wine - or fine country inns for that matter - may carry a whiff of snobbery, such discernment is more or less benign. But to apply that same discerning spirit toward those of dissimilar sexual orientation - or for that matter color, ethnicity or religion, is discrimination of a different order. As far as I can tell, what infuses this word with favorable, pejorative or ominous meanings is the fundament of the discrimination - does it derive from a rational principle, purpose or plan, or from a place more opaque?

All that’s too say, should you want to bring your pet to Evins Mill, I regrettably demure, but even as we don't wrap ourselves in any particular flag, if you seek a welcoming haven for your same sex wedding, we’re open for business.

Complain

Not long ago, a guest complained that a stain on the carpet of her room so tarnished her experience that she would never return. Over the years, we've developed a taxonomy of such complaints. It incorporates metrics by which we assess their legitimacy and which in turn help us address complaints fairly and effectively - by which I mean giving or withholding consideration and then fixing the underlying problem, if one actually exists. To prospective guests I should emphasize this is not to suggest we receive an overabundance of complaints, but over fifteen years of running an intensively service-oriented business, you get a few.

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One metric by which we measure a complaint is its degree of subjectivity. At a dinner one night featuring cuisine prepared by the same chef, one guest waxed ecstatic about the molasses pan seared salmon, while another was less enthused. A comment card read that the bed was fabulous, providing the best night's sleep ever, though not days later another card criticized the same bed as lumpy. Ditto with pillows. Some guests have effused at how reasonable our rates are, as others have complained we charge too much. We respect these "personal taste" complaints, knowing full well we cannot be all things to all people.
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A second metric is the degree to which we are responsible for a problem. When a guest once complained that he was unable to enjoy the property as it was raining his whole stay, I genuinely sympathized and not much more, for the fact I am not yet master of the universe. Another guest complained that he was unable to enjoy the sight and sound of water our web site touts. Though we were not responsible for the drought conditions that summer, we are accountable for promoting the Inn accurately and took responsibility for the unintentional and unexpected misrepresentation. On a related note, we quickly amended our web site to read "sight and sound of water in season."

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A third metric is the depth of a problem, defined by the extent to which it adversely impacts the experience. If on one hand a light bulb is out in a room but is quickly replaced, the problem was minor and fixed, and the complaint will be promptly discarded. If on the other hand a heating unit goes kaput on an achingly cold night and we're unable to relocate the room's occupant, serious consideration is warranted and given.
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A final metric is reasonableness. They say the customer is always right, and to the degree you want them to return, I suppose that's true. But I have reservations about this notion, for every now and then a complaint is simply unreasonable, and by any definition of unreasonable that reasonable people might give it. A guest once asked for consideration because she was stung by a bee. Enough said.
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Now don't get me wrong - I'm not complaining about complaining. Well, that's not wholly true - I am sniping at certain kinds of complaints. The intent however is not to grouse but to explain the methodology by which we process criticism. And methodology is critical, for it provides a rational framework for handling complaints that trumps emotional responses driven by timidity or anger. And the same methodology also offers a useful plinth from which we can improve who we are and what we do - which is precisely why we solicit criticism so ardently. So please, complain.