Humbug

A guest not long ago commented that she felt awkward and confused at check-out when confronted with the gratuity line on her credit card receipt - and recommended we clarify the Inn’s tipping protocol ahead of time. Though she left a tip at her table as well as in her room, she felt compelled to ante up yet again, not wanting to appear like Scrooge.
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This was an observation after my own heart, for it was delivered not in passive-aggressive wrapping but in a constructive spirit, sealed with a solution. The remark also illuminated a core principle of what we hope the Evins Mill experience would be - which is to say, free from uncertainty. We wish for guests to depart more rejuvenated than when they arrived - and view ambiguity as an energy-sapping agent.
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Furthermore, I’ve been grousing about gratuity for years, as the practice has in my estimation been abused, proliferating from an intensely service-oriented field to arenas where it is ill-construed. Why am I expected to tip a bellhop or barber? Why not throw in the store clerk as well? And speaking of clerks, what’s with that tip jar, behind which some punk just poured you a $5 cuppa joe?
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Tipping at a restaurant is of course a different matter, for in most instances servers are paid far less than minimum wage and depend on gratuity for their economic well-being. But it is precisely this reliance that prompts me to harbor misgivings even here – as tipping foists upon the patron a judicial role in the waiter's livelihood. And assigning responsibility for grade of service can be challenging.
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If the service is deplorable, is my server simply inept and undeserving - or did a colleague fail to show, requiring him to cover twice as many tables. If my server strikes me as gruff, maybe she’s in the wrong profession and unworthy - or maybe we simply have disparate notions of how chummy a server and patron should be. I’m uncertain - and that’s the point.
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In some instances, the restaurant may bear primary responsibility. In trying to cut labor costs, perhaps it scheduled too few servers. Maybe its hiring and training systems are not up to snuff. Surely it will suffer as a result, but so too might a capable server who was not responsible for these failures. Again, I’m uncertain - and again, that's the problem.
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I’m eager to compensate good service - or assign accountability for otherwise if I could fairly do so. But as illustrated above, one can't always, and I wonder if patrons and employees alike would be better served if we jettison tipping altogether and simply reward organizations that attract able servers with robust wages. That was actually the model at Evins Mill for years, though over time employees asked me to incorporate gratuity.
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Fearing it would tread on my precious principle, I resisted at first but eventually acquiesced, for some felt quite strongly about the matter. I also began to appreciate that some guests take pleasure in tipping. And though I didn't perceive its benefit to me at the time, and while I continue to compensate our waitstaff at well above minimum wage, tipping does alleviate payroll inflation.
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Despite my ambivalence and granted my bias, I am inclined to believe that if anyone deserves a fiscal pat on the back, it is the folks who work at Evins Mill. And judging from the tips our guests left them in 2009, I am not alone in this sentiment and am genuinely delighted for my staff - all of whom are most grateful for the generosity. Of this if nothing else, I am absolutely certain.

Mama's Boy

Even as I publish this post, my mother is at Evins Mill replacing the Inn's Fall decor with a Christmas motif. Two months from now, she'll adorn the property with hearts for Valentines Day, then pastel colors for spring, followed by a patriotic theme for summer - after which the cycle repeats itself. She’s performed this ritual exquisitely and free of charge since 1994 - and a good thing too, as God knows I wouldn't pay someone to do it, or what the place would look like were I decorating it.

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I suspect the only pleasure my mother derives from this routine is knowing that she's helping me. If true, this inkling would elucidate a seminal feature of our relationship - that is to say, her giving and my receiving. One ambit of this give-and-take involves food, for even as a grown man, I still receive from my mother periodic caches of pimento cheese, egg salad and a bevy of other homemade delights, including meatless chili to accommodate my new found vegetarianism.

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Her helping hand extends beyond creature comforts. As if rooting for me at yesteryear's high school wrestling match, she is consistently among the first to applaud these essays. More welcome than this, she - along with my father it should be noted - routinely hosts my young daughter for sleepovers. While both enjoy Ivy's company, my mother seems dually motivated by the reprieve it gives her son from the duties of parenthood. Though her baby boy no longer seeks such aegis, he remains touched by the maternal impulse that compels it.

