As we approach our first Christmas season in Mississippi, I’m finding myself with just a tinge of nostalgia for winter in the mountains. Well, maybe half a tinge. It’s warm down here; warm unlike any Christmas I’ve ever experienced. One thing you could count on in the mountains was snow and cold temperatures at Christmas; for that matter, you could count on snow and cold in July. While it will take some adjustment getting used to a sunny, 74 F day on the winter solstice, I’m confident that I’ll be able to deal with it in time.
One constant with Christmas and me, be it in Mississippi, Hot Sulphur Springs or Shawnee, KS, is the art of the feast. The menu has been unchanged for years – a standing rib roast on Christmas Eve, and Thanksgiving dinner redux on Christmas night. The standing rib roast recipe was handed down by my father, and all of the prime ribs made at The Riverside were prepared in this fashion. Prime Rib was our standard offering on all of our holiday and special event meals – New Years Eve, Valentine’s Day, wedding meals and large group dinners.
As this crust bakes and mingles with the marbled fat exterior of the roast, it takes on a life of its own, almost eclipsing the flavor and splendor of the smoky beef; kind of like finding cash inside of a gold nugget. By last count, I swear to God, we had eight, full bore, dining room conversions of vegans jumping ship as they rediscovered the wonders of carnivorousness. It brought tears to my eyes watching the color return to the cheeks, while smiles returned to the faces of these ill-humored, wan, sallow jicama junkies as they scarfed down these blood rare bits of roasted goodness, shouting “Amen Brother!” and “Hallelujah Sweet Jesus but this is tasty!” between mouthfuls.
Serves 8 (or 4 reformed vegans)
1 – 4 bone Prime Rib roast (6-7 pounds)
½ cup Dijon mustard
½ stick unsalted butter
6 cups non-seasoned bread crumbs
8 cloves finely minced garlic
1 cup finely shredded Parmigiano Reggiano
3-4 healthy sprigs of fresh rosemary leaves, finely chopped
½ cup Kosher salt
¼ cup freshly ground coarse pepper
Melt the butter in a saucepan and whisk together with the Dijon Mustard. Using a pastry brush, literally paint the exterior of the roast with the mixture until all is covered.
Mix all of the remaining ingredients in a large dish, and roll the coated roast in the mixture until all is covered. This can be done early in the day, storing the roast uncovered in the refrigerator. (The ‘store in the refrigerator’ part wasn’t necessary at The Riverside, as room temperature was typically in the low 40’s.)
Preheat oven to 475F. Put the roast on a V-shaped roasting rack (they sell these at Wal-Mart for 6 bucks) and put it in the oven for 20 minutes – this will sear and crunchify the crust.
Reduce the heat to 275F and slowly roast until the internal temperature hits 125F – that’s the high side of rare. Remove the roast, tent with foil and let rest for 30 minutes. The roast will still be cooking, and the internal temperature should get to 135F – medium rare – at the end of the resting period.
Slice, serve, stand back and watch, whilst even the most strident of the anti-red meat crowd quiver in anticipation, before caving and succumbing to that which must be enjoyed.
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and all the best for 2011!
Friday, December 24, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Friday the 13th......The Final Chapter : Fin
Our two-year story of Living Life Riverside is a classic comic-tragedy; the last seven installments of this blog detailed the tragic side of the story. Yet, I reported this side of the story at the end of the ordeal, in retrospect, after the building burned down and all that was left was to sift through the ashes (metaphorically speaking). Truth be known, beyond the dread, the vomit and the immediate buyer’s remorse, my first experiences of The Riverside were filled with hope and excitement. If you were to go back and read this blog from the beginning, you’d find that I was reporting our life from a state of awe and wonderment; always at the ready for what great things awaited us – no hint in my writing or mood of despair or failure. While I knew at the start that this was going to be an uphill climb, with a potential quick slide into financial hell were we unable to reach the apex, I had no choice but to cheerfully continue that climb. I had terrific experiences with people that still bring tears to my eyes; once in a lifetime experiences that continually reminded us why we chucked it all to risk everything and do what we did. Those memories will always be there for me, and they will one day hopefully overwhelm the reality of the financial ugliness.
I’m often asked if I have regrets.
Knowing what I know now???
Hell yes!! I have regrets. There isn’t one thing about this experience I don’t regret. Daily! Hourly!
“Well”, people say, “you can check that off your bucket list.”
Dear God, if only I could do it over and have it eternally on my bucket list. The pain of wishing you could do it and not having done it has to be miniscule in comparison to the pain of having actually done it and having that experience bludgeon you to death.
I beg of you, please consult with me if owning a bar, restaurant or B&B is on your bucket list.
Many have lauded us for simply trying. While I truly appreciate the lauding, the folks at WalMart don’t yet accept lauds in lieu of cash when purchasing Cheetos and Little Debbie Nutty Bars. The truth be known, I wish I was being lauded for showing restraint and sticking with the dull but ‘sure thing’ corporate gig. While I wouldn’t have the memories of charming Hot Sulphur Springs, $750/month water bills and all of the wonderful people we met the past two years (“Yuk! Clean it up!”, “Dog attack at the Riverside!”), I would instead have memories of fabulous meals in Paris, quaffing fine wines in Verona and most importantly, memories of quarterly meetings with my financial advisor.
But alas, I opted for that bucket list thing. And I blame nothing, or no one, but myself.
I do know that we bought an old hotel, an icon in the area and an important slice of history in Grand County, and for two years, we made it a warm and shining place in a cold, desolate outpost. We welcomed strangers who left as friends. We entertained guests from all over the world who hugged us as family when they departed. I truly believe that we brought new life to a dying town and county, if only for a short while.
