My apologies, but today's column has nothing to do with gardening. I've been so busy with the problems of getting new tenants for Hank's shop, and far worse, getting the old tenants out, that I'm afraid you're going to learn the entire saga of what Hank fondly named his workspace, "The Industrial Complex."
When we moved to Locust Hill, Hank needed a place for his manufacturing business, making sporting gifts for places like Abercrombie and Fitch, Crossroads of Sport and other fancy retail outlets. He designed and produced clocks, lamps, serving trays and a dozen other products, all with a sporting motif.
The heifer barn seemed a possible place to set up shop, so we filled in the manure troughs, slapped up some beaver board for insulation, added the windows from the enclosed porch we'd just torn down and we were in business.
That mini factory was a success for 10 years, but in 1972 the state Labor Inspector found us. I think we'd have preferred an auditor from the IRS. The inspector counted up our violations, beginning with the door (opening in instead of out), the lack of three-prong plugs, guards on various machines, a dozen other violations and ending with insufficient heat, which he wrote down in his notebook with shaking hands (it was February and the woodstove only got the building up to about 50 degrees). Then he smiled sadly and said we were OUT OF BUSINESS.
Fortunately the inspector wasn't a typical bureaucrat. He didn't really want to shut us down. And when Hank, fast on his feet, quickly claimed we were planning to build a new shop, which of course we'd never dreamed of doing until that moment, this kindly gentleman agreed to give us six months to build the new shop, provided we would fix the worst violations by the time he returned at the end of the month.
We broke ground in early spring, and by June we had a 40 by 60 foot cinderblock building. Thanks to half a dozen of my tennis buddies, who spent a full day putting shingles on the roof, we made the deadline. We suddenly had a building with a furnace, a bathroom, three-prong plugs and a door that opened out instead of in. We also had enough room to take on a new line of products, buying out a manufacturer of leather goods who was going out of business. Learning how to make waste baskets, cigarette boxes and all the desk accessories for the discriminating CEO turned into a full-time job.
In 1987 Hank retired. Does that word come from the fact that people get tired of working? Hank bought a boat, fulfilling a lifelong dream, and found a series of tenants to rent the shop. The last tenant we leased the building to was a woodworker I'll call Pothead to keep him anonymous. He was a nightmare. Oh, he paid his rent on time, but he turned the shop into a frightening fire hazard. Along with stacks of logs, huge piles of sawdust, beer cartons and cigarette butts, none of which were ever picked up, the shop became so filled with boxes and equipment that there was barely any space left to walk.
In the past two years things got even worse. The outside of the building looked as bad as the inside. Vines clambered over the windows, briars blocked the door, beer cans, piles of logs and pieces of metal made mowing impossible. My feeble threats did no good, but I needed a new tenant before I could afford to kick out Mr. Pothead. I'd put out the word, but found no takers until this past summer when a pair of painters, tidy, reliable and responsible, thought they'd be interested.
Mr. Pothead's lease was up on November 1, giving him almost five months to find a new place, remove himself and his equipment and hopefully clean up the shop enough for the new tenants to move in. It was almost October before the first signs of evacuation began. On October 30th most of the equipment was gone, but what was left was such a catastrophe that the new tenants were horrified. The plastic storm windows were torn and black with filth, the walls pockmarked with holes and mold and even moss, the floor stained, the fluorescent lights broken, the bathroom disgusting.
Time to get in an electrician to make necessary repairs, get the oil company to check out the furnace, get a plumber to repair the toilet. By the time you read this column my new tenants will have moved in and I will be one very happy landlord. Sorry I had to bore you with this saga, but it was nice to get it off my chest.
P.S. A little extra info about myrtle, more nicely named Periwinkle. It's also called Blue Ivy, and in the south it's a terribly invasive pest. My buddie Jeanie, who lives in Natchez, sent an irate email about how horrible it is down there, chewing up the air-conditioner, strangling shrubs, etc. etc. I guess we're fortunate that we have cold winters here in the East to keep this handsome ground cover in control.