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Say what I might, perhaps the best vantage point from which to capture the depth of my mother's devotion is found in a book called The Giving Tree, which portrays the relationship between a boy and a tree as they grow older. On one hand, the story illustrates profound generosity, for the tree bestows everything she has to bolster the boy - at first her apples for the scamp to eat, later her limbs for the young man to build a house, then her very trunk for the older man to craft a boat, and finally her stump for the codger to take a load off.

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As it turns out, the story also depicts gross ingratitude, for the grown man not once expresses affection for the tree nor reciprocates her kindnesses - never does he mulch around her base, fertilize her soil or so much as lift a hand for the tree - unless wielding an ax. Indeed, the ingrate only visits when something's in it for him and fails to utter a word of thanks for all he's received. I am guilty of at least one offense, but it is not ingratitude - at least not toward my own giving tree.

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So as I bask in the thankful afterglow of the holiday just celebrated and anticipate my mother's December 1st birthday, perhaps this public encomium will reinforce my hitherto private expressions of appreciation - and serve as a more fitting birthday gift than anything else I could otherwise tender. And as to the above referenced offense, it is shamelessly tugging on heartstrings of mothers everywhere - especially mine own, whom I love very much and for whom I am most grateful. Happy Birthday Mom!

Man Up

I recently hatched this rather elegant idea for a development at Evins Mill, which is a peripheral yet necessary predicate to the subject at hand. To the east of our last guest house on the other side of a wide ravine is a thickly forested ridge top overlooking a deep gorge, Fall Creek and the precipice of Carmack Falls itself. The idea may be as brilliant as the land is beautiful.

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As economic conditions improve, we develop this woodland into lots for the construction and sale of vacation rental homes. Variations of the concept are manifold, but in any scenario owners could partake of all the resort's amenities, as well as the services of its maintenance, grounds and housekeeping staff. Equally compelling, our sales office could effectively rent their homes either in tandem with or independent of its own operations.
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And the Inn - without assuming the unsavory risks of owning the homes - could double its overnight capacity, allowing it to host larger corporate events which it now must routinely decline. In addition to amplifying the Inn's share of the corporate market, the expanded capacity would also augment its food & beverage sales and generate a respectable revenue stream via rental and maintenance agreements.
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Brilliant is too strong a word, for it implies originality - and there's nothing faintly unique about the proposal. Unique or not, the more circumspect might divine boondoggle rather than bonanza - and they would have a compelling case too. The land would be costly to develop and sire only a handful of lots. The added capacity could potentially transform the essence of our business - and alienate a loyal clientele in the process. Oh, and did I mention - I have no idea how to pull any of this off?
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And there's another pesky fly in the ointment - we don't own much of the required acreage - an adjacent farmer does. And a farmer, whose family may have owned the land for generations, can have an ancestral attachment to his soil, refusing to part with a family jewel for any price. Fortuitously, this farmer is willing to sell, and more than that, suggested I acquire more soil than needed - beautiful acreage that would serve as a buffer between his farmland and our development. What a break.

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Not so fast, for most anyone will sell you most anything for a price - and his is a deal-killer. The opening salvo of our negotiations came unexpectedly - kind of like an ambush is unexpected. Standing under a tree in the pouring rain on the land in question - city boy in crisp button down and old timer in crinkled overalls - he asked me my price. To my low-ball offer he gruffly grunted "Oh, no, no, no - we can't talk like that. No sir, can't talk like that."
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His stance is not problematic in and of itself and is a routine feature of this particular dance. The dilemma is my capacity for negotiation, which is negligible at best. I'm analytical rather than aggressive, and given to cooperation rather than cajoling. At peace with my strengths and weaknesses, I do in these "to be or not to be" moments envy those who can bluff and bully - that is to say, mislead and overpower to further their interests.

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And something tells me that little I learned in business school will help me as I haggle with this plainspoken and weather worn farmer. If in a few years you start receiving solicitations regarding "Ridge Top Estates" or "Chalets at Evins Mill," you'll know I manned up and negotiated with nerve and cunning. Silence will likely mean failure - and on a very personal level. So wish me luck or give me counsel, for after all, I need some land I'd like to sell you.

Vegetarian

As I hope most guests of Evins Mill would agree, cuisine is nuclear to the experience of staying at the Inn. And since we serve from a limited menu, we take great pains to uncover special dietary needs, or SDNs, which fall into three distinct categories: personal preference - "I don't like...", medical necessity - "I'm allergic to...", and principled choice - “I won’t eat...."

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After diabetics, vegetarians constitute the most common SDN group and occupy a singular place in our pantheon of SDNs, for in most cases their requests seem driven not so much by preference or need as by studied decision. Initially I recorded such requests with bewilderment or rolled eyes. Why would anyone voluntarily forgo such delicacies as bacon or a choice steak?
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Until twelve years ago, I hadn't a clue, for through my early adulthood, I knew of no one who would shun a succulent slab of flesh. Consequently, I associated vegetarians with a mélange of not entirely fair stereotypes – bohemian, tree-hugging, free-thinking, pot-smoking, yoga-loving beatniks. You get it - the kind of stereotype born of ignorance or fear that one can easily drape over anything foreign or threatening.
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Then in 1997 I met, promptly fell in love with and eventually married one of these nuts. Eden lived up to a few of the stereotypes, prompting endless references among friends to Dharma & Greg, the 90s sitcom about a traditionalist and his “new age” wife. While Eden dispelled more vegetarian cliches than she confirmed, it was only a matter of time before my carnivorous background collided with her plant-based diet.
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Our first argument was sparked when she refused to taste my shrimp etouffee. So irked, I insisted all the more. The more I inveighed, the more she pushed back. Needless to say, I didn't get lucky that night. If she were allergic to shellfish, that would have been one thing, but she rejected my offer on principle. And there is something about a principle when it comes to our ingestion, akin to matters of politics and religion, that elicits from many, myself included at the time, a visceral reaction.
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Maybe it’s how a wine lover might feel at a party she’s hosting when serving her cherished Pinot Noir - and a guest refuses on grounds he doesn’t drink. If the guest simply doesn’t like the taste of alcoholic beverages, it’s copacetic, but if the refrain is predicated on moral principle, drinkers may feel a twinge of judgment, which may be one reason I was so incensed by my date. As an aside, I would have rejected the host’s kind offer too - and in the next breath requested a G&T.
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But back on point. I’m not the only one who gave Eden a hard time. Over the years, I’ve watched many others poke and prod her vegetarianism, and not from a genuinely curious place either but with veiled derision. Whatever the provenance of these jibes, my own dim view of vegetarians was naturally attenuated by the mere fact I was married to one – turns out we have more pressing issues about which to disagree.
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Five years ago my views softened further after reading a book titled Eat, Drink and Be Healthy penned by a Harvard nutrionist, which makes a compelling case, backed by mounds of scientific evidence, that our bodies are better served by abstaining from most flesh. My discomfort with vegetarians wilted further as I read article after article about the gross inefficiencies of generating one unit of protein through raising an animal compared to growing a bean or nut - and the concomitant havoc these inefficiencies wreck on the environment.
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Along the way I read other books, including one titled Fast Food Nation, graphically describing the food processing industry, which actually made me sympathetic to the vegetarian perspective – though not so much to become one yet. Then last month, I had occasion to watch video footage of the same industry in action - the piece de resistance as it were, inspiring me to give vegetarianism a try.

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I should stress to our clientele that when it comes to matters of business, I am if nothing else a pragmatist and would never steer our culinary juggernaut in a vegetarian direction unless the market asked for it, which is to say, not in my lifetime – it is my livelihood after all. But to our vegetarian and vegan guests, you are in empathetic hands regarding our own SDN, which based on the evidence at hand seems as much a logical choice as a special need.
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And to friends confounded by my new gastric status - as I originally was with Eden's, I appreciate your dubiety as much as I am nonplussed by it, for I am growing as pragmatic about my body as I am about my business - G&Ts aside. If the decision behooves not only my health but also the environment and other creatures populating the planet, then all the better. Peace out.

