I was driven from my desk today by such a racket in the parking lot of the hotel next door. Now, I'm not talking somewhat annoying, I'm talking EAR-PIERCINGLY loud. Two men had broken out gas-powered, industrial-strength blowers to "sweep" the parking lot clean of debris. Why? So they could spray a fresh layer of tar overtop. (We'll just pretend for a moment that the parking lot was NOT re-paved and re-lined LESS than a year ago.)
I refer to the man who owns the hotel in question as "Old Man Wastebucks." He's a good-looking guy in his late sixties, always well-coiffed, well-dressed and a COMPLETE loon, if you ask me. He's one of these micro-managers who visits occasionally and must examine and pick over the entire property with a magnifying glass and half a brain, barking orders and ideas and instructions to his maintenance staff and a never-ending stream of contractors who help him accomplish his lunatic vision for the place (at very great expense, I'm sure).
One month, they pour concrete slabs in the gardens...the next month they take sledge hammers, chisels and pick axes to make planters of them. Today they paint the shed...tomorrow they have it clad in vinyl siding -- complete with rain gutters and downspouts (how fancy!). The best idea he had so far was to install seven-foot tall chain-barriers at each of the entrances to the parking lot. Why? I don't know, but they DO stop his contractors from coming in, which then requires the maintenance staff to go out, climb up ladders, remove them, and replace them at the end of the day. This goes on and on and on.
I realized today that his brand of craziness is not really that new to me.
I remember the day my grandfather drove me in his four year-old car to the local Buick dealer; we came home with a brand new one -- my grandmother complimented him on the color of the car. Another day my grandmother finished her tea at the kitchen table and declared, "We're replacing the sofa today." Sure enough, the next day two men in a truck came to remove the five year-old suite of living room furniture and bring in a whole new one. Yet another day I awoke to find the house full of contractors and carpenters removing the staircase; "This one's oak!" my Grandmother proudly proclaimed.
It broke my heart when she decided to move off the mountain of Gallitzin into the valley called Altoona. Her reasoning included the need for a home without steps. They sold the old homestead, moved into the new rancher, and proceeded to construct a living area in the basement, complete with a kitchen and bathroom. Each morning they'd rise from their beds on the main floor and make breakfast...downstairs.
This impetuousity didn't end with my grandparents, neither did it skip a generation. About the time my sister and I were preparing to graduate high school and move away to college, my parents determined that it was time to sell our three-bedroom home. Dad looked for land, haggled over prices, hired an architect, designed a lovely five-bedroom number and then decided to stay put and build additions on instead.
Ten years later my parents sold the house to move into a five-bedroom monstrosity in an upscale neighborhood of Doylestown. After only six years, the next-door neighbor's childrens' behavior and their Ponderosa Pine cones littering my parents' driveway necessitated another move.
Two levels of custom-built decks, two custom-made motorized canopies, a natural gas grill hook up, numerous gardens, new wood flooring, and three full stories of interior decorating later, my father now sits and pores over the real estate section of the newspaper every morning, determined to find "just the right time" to sell the house.
I don't talk to my Dad all that much...but he did call a few months ago to tell me about their newest car (the eighth he's purchased since 1996). It's a brand new deuce coupe convertible. He explained that they bought it for my fourteen year-old nephew, "But there's no reason your Mom and I can't drive it around until then."
'Boredom or insanity' I ask? And then I realize that I had an inexplicable need to share this story. The apple/pine cone doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?
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