Nutjob

I could not locate the phrase or word nutjob in any of the dictionaries I consulted and take its absence as liberty to proffer my own definition...nutjob n. / slang / person whose delusions adversely impact surrounding habitats. Unlike narcissist and bipolar, which are unduly clinical, or jerk and a--hole, which are respectively bland and uncouth, nutjob possesses a richer and more playful timbre - in the same spirit as blowhard, yet, like the term douche bag, is more derogatory than calling someone a piece of work.

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You may wonder how I became an authority on nutjobs. Well, for nearly a decade I lived a stone's throw away from one. Credentials aside, you may then ask how any of this relates to Evins Mill. It doesn't - except for nutjobs. You see, years ago my neighbor converted his residence into what is known as an "event venue," a municipal designation allowing homeowners in residentially zoned areas to host special events.
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If the term special event sounds benign, note that it is often a coiffed euphemism for a large and lively reception. Maybe my friends and I were unusually raucous, but the wedding receptions of my early adulthood were among the most exuberant and profligate events I've had the pleasure of attending – if not always accurately recollecting. Think about it. It's a highly charged affair to begin with. You're young. The drinks are flowing. The band is playing. You and your chums are all dressed-up - and so too is that cute bridesmaid you've been eying. The evening is pregnant with possibility, from romantic forays to sophomoric hi jinks.
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While I can still howl at the moon with as much verve as my younger self once did, I do believe businesses should host such nocturnal revelries in appropriately zoned areas, not in residential neighborhoods. My opposition to this endeavor didn't just irk my nutjob of a neighbor - it drove him apoplectic. With a weak case to defend, he did what many politicians do to advance their interests - deflect attention away from the substance of an issue by impugning the integrity of those with opposing viewpoints. His primary line of attack framed me as a rival business owner, intent on devouring the competition - and his home to boot.
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No matter that dozens of other neighbors with no affiliation to the hospitality industry also opposed it. No matter that Evins Mill is located on a forested and restful forty acres over an hour from the nearest urban center, while my neighbor's home sat on a half-acre lot in an urban neighborhood. No matter that I served on the board of the state association of inns and was later asked to serve as its president. No matter that when my neighbor once inexplicably asked me to acquire his home - and thus his business, I categorically refused.
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No matter that nothing in my biography suggests I am motivated by such avarice. None of this mattered to Nutjob, who incessantly pitched neighbors and city officials alike that I was unscrupulously trying to sabotage his business expressly to benefit my own. So convinced was he of this fabricated and far-fetched reality, he eventually sued me for $50,000 and filed an injunction that would have effectively muzzled my opposition. He later retreated - perhaps even he grasped the absurd.
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Other than disclosing his gender, I've taken every precaution to hide Nutjob's identity. It would be in poor taste to do otherwise, though prudence also played a role - I'm not exactly itching for another fight. To be safe though, I've established a legal defense fund and ask you to consider a donation or note of support by clicking here. Or if you're an attorney and are open to bartering with Evins Mill, call me - after this blog, I may need to lawyer up and mount another defense.

Mob

Push come to shove, I could perform nearly every job at Evins Mill – not all of them well mind you, but if necessary I could cover for most of my employees. If my reservationist and accountant chose to take simultaneous vacations, it would be a royal pain in my ass, but I could pick up where they left off without skipping much of a beat. Were our housekeepers inexplicably to walk out, I could - at great strain to my body and dishonor to the profession, turn-over rooms.
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Should the dining room need a server, I could lend a helping if not a clumsy hand. If our groundskeeper suffered a prolonged illness, I could operate many of his gadgets, though probably not without injuring them, myself or both. Even if our innkeeper took a sabbatical, I could fill in for her too, albeit with only a fraction of her grace under pressure. More to the point, I know enough about these jobs, or could learn quickly enough, to train acceptable substitutes.
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While none of the above is to diminish the challenging work these positions entail, it is to say that in a pinch – and as a business owner I regularly entertain such pinches, I could maintain the Inn's unruffled facade even while the challenge may discombobulate me. There are two notable exceptions to this rule, that is, two employees whose jobs I could not, without years of training and practice, adequately perform.
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One is Gary, our plant manager, who oversees our physical structures. When Gary retires, an event I trust is years away, it will be a significant loss to me, for Gary brings to fruition many of my plans to develop and expand the Inn's physical plant – an endeavor in which I take enduring pleasure. But while my job would be less fulfilling without Gary and fraught with more maintenance headaches, day-to-day operations would proceed smoothly enough.
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The other exception is Jason, our executive chef, who…well, you know what he does. In yesteryear, we viewed the beauty of the property and charm of the facilities as the main attractions, with the cuisine as a mere side show. While the property remains scenic and the facilities much improved, cuisine has gradually taken center stage, as Jason confidently predicted it would when we started working together seven years ago.

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On one hand I am clearly heartened by this development. It has elevated the Inn to a more refined level of hospitality, brandished its market appeal, buttressed our bottom line and prompted me to accord cuisine the preeminent place it deserves. On the other hand, that more and more guests are as likely to associate Evins Mill with good food as they are with breathtaking scenery is somewhat unsettling, as food now shares the driver's seat with me, and if there's one thing I'm not fond of sharing, it's the steering wheel. As long as my co-pilot is competent, and he is, all is well. As long as...
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I’ve divined no evidence that Jason plans to relocate anytime soon – and I should stress that such prospects did not precipitate this essay. There are in fact encouraging signs he may linger at least a little while longer. But to be safe I should warn him that if and when he ever contemplates a new job or career, he may look out his window one night to face a large and angry mob, an unruly and determined cadre of patrons and co-workers protesting his decision. While I may not have organized this rabble, I will quietly be egging it on.

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.