While there were many wonderful guests and moments, there was a particular guest and moment that still makes me think that our adventure wasn’t a total failure. A delightful German couple stopped in one summer afternoon looking for a room for the evening; they ended up staying with us for four nights. The husband played first chair French horn with the Frankfurt Symphony Orchestra - a gentle man of class, culture and great elegance; he’d traveled throughout the world as a professional musician, and was in the midst of a month long ramble throughout the United States as a prelude to a two year resident teaching position in China. During their last evening with us, while dining in the restaurant, I stopped by the table to ask about their dinner. The man’s eyes were closed and his hands were clasped, as if he was praying, but the meal was over. He looked up at me and said “Everything is perfect. The beer and the food were wonderful, this room is wonderful, and you are playing Schumann’s Fourth Symphony. I can’t believe I am here in this place listening to Schumann. This is Allesklarbeidir. I know you’re not familiar with that word, but it is a German word that is even hard for me to explain the meaning, because I don’t know of the English word that exists to describe the meaning of the word, but I will try. I think a literal translation in English is the word ‘adore’, but you would never use this word to say you adore something in the German language, as it goes far beyond adoring something. And this is not a word that is used lightly, as very seldom do you experience the feeling of Allesklarbeidir. It describes an internal feeling that you have of total comfort and wellness, a feeling you have when you are wholly in love and at peace with all of your surroundings. It is a warm feeling, a feeling of quiet joy. I have that feeling, now, in this place of yours’.”
At that moment, the feeling was mutual.
...................................................
After I assume room temperature and should my life ever be examined by someone other than creditors, I’m hoping that it will be discussed by close friends at a nice bar; one that pours a good drink, as we did at The Riverside. I’m certain that after the cussing and discussing, all will agree that if I did nothing else, my greatest accomplishment in this life was that my follies were occasionally capable of inducing a feeling of Allesklarbeidir and my failures did well to serve as a warning to others.
I am at peace with my fuck-up.
It ain’t cancer.
May God continue to bless us all……
I’m often asked if I have regrets.
Knowing what I know now???
Hell yes!! I have regrets. There isn’t one thing about this experience I don’t regret. Daily! Hourly!
“Well”, people say, “you can check that off your bucket list.”
Dear God, if only I could do it over and have it eternally on my bucket list. The pain of wishing you could do it and not having done it has to be miniscule in comparison to the pain of having actually done it and having that experience bludgeon you to death.
I beg of you, please consult with me if owning a bar, restaurant or B&B is on your bucket list.
Many have lauded us for simply trying. While I truly appreciate the lauding, the folks at WalMart don’t yet accept lauds in lieu of cash when purchasing Cheetos and Little Debbie Nutty Bars. The truth be known, I wish I was being lauded for showing restraint and sticking with the dull but ‘sure thing’ corporate gig. While I wouldn’t have the memories of charming Hot Sulphur Springs, $750/month water bills and all of the wonderful people we met the past two years (“Yuk! Clean it up!”, “Dog attack at the Riverside!”), I would instead have memories of fabulous meals in Paris, quaffing fine wines in Verona and most importantly, memories of quarterly meetings with my financial advisor.
But alas, I opted for that bucket list thing. And I blame nothing, or no one, but myself.
I do know that we bought an old hotel, an icon in the area and an important slice of history in Grand County, and for two years, we made it a warm and shining place in a cold, desolate outpost. We welcomed strangers who left as friends. We entertained guests from all over the world who hugged us as family when they departed. I truly believe that we brought new life to a dying town and county, if only for a short while.
While there were many wonderful guests and moments, there was a particular guest and moment that still makes me think that our adventure wasn’t a total failure. A delightful German couple stopped in one summer afternoon looking for a room for the evening; they ended up staying with us for four nights. The husband played first chair French horn with the Frankfurt Symphony Orchestra - a gentle man of class, culture and great elegance; he’d traveled throughout the world as a professional musician, and was in the midst of a month long ramble throughout the United States as a prelude to a two year resident teaching position in China. During their last evening with us, while dining in the restaurant, I stopped by the table to ask about their dinner. The man’s eyes were closed and his hands were clasped, as if he was praying, but the meal was over. He looked up at me and said “Everything is perfect. The beer and the food were wonderful, this room is wonderful, and you are playing Schumann’s Fourth Symphony. I can’t believe I am here in this place listening to Schumann. This is Allesklarbeidir. I know you’re not familiar with that word, but it is a German word that is even hard for me to explain the meaning, because I don’t know of the English word that exists to describe the meaning of the word, but I will try. I think a literal translation in English is the word ‘adore’, but you would never use this word to say you adore something in the German language, as it goes far beyond adoring something. And this is not a word that is used lightly, as very seldom do you experience the feeling of Allesklarbeidir. It describes an internal feeling that you have of total comfort and wellness, a feeling you have when you are wholly in love and at peace with all of your surroundings. It is a warm feeling, a feeling of quiet joy. I have that feeling, now, in this place of yours’.”
At that moment, the feeling was mutual.
...................................................
After I assume room temperature and should my life ever be examined by someone other than creditors, I’m hoping that it will be discussed by close friends at a nice bar; one that pours a good drink, as we did at The Riverside. I’m certain that after the cussing and discussing, all will agree that if I did nothing else, my greatest accomplishment in this life was that my follies were occasionally capable of inducing a feeling of Allesklarbeidir and my failures did well to serve as a warning to others.
I am at peace with my fuck-up.
It ain’t cancer.