Milestones

I just returned from a brunch at Evins Mill to celebrate a milestone occasion - the Inn's fifteenth year of being in business. Commemorating longevity or tenure, milestones almost always arrive in multiples of five or ten. To wit, there's little fan fair when someone turns twenty-seven. Conversely, there are established rules as to the gifts husbands should give their wives on decadal anniversaries. Who made these rules and on what basis? No doubt some cultural maven for quite nonsensical reasons.
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Who's to tell me I cannot give my spouse a Pez dispenser on our tenth and an obscenely large diamond ring on our eleventh? Only my wallet and wife. Capricious or not, these existential markers lead the contemplative among us to bouts of retrospection, wherein we examine the assets and liabilities of our life’s balance sheet, assign values to both, and thereby ascertain, if you will, the equity of our existence. And as anyone who knows me will tell you, I am as much the bookkeeper as I am the brooder.
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And I've had much to contemplate lately - very soon I will have celebrated three milestones within the span of a year and a few months. Our own age is certainly the leading generator of milestones, and earlier last year, I turned forty. Unlike previous milestone birthdays, forty spawned a sobering acceptance – not so much about mortality as about aging. I consider myself young, but some others apparently think otherwise – a gentleman who I sized up as a contemporary, albeit a younger one, recently addressed me as “sir.”
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The bad news is that the furrows lining my brow are not transitory features resulting from momentary concern or deep thought but are permanent, and growing more conspicuous by the day – as are the crow’s feet assembling around my eyes. But all this is pure vanity - who knows what’s going on beneath the hood? The good news is that I've been blessed with unstintingly good health and remain hearty and hale as far as my physician can detect. And unlike some of my contemporaries with receding hair lines, my mane is replete, giving me a renewed appreciation for Sampson's plight.
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As noted above, I celebrated a second milestone this year – the birthday of Evins Mill, a business I started with my father fifteen years ago. The bad news, if it can be called that, is that I’ll never amass great wealth from the endeavor. It is also a capital intensive business, saddling me with more debt than may be wise for someone of my age or income bracket. The good news is that I am captain, and deck hand, of my own vessel, which though modest in scale is grand in design. And in an economy shedding jobs, that I have one is also good news - and not just a job, but an invigorating vision.
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The best news from Evins Mill - and an "asset" of incalcualable value on my life's balance sheet, sprouted from a chance encounter. I vividly remember meeting Eden there twelve years ago and being smitten with her long black hair and big blue eyes – along with some other fetching endowments. I soon fell in love with all of her and a year later proposed we spend the rest of our lives together. Earlier this month, we celebrated the most seminal of all three milestones this year – our tenth wedding anniversary.
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The bad news is that evolutionary biologists speculate that men and women are not ideally wired for monogamous relationships, and judging from the work, tendered with love I would add, required to nurture a healthy one, I suspect they may be onto something. The good news is that while not entirely without friction, our relationship remains vibrant and loving - to the extent I'm inclined to believe we will share many, many more milestones together.
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I use the word "share" rather than "celebrate," as some milestones will inevitably be somber. And to end on a realistic yet hopeful note, while it's unlikely we'll cross the finish line together, I can only hope we will both be available and adequately sentient to comfort one another as we near that most final of milestones.

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.

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.

Value

A prospective guest recently asked me to confirm that the prices on our web site were for two people for two nights. As I informed him that the rates were in fact for two people but only one night, his disbelief was palpable. Days later, an eventual guest asked me to verify that the posted prices were for one person for one night. When I shared the good news, his delight was commensurate with the disappointment of the earlier caller. This dichotomy in value perception is as common as it is confounding. That our web site clearly explains what our rates encompass is grist for another blog, so more on that later.
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Assigning a dollar figure to an inimitable experience, as opposed to a commoditized one, is a confounding assignment indeed. When a guest reserves a room at Evins Mill, the outlay is for more than square footage - and a good thing too as our rooms do not command much space. But how do you quantify drifting to sleep to the sound of a babbling creek, the aroma of a real wood burning fireplace, the taste of a freshly prepared meal, the singular ambiance of a lodge built of hand hewn logs and poplar floors, or the natural wonder of a cascading waterfall?
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At another level, how do you monetize the exacting attention to detail that only an owner-operated enterprise can muster, the knowledge that said enterprise is the unexampled creation of a locally owned and operated business rather than the formulaic progeny of a remote corporation, or the genuine manner with which a staff member welcomes a guest – an authenticity spawned by a sense of ownership only an owner-operated venture can fully nurture? Such attributes are priceless for some and trifling to others. As the market appropriates fluctuating values on all these inputs and many more, the spectrum of value perception is perplexingly broad.
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While we anchor our rates to reality, tethering them to cost and competition alike, our prices in the end reflect not only the value which the market assigns to the Evins Mill experience, but also the value we assign to it. Here’s to the hope that our values continue to resonate in the marketplace.

Reset

A few mornings ago, a commentator on National Public Radio noted he preferred to view our current economic crisis as a "reset" rather than a recession. It should be duly noted that said commentator still has a job. But while the dozen employees of Evins Mill whom I've recently laid off or whose hours I've drastically truncated might see our economic plight differently, there is something to this notion of a reset. The Inn has certainly reset itself - and in earnest.

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From 2001 to 2007, business grew at an average annual rate of 10% - not sexy like an internet start-up but gratifyingly predictable, solid and steady. Small as our business is, the Inn could never afford to grow profligate in its spending, but I see now that we had become sloppy. Projecting a 20% drop in revenue for 2009, we drafted an austere budget to match the times. That projection may be sanguine but even so, we're managing to budget and then some - at February's end, expenses were 15% less than at the same point last year. So while revenue is notably down, our bottom line is a little bit better. And as that news will come as cold comfort to folks who once counted on working a shift, or to those who once sold us abundant wares and services, as a business owner, it does carry a modicum of reassurance.

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So I have multiple and conflicting feelings about this so-called reset. One, I'm despondent that folks who once earned a fair day's wage with us now have less or no work. Two, I'm encouraged to realize there was enough lard to shed and so help us weather the storm. Three, I'm slightly embarrassed for not managing our expenses more tightly all along. And four, I'm painfully aware that our streamlining contributes further to the economic malaise.

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That happier days will return is not in doubt. It's just with so many families and organizations simultaneously pressing that reset button, it may take longer than we like. However elongated, the Inn has internalized a lesson from this crisis, the first such downturn it has weathered in its fifteen year history. It will be better off for it - as will hopefully all of us.

R.I.P.

I just spoke with a guest of the Inn who described himself as an "industrial anthropologist," someone who studies the birth, evolution and demise of industries, or something along these lines. He was fascinated by the story of our gristmill - its inception, history and current function. I later waxed nostalgically, and then a little sadly, about our mill, when I realized that a part of its story is one of industrial emasculation.

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Edgar Evins built the mill in 1939 - four floors of water powered machinery, grinders, cogs, gears, shafts, wheels, conveyor belts and more - all working in unison to generate tangible products - in this case corn and flour. From the few accounts I've gathered, it was an impressive operation - and one that only ran for about five years. Though modern by earlier milling standards, other emerging technologies apparently rendered this form of milling dated, if not obsolete. So the mill faced an inexorable extinction, though its ultimate fate was arrested until recently - at first by Edgar's son, U.S. Congressman Joe L. Evins, who revivified operations in the 1960s.
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The Congressman wasn't pursuing profit but was simply attempting to keep a slice of Tennessee history alive. He disassembled some of the machinery on the first floor to make space for a quaint country store, a noticeable declension from its earlier and grander purpose. The next industrial declension, and one of a more rigorous nature, occurred in 1991, when my father Bill Cochran, Sr. converted the upper two floors into the conference center it is today. Most of what remained of the original mill was on its first floor, where two flour grinders and a corn grinder forlornly stood. Only the corn grinder functioned.
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For the next fifteen or so years, our family and later our business would run the mill and grind some corn, not for profit or even in a spirit of preservation, but for kicks, either for our own or those of our guests. The penultimate step on the mill's road to industrial perdition was the conversion in 2006 of its first floor from what little still remained there to a game hall with billiards, table tennis and dart boards. While the flour grinders were moved to the front entrance for its adornment, the corn grinder was sequestered in the dark and dank basement and hooked up as a life-line to the main shaft so it could still grind a little corn now and then.
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It was like an unwanted hand-me-down piece of furniture, banished to make room for more current and trendier styles. Though the corn grinder remained viable for two more years, its operation there was punctuated by neglect and chronic mechanical failure. When the foundation for the main water wheel cracked in 2008, the grinder ground its last bit of grist, as milling operations, such as they were, halted until a future repair. That task will likely be postponed for years due to its cost and uncertain economic conditions. So a building born in an industrial era and once pulsating with powerful machinery, has been wholly neutered and transformed - to a place of more leisurely pursuits.