May God continue to bless us all……
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Friday the 13th...The Final Chapter / Part VII
Note: I'll apologize in advance for the F-bomb contained in the following entry. But really, there is no other applicable word.
The auction was held as scheduled and after numerous unanswered emails and phone calls, two weeks later I finally made contact with the auctioneer, who reported that the sale of the kitchen equipment (which we didn’t own) and the beds and remaining few personal items that we did own, netted us around $5000. He then asked where I would like the proceeds mailed, and said he’d get me a check. That was three months ago, and as of this writing, I’ve not received a penny.
Many of you might find it hard to believe that someone would, essentially, steal (auction) your belongings in broad daylight as you stand by and watch and then thumb their nose at you when reproached. It used to be hard for me to fathom the notion that people can be so blatantly dishonest, but my Colorado experience has shown me that no matter how solid, legal and on the up-and-up people and professions may appear, the reality is that thieves, cheats, liars and crooks can mask themselves with legitimate facades and walk and operate openly among us, and more often than not, with total impunity. Certainly I’m not inferring that this sort of behavior is peculiar to Colorado; it just happened to be in Colorado that I put myself in such a position of vulnerability as to be exposed to the predators that are licensed to prey and kill, and then next, be fodder to the vultures who feast upon the remains. Needless to say, this newly found knowledge and experience has hardened me a tad, as it is no longer elementary to my nature to give people the benefit of the doubt; ‘tis indeed a shame.
Friday, August 13th, 2010, 10:00 AM MST came and went without a whisper. It was the day after my 54th birthday, and a normal day at the office for me in Jackson, MS. I didn’t mark the minute, or even recognize until an hour later when it dawned on me that the foreclosure had occurred; no tremor in the force such as Obi-Wan Kenobi felt when Alderaan blew up. It just came and went; I didn’t feel sad, happy, relieved, depressed, jubilant or defeated, broker or richer. I think the fact that I’d been physically removed from The Riverside and Grand County for so long helped to ease the suffering, and it shook me to imagine the suffering I would have endured had I no place else to go, having had to stand my ground in Colorado and bear witness to the process to which I’d just been subjected. It was also important for our general health and well being that we so resolutely decided back in March to walk away from the venture, to quickly shed the pain of the struggle, the failure and the loss, and begin life anew in another locale. As someone on Madison Avenue so succinctly put it, “know when to say when”; I strongly suggest to one and all, when the opportunity/need arises, take heed in those words.
It’s easy to be philosophical and wax poetic about the laws of physics after you’ve been run over by a truck and survived. I can look back now and see with clarity the red flags that prior were obfuscated by my desire to live, what I thought at the time was, my dream job in my dream locale. The truth of the matter is that the night we signed the papers to purchase the hotel, December 27th, 2007, I had such an immediate, overwhelming feeling of dread and remorse that I literally became physically ill. My first night sleeping in the hotel and the new life that we’d just mortgaged our souls to obtain, I awoke at 3 or 4 in the morning with a high fever, bone-rattling chills and a bout of overwhelming nausea. Perhaps a nasty dose of altitude sickness for this unsuspecting heretofore flatlander? I think not, rather, a severe physical reaction to the notion that I’d just done something fatally stupid and irresponsible.
For a fact, the body’s natural defenses to illness can quickly break down when exposed to a severe stress, becoming impotent to the onslaught of a phantom virus seeking harbor in a fertile port which lacks the will or resistance to send it packing. If stress was luck, I had a boatload of it that night, enough so that there wasn’t a lottery that was safe from me the night of December 27th had I a free dollar left to play, and to wit, that transient virus found solid purchase upon my stressed-ridden body.
I made it through that miserable night, but midway through the next morning, I walked out of the hotel into a frigid day, a bright sun in an emerald sky and headed west down Grand Street, to stagger across the bridge over the Colorado River and walk through waist-deep snow on to the isolated western riverbank until I was out of sight and sound of the hotel and any human who might be wandering by, and I vomited from the very depths of my person, profoundly, loudly and violently.
As I trudged back to the hotel through the waist-deep snow and bitter cold that I realized was not just a winter vacation accoutrement but now a part of my day to day existence, the gut-wrenching nausea was gone, but the feeling of dread persisted. As forcefully as I had expunged the bug that had so quickly invaded me and rendered me a staggering, vomiting slug, I knew that the real source of my heartburn was yet eternal within me, both physically and mentally. Once back at the hotel, a hard look at the man in the mirror and a subsequent discussion with same found that we were both in agreement; buddy, you fucked up bad: HUGE – BIG TIME.
This was within 24 hours of our ownership of The Riverside Hotel. Talk about your classic case of buyer’s remorse.
To be concluded.......
The auction was held as scheduled and after numerous unanswered emails and phone calls, two weeks later I finally made contact with the auctioneer, who reported that the sale of the kitchen equipment (which we didn’t own) and the beds and remaining few personal items that we did own, netted us around $5000. He then asked where I would like the proceeds mailed, and said he’d get me a check. That was three months ago, and as of this writing, I’ve not received a penny.
Many of you might find it hard to believe that someone would, essentially, steal (auction) your belongings in broad daylight as you stand by and watch and then thumb their nose at you when reproached. It used to be hard for me to fathom the notion that people can be so blatantly dishonest, but my Colorado experience has shown me that no matter how solid, legal and on the up-and-up people and professions may appear, the reality is that thieves, cheats, liars and crooks can mask themselves with legitimate facades and walk and operate openly among us, and more often than not, with total impunity. Certainly I’m not inferring that this sort of behavior is peculiar to Colorado; it just happened to be in Colorado that I put myself in such a position of vulnerability as to be exposed to the predators that are licensed to prey and kill, and then next, be fodder to the vultures who feast upon the remains. Needless to say, this newly found knowledge and experience has hardened me a tad, as it is no longer elementary to my nature to give people the benefit of the doubt; ‘tis indeed a shame.
Friday, August 13th, 2010, 10:00 AM MST came and went without a whisper. It was the day after my 54th birthday, and a normal day at the office for me in Jackson, MS. I didn’t mark the minute, or even recognize until an hour later when it dawned on me that the foreclosure had occurred; no tremor in the force such as Obi-Wan Kenobi felt when Alderaan blew up. It just came and went; I didn’t feel sad, happy, relieved, depressed, jubilant or defeated, broker or richer. I think the fact that I’d been physically removed from The Riverside and Grand County for so long helped to ease the suffering, and it shook me to imagine the suffering I would have endured had I no place else to go, having had to stand my ground in Colorado and bear witness to the process to which I’d just been subjected. It was also important for our general health and well being that we so resolutely decided back in March to walk away from the venture, to quickly shed the pain of the struggle, the failure and the loss, and begin life anew in another locale. As someone on Madison Avenue so succinctly put it, “know when to say when”; I strongly suggest to one and all, when the opportunity/need arises, take heed in those words.
It’s easy to be philosophical and wax poetic about the laws of physics after you’ve been run over by a truck and survived. I can look back now and see with clarity the red flags that prior were obfuscated by my desire to live, what I thought at the time was, my dream job in my dream locale. The truth of the matter is that the night we signed the papers to purchase the hotel, December 27th, 2007, I had such an immediate, overwhelming feeling of dread and remorse that I literally became physically ill. My first night sleeping in the hotel and the new life that we’d just mortgaged our souls to obtain, I awoke at 3 or 4 in the morning with a high fever, bone-rattling chills and a bout of overwhelming nausea. Perhaps a nasty dose of altitude sickness for this unsuspecting heretofore flatlander? I think not, rather, a severe physical reaction to the notion that I’d just done something fatally stupid and irresponsible.
For a fact, the body’s natural defenses to illness can quickly break down when exposed to a severe stress, becoming impotent to the onslaught of a phantom virus seeking harbor in a fertile port which lacks the will or resistance to send it packing. If stress was luck, I had a boatload of it that night, enough so that there wasn’t a lottery that was safe from me the night of December 27th had I a free dollar left to play, and to wit, that transient virus found solid purchase upon my stressed-ridden body.
I made it through that miserable night, but midway through the next morning, I walked out of the hotel into a frigid day, a bright sun in an emerald sky and headed west down Grand Street, to stagger across the bridge over the Colorado River and walk through waist-deep snow on to the isolated western riverbank until I was out of sight and sound of the hotel and any human who might be wandering by, and I vomited from the very depths of my person, profoundly, loudly and violently.
As I trudged back to the hotel through the waist-deep snow and bitter cold that I realized was not just a winter vacation accoutrement but now a part of my day to day existence, the gut-wrenching nausea was gone, but the feeling of dread persisted. As forcefully as I had expunged the bug that had so quickly invaded me and rendered me a staggering, vomiting slug, I knew that the real source of my heartburn was yet eternal within me, both physically and mentally. Once back at the hotel, a hard look at the man in the mirror and a subsequent discussion with same found that we were both in agreement; buddy, you fucked up bad: HUGE – BIG TIME.
This was within 24 hours of our ownership of The Riverside Hotel. Talk about your classic case of buyer’s remorse.
To be concluded.......
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Friday the 13th......The Final Chapter/Part VI
No sooner had the auction been advertised throughout Grand County and on the auctioneers website, than the emails from the bank & the SBA’s attorneys started flying – not directly to me of course, but to my designated $300/hr legal counsel. The auction was advertised as a ‘Foreclosure Sale’, giving the public the opportunity to snatch up countless bargains on priceless antiques; antiques that were advertised as having had inhabited The Riverside since the turn of the century. There were pictures of 30+ pieces of dressers, armoires, tables, chairs, ornate clocks, beautiful wooden bed frames, and so on; both of the attorneys claimed that all of these pieces were part of the property, germane to the operation of the business and needed to remain at The Riverside. There was also the SBA’s assertion that due to provisions in our loan, they had a security interest the items; they were in fact encumbered. And as for that Brunswick Bar, it took less than 24 hours after hearing from Billy Banker “it’s theirs if they can haul it out of there” for someone at Grand County Bank to wise him up on the value of the bar, at which point he, uh, reneged on his generous offer. I imagine the real scenario involved one of the cowboy bankers on the bank’s Board having found just the spot for that old bar in his $1,000,000 log home on the 14th fairway of Pole Creek Golf Course.
However, there was one small issue that these lawyers failed to consider before raising the hackles on their clients back to the point where they were asked to write expensive emails to my lawyer. Not one of the items advertised in the auction preview was at The Riverside – they belonged to the auctioneer, who intended to cart them from Denver to Hot Sulphur for sale, using The Riverside as nothing more than a vessel to give what weren’t probably genuine antiques in the first place a needed air of authenticity. Trust me; other than the Brunswick Bar, Abe left nothing of value at The Riverside after selling us the hotel and certainly not a valuable ‘antique anything’ that he could have otherwise carted off.
Back and forth, the emails went between the SBA, the bank and my attorney regarding this auction that was to be held for items that didn’t belong to any of the participants. The SBA attorney was including terms such as “in violation of the law” and “punishable by fines, imprisonment or both”; I just wanted to sell the beds we bought for the hotel, not rip the tags off of them. What we were talking about selling in the auction that did belong to us – remember, most all of value that we had left behind had already been pilfered – were principally the 14 primo queen beds that we’d purchased for the hotel, and are still technically paying for on our Master Card. I sat back, helplessly, as I watched one email after the other fly back and forth between my attorney and the attorneys for Grand County Bank and the SBA, all the while envisioning the dollar signs mounting into an ever burgeoning pile.
Finally, at about 10:00 PM that evening after the umpteenth email, I could stand the legal raping and pillaging no longer. I sent all three attorneys the following email; I won’t deny that alcohol might have helped fuel this rant.
Gentlemen: Re the auction of assets.
We're talking about selling some beds, beds that I'm still paying for on my Master Card, that were purchased after the 2007, bifurcated, 504, blah, blah, blah screw job loan that I signed without the aid of counsel. The auction company that we hired (after being given the OK by the bank to auction the furnishings) is bringing onto the site numerous items that are their property to sell, and using the old hotel as nothing but a backdrop for the sale of these antiques. Pay Attention - the items being auctioned are not the property of your client, the bank, or either of my LLC's, and are not subject to your lein, or were ever previously at The Riverside; they are being trucked up from Denver to be sold at the site.
Mr Jones (a fictitious name for the SBA lawyer), you say your client is now willing to discuss the ramifications of the bifurcated 504 loan application with me - too late. A representative of your client, Suzy SBA, did not answer 20+ calls, nor respond to any of the 20+ voicemails I left for her, placed between December 1st, 2009, and February 1st, 2010, to discuss her promised 6-month payment deferment due to my hardship. After Grand County Bank (GCB) declared the loan in default in early February, and I did finally get to speak with your client, Ms. Suzy, she rather sheepishly informed me that she was instructed by both Billy & Betty Banker @ GCB, not to return my calls and discuss my situation. I'm guessing the SBA deferral would have interfered with the banks plans to foreclose on the loan and get their guaranteed SBA paycheck.
My wife and I have left our $XXX worth of life’s savings in Colorado at The Riverside. We were trying to sell a few thousand dollars worth of personal effects to defray credit card debts - now it will be used to pay for expensive emails sent by lawyers. I don't know the definition of a bifurcated loan, but I do know the definition of carrion – that’s all that I have left for the bankers and the lawyers.
Mr. Jones, you threaten to come after my assets if we sell our personal items out of The Riverside; good luck with that, as I have no assets for you or anyone to come after. I'm broke! I live in a shitty little rental house in Mississippi, living paycheck to paycheck, and as of this writing, I have $242 in my bank account to get me to my next end-of-the-month payday. Had your client and GCB been as open, honest and diligent about the X's & O's of loaning money as they are about collecting it, neither of us would be in our current situation.
You can have the money from the sale of the beds. May you all sleep well.
That stopped the emails.
To be continued....
However, there was one small issue that these lawyers failed to consider before raising the hackles on their clients back to the point where they were asked to write expensive emails to my lawyer. Not one of the items advertised in the auction preview was at The Riverside – they belonged to the auctioneer, who intended to cart them from Denver to Hot Sulphur for sale, using The Riverside as nothing more than a vessel to give what weren’t probably genuine antiques in the first place a needed air of authenticity. Trust me; other than the Brunswick Bar, Abe left nothing of value at The Riverside after selling us the hotel and certainly not a valuable ‘antique anything’ that he could have otherwise carted off.
Back and forth, the emails went between the SBA, the bank and my attorney regarding this auction that was to be held for items that didn’t belong to any of the participants. The SBA attorney was including terms such as “in violation of the law” and “punishable by fines, imprisonment or both”; I just wanted to sell the beds we bought for the hotel, not rip the tags off of them. What we were talking about selling in the auction that did belong to us – remember, most all of value that we had left behind had already been pilfered – were principally the 14 primo queen beds that we’d purchased for the hotel, and are still technically paying for on our Master Card. I sat back, helplessly, as I watched one email after the other fly back and forth between my attorney and the attorneys for Grand County Bank and the SBA, all the while envisioning the dollar signs mounting into an ever burgeoning pile.
Finally, at about 10:00 PM that evening after the umpteenth email, I could stand the legal raping and pillaging no longer. I sent all three attorneys the following email; I won’t deny that alcohol might have helped fuel this rant.
Gentlemen: Re the auction of assets.
We're talking about selling some beds, beds that I'm still paying for on my Master Card, that were purchased after the 2007, bifurcated, 504, blah, blah, blah screw job loan that I signed without the aid of counsel. The auction company that we hired (after being given the OK by the bank to auction the furnishings) is bringing onto the site numerous items that are their property to sell, and using the old hotel as nothing but a backdrop for the sale of these antiques. Pay Attention - the items being auctioned are not the property of your client, the bank, or either of my LLC's, and are not subject to your lein, or were ever previously at The Riverside; they are being trucked up from Denver to be sold at the site.
Mr Jones (a fictitious name for the SBA lawyer), you say your client is now willing to discuss the ramifications of the bifurcated 504 loan application with me - too late. A representative of your client, Suzy SBA, did not answer 20+ calls, nor respond to any of the 20+ voicemails I left for her, placed between December 1st, 2009, and February 1st, 2010, to discuss her promised 6-month payment deferment due to my hardship. After Grand County Bank (GCB) declared the loan in default in early February, and I did finally get to speak with your client, Ms. Suzy, she rather sheepishly informed me that she was instructed by both Billy & Betty Banker @ GCB, not to return my calls and discuss my situation. I'm guessing the SBA deferral would have interfered with the banks plans to foreclose on the loan and get their guaranteed SBA paycheck.
My wife and I have left our $XXX worth of life’s savings in Colorado at The Riverside. We were trying to sell a few thousand dollars worth of personal effects to defray credit card debts - now it will be used to pay for expensive emails sent by lawyers. I don't know the definition of a bifurcated loan, but I do know the definition of carrion – that’s all that I have left for the bankers and the lawyers.
Mr. Jones, you threaten to come after my assets if we sell our personal items out of The Riverside; good luck with that, as I have no assets for you or anyone to come after. I'm broke! I live in a shitty little rental house in Mississippi, living paycheck to paycheck, and as of this writing, I have $242 in my bank account to get me to my next end-of-the-month payday. Had your client and GCB been as open, honest and diligent about the X's & O's of loaning money as they are about collecting it, neither of us would be in our current situation.
You can have the money from the sale of the beds. May you all sleep well.
That stopped the emails.
To be continued....
Monday, November 1, 2010
Friday the 13th...The Final Chapter / Part V
The deeper we went into the summer of our fiscal discontent, the more it became apparent that I was going to have to go back to work full time, way sooner than I had imagined; I was going to need every penny I could muster to help keep the sinking ship afloat. The plan involved me moving back to Kansas City, living in our unsold house and working at my old KC office. When our KC house sold, I’d move to an apartment in Jackson, and Julie would join me when the hotel sold. This solution to our problem, which involved living apart, was beyond distasteful to us, but there was really no other available alternative. We felt in our hearts that someone would come along and buy the place within the next two years, and with my job, Julie getting a job and the help of the bank in refinancing the loan (Not!), we’d be able to hang on long enough to sell.
After the Labor Day holiday weekend – the final thud to the summer from a revenue perspective – I packed some clothes, a few personal effects, a picture of Lucy and my fishing rods, and headed back to the old homestead in KC. As luck would have it (or perhaps by dropping our asking price by 30%), we had two offers on the house after two days on the market, and quickly selected what seemed the better of the two. This didn’t come without some wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth, as even though the house was now priced considerably below its appraised value, it was, after all, still a buyers market. To ultimately close the deal, we had to put in four new windows, a new furnace, cut down a tree, paint some trim, fix part of the roof and throw in the brand new washer and dryer we’d just purchased. No hard feelings though, I wish the buyers well; and may they have all of their toilets simultaneously clog while prepping for their joint colostomy procedure!
The rest of the story has been told, including most importantly the bank and the SBA’s nefarious dealings, and we can fast forward to closing down the hotel, Julie moving to join me in Mississippi and me trying to get out of our ownership position with grace, notwithstanding already having had our financial asses handed to us.
On June 15th, 2010, I received a letter sent regular mail from the Grand County Treasurer. It stated, that “on August 13th, 2010, at 10:00 AM MST, on the steps of the Grand County Courthouse, the dwelling and real estate that is comprised of Plat # 23, 509 Grand Street, Longitude 32, Latitude 44, yadda yadda yadda....will be sold at public auction.”
So this is what our dream had come to; it was as cold and impersonal as Grand County itself.
There was no adjoining letter from the bank, nothing from the SBA – not a phone call or email to explain, describe, question or quantify the process to which were to be subjected. I had a lot of questions, but the only person who might be able to answer them would charge me $300/hour, and to this point, I’d have had more substantive results from my dealings with the legal profession regarding The Riverside by pissing away the money that I’d already given the lawyer on lottery tickets.
I didn’t hear anything from anyone for the next few weeks, until I received a call from a friend who was watching the hotel. He was contacted by that kind banker who called me with the bad foreclosure news, asking for a tour of the hotel. I guess he wanted another look at the property that they were going to purchase and own, if only for a few weeks before the SBA purchased it from them. When we left the hotel, we left it in stellar shape – show ready condition for a sale. The only thing we took were our personal furnishings, leaving all of the furniture we acquired from Abe, as well as the bar and restaurant furniture, all of the beds and bedroom furniture, all of the kitchen equipment (which we didn’t own), our two leather sofas and my favorite rocking chair.
We hadn’t been gone a week when it was reported to us that most of the remaining furniture – certainly all of the good stuff - ended up finding its way to various residences throughout Hot Sulphur Springs. Next went most of the pictures and decorator nick-nacks; those same pictures and nick-nacks that I literally risked my life transporting one night whilst pulling a 12’x 9’ U Haul trailer over Berthoud Pass in the middle of a big ass, total white-out blizzard.
So, as the banker was touring the place, my friend apologetically explained that we had left the place in better shape than it now appeared, and we had left quit a bit of furniture that was no longer on the property, the banker said “I couldn’t care less about the furniture, I’m only interested in the real estate.” Upon hearing this, I asked my friend to clarify a few things with his contact at the bank, mainly, could we auction off what of value we’d left behind that hadn’t been absconded with by the locals, including the original Brunswick Bar? While the thought of that bar not being at The Riverside pained me – it’s been there for 100 years – the thought of maybe getting a good chunk of money for it and helping to salve a few of our financial wounds at least had to be perfunctorily examined. The answer I received back from the bank was “we’re not interested in the contents, including the bar. If they can haul it out, they can have it.”
We only had two weeks before the foreclosure, so I quickly went about trying to find an auctioneer in the Denver area who would be interested in helping us unload what was left of The Riverside, sans the real estate; and oh did I find one. My hot streak of bad decisions being buffeted by worse luck was still solidly intact. It wasn’t long before it occurred to me that the auctioneer I hired, while not coming in very high on the Google list of ‘Denver-area auctioneers’, would have been first on the list had I Googled ‘disreputable, thieving, crooked Denver-area auctioneers’.
After a brief description of the property and the limited items we had to offer, not only was the auctioneer interested in holding the auction, he was most interested in the Brunswick Bar, as he said the current demand for these is “through the roof”. He was so interested that he drove to Hot Sulphur Springs the next morning, toured the hotel, stopped at the bank to discuss the auction and had me a contract to sign by that next afternoon. Can you say it again with me, le big-time, grand drapeau rouge?
After the Labor Day holiday weekend – the final thud to the summer from a revenue perspective – I packed some clothes, a few personal effects, a picture of Lucy and my fishing rods, and headed back to the old homestead in KC. As luck would have it (or perhaps by dropping our asking price by 30%), we had two offers on the house after two days on the market, and quickly selected what seemed the better of the two. This didn’t come without some wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth, as even though the house was now priced considerably below its appraised value, it was, after all, still a buyers market. To ultimately close the deal, we had to put in four new windows, a new furnace, cut down a tree, paint some trim, fix part of the roof and throw in the brand new washer and dryer we’d just purchased. No hard feelings though, I wish the buyers well; and may they have all of their toilets simultaneously clog while prepping for their joint colostomy procedure!
The rest of the story has been told, including most importantly the bank and the SBA’s nefarious dealings, and we can fast forward to closing down the hotel, Julie moving to join me in Mississippi and me trying to get out of our ownership position with grace, notwithstanding already having had our financial asses handed to us.
On June 15th, 2010, I received a letter sent regular mail from the Grand County Treasurer. It stated, that “on August 13th, 2010, at 10:00 AM MST, on the steps of the Grand County Courthouse, the dwelling and real estate that is comprised of Plat # 23, 509 Grand Street, Longitude 32, Latitude 44, yadda yadda yadda....will be sold at public auction.”
So this is what our dream had come to; it was as cold and impersonal as Grand County itself.
There was no adjoining letter from the bank, nothing from the SBA – not a phone call or email to explain, describe, question or quantify the process to which were to be subjected. I had a lot of questions, but the only person who might be able to answer them would charge me $300/hour, and to this point, I’d have had more substantive results from my dealings with the legal profession regarding The Riverside by pissing away the money that I’d already given the lawyer on lottery tickets.
I didn’t hear anything from anyone for the next few weeks, until I received a call from a friend who was watching the hotel. He was contacted by that kind banker who called me with the bad foreclosure news, asking for a tour of the hotel. I guess he wanted another look at the property that they were going to purchase and own, if only for a few weeks before the SBA purchased it from them. When we left the hotel, we left it in stellar shape – show ready condition for a sale. The only thing we took were our personal furnishings, leaving all of the furniture we acquired from Abe, as well as the bar and restaurant furniture, all of the beds and bedroom furniture, all of the kitchen equipment (which we didn’t own), our two leather sofas and my favorite rocking chair.
We hadn’t been gone a week when it was reported to us that most of the remaining furniture – certainly all of the good stuff - ended up finding its way to various residences throughout Hot Sulphur Springs. Next went most of the pictures and decorator nick-nacks; those same pictures and nick-nacks that I literally risked my life transporting one night whilst pulling a 12’x 9’ U Haul trailer over Berthoud Pass in the middle of a big ass, total white-out blizzard.
So, as the banker was touring the place, my friend apologetically explained that we had left the place in better shape than it now appeared, and we had left quit a bit of furniture that was no longer on the property, the banker said “I couldn’t care less about the furniture, I’m only interested in the real estate.” Upon hearing this, I asked my friend to clarify a few things with his contact at the bank, mainly, could we auction off what of value we’d left behind that hadn’t been absconded with by the locals, including the original Brunswick Bar? While the thought of that bar not being at The Riverside pained me – it’s been there for 100 years – the thought of maybe getting a good chunk of money for it and helping to salve a few of our financial wounds at least had to be perfunctorily examined. The answer I received back from the bank was “we’re not interested in the contents, including the bar. If they can haul it out, they can have it.”
We only had two weeks before the foreclosure, so I quickly went about trying to find an auctioneer in the Denver area who would be interested in helping us unload what was left of The Riverside, sans the real estate; and oh did I find one. My hot streak of bad decisions being buffeted by worse luck was still solidly intact. It wasn’t long before it occurred to me that the auctioneer I hired, while not coming in very high on the Google list of ‘Denver-area auctioneers’, would have been first on the list had I Googled ‘disreputable, thieving, crooked Denver-area auctioneers’.
After a brief description of the property and the limited items we had to offer, not only was the auctioneer interested in holding the auction, he was most interested in the Brunswick Bar, as he said the current demand for these is “through the roof”. He was so interested that he drove to Hot Sulphur Springs the next morning, toured the hotel, stopped at the bank to discuss the auction and had me a contract to sign by that next afternoon. Can you say it again with me, le big-time, grand drapeau rouge?
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Friday the 13th...The Final Chapter / Part IV
Our only possible way out of this financial doomsday was to try and sell the hotel. It had been our plan to give the hotel business at least five years, and as many as ten, at which point we’d have the business soundly established, the place refurbished, the mortgage retired, and we’d sell the joint for $2 million bucks and move on to the next phase in our lives. Can you guess how far reality has taken us away from that scenario?
Now comes proof positive that not only is there a just God, but more importantly, proof of the existence of a God that seems to have a soft spot for idiots. In April of 2009, my old employer called, out of the blue, and asked if I’d be interested in working on some special projects for them. It had been a year since I’d left their employ, and had virtually no contact with them during that time; regardless of how dire my situation had become, my last expected source of relief would have come from a company that, with no warning, I had walked out on. There were some in the organization that were upset with me for leaving; they’d had plans to promote me and move me to Jackson, MS, and my leaving put a bit of a hole in their organizational chart. I didn’t figure they’d have me back if I’d have come begging and crawling, let alone have them initiate my return; I’d have never hired me back. Wonders truly never cease, and the sun occasionally shines on the simple minded.
The offer was for me to work ‘part-time’ for as long as the next two years, during which time we would sell the hotel, and then come back to work full time; and no ifs, ands or buts, that full time thing included relocating to the corporate office in Jackson. Some might have cautioned that I play harder to get, as it was they who contacted me, and in spite of the Business Boner of the Millennium that I had committed, they still placed a value on my services. Let me tell you, I was as coy with them as a Times Square hooker; a nanosecond seems an eternity to the speed at which I accepted their generous offer. The only one who moved faster than me at accepting their largesse was Julie in pushing me to accept; I believe I still have the bruises on my shoulder blades where she pushed me.
And then came Miracle #2 – we had a buyer for the hotel. We were approached by an individual – a local – who expressed what I felt at the time was a serious and sincere interest in buying the hotel. Not only did they have the desire to own The Riverside, but I believed that they had the resources; mentions were actually made of “cashing in CD’s” to fund the purchase of the property. It was at this point that Julie and I mentally checked out as the owners and operators of The Riverside. Julie immediately went from looking online for 2nd income opportunities to looking for tony residences in Mississippi. We weren’t going to sell the hotel for that gaudy dream sum I mentioned earlier, but we were going to recoup all that we had invested into the business, and that was enough to get us out of debt and put us into a home in Jackson.
However, that “mentally checking out” thing ended up being critical towards our ultimate demise, as we would have definitely done things differently if we didn’t think (actually, we were 99% certain) that we had the place sold. I’m not saying we would have been able to salvage the place, just that we would have put time, money and resources in different areas that may have allowed us to ultimately sell the property, and at the very least, minimize some of the bleeding that ultimately occurred.
I really checked out, as I started traveling a bit for the new job in early June, leaving Julie and Rachel behind to fend for themselves. I also quit paying attention to the business side of the business, the penalty of which I would later pay for with some late, frantic nights trying to assemble for the IRS the gory financial details of a year in ruin.
In the middle of July, the buyer for the hotel swiftly, and without warning, backed out of the deal. We quickly contacted a realtor – a friend who was confident that if properly marketed, we’d be able to sell the hotel, even in the current economic climate – and officially put the hotel on the market. In the first few weeks, we had a few people kick the tires, but no serious buyers. What appeared to be our first serious prospect were a young couple who flew down from New York to look at the place – it was their dream to own a B&B in Colorado; and while they loved The Riverside, they were savvy enough (as savvy as your average 5-year old would be savvy, which is unfortunately savvier than me) to know what a tough go it would be to make a living in the out-of-the way shithole that is Hot Sulphur Springs. “Thanks, but no thanks”, they said.
Next we had a business owner from nearby Glenwood Springs, a man who’d made a good living in the construction supply business and was looking to sell that business and make a lifestyle change. (Take it from me; buying The Riverside and moving to Hot Sulphur Springs would slake the thirst of the thirstiest lifestyle changing wanna-be.) This really had me excited, as here we had an individual that was a native, already accustomed to the brutal life and winters of small town, mountainous Colorado, which was the major put-off for our heretofore interested Yankees; and more importantly, he had the money to actually make it happen. His first tour of the property had him salivating, envisioning then vocalizing the improvements he would make, including building a covered, heated deck overlooking the river, with French doors out of the dining room onto the deck. I watched with muted glee as he excitedly painted a picture of the life he was going to change and the business he was going to transform. As he left, he made arrangements to come back and spend the next weekend with his family at the hotel. I never heard from him again.
Then there was a woman from Iowa, who’d inherited a large sum of money and “really wanted to do something crazy with the rest of her life”, something I suppose that wouldn’t ultimately define her as an Iowan. It turns out she met a man from Denver, (in an ‘online’ dating forum, that sacred place where those oh-so strongest of personal bonds are formed), and he knew of The Riverside and knew with the right people running the place, they could make a go of it. He actually told our realtor that we were idiots and had no clue about what we were doing, which was why we were failing so miserably; while his assessment of us was spot on, my hurt feelings would have quickly disappeared when the check cleared. The woman was making the arrangements to visit us, and her cyber beau for the first time, when she called to ask me some questions. It was maybe a few words into the conversation when it occurred to me that if there was someone on this earth with less sense than I, she was in fact now on the other end of the phone line, in Des Moines. She told me that she was starting to have second thoughts, not so much about buying the hotel and moving to Colorado, but about her boyfriend, as in their last few discussions, he had become verbally violent and abusive towards her, and she wasn’t certain if she still wanted to include him in the venture. “Oy!” I thought. She never heard from me again.
And so went the attempted sale of The Riverside…….
Now comes proof positive that not only is there a just God, but more importantly, proof of the existence of a God that seems to have a soft spot for idiots. In April of 2009, my old employer called, out of the blue, and asked if I’d be interested in working on some special projects for them. It had been a year since I’d left their employ, and had virtually no contact with them during that time; regardless of how dire my situation had become, my last expected source of relief would have come from a company that, with no warning, I had walked out on. There were some in the organization that were upset with me for leaving; they’d had plans to promote me and move me to Jackson, MS, and my leaving put a bit of a hole in their organizational chart. I didn’t figure they’d have me back if I’d have come begging and crawling, let alone have them initiate my return; I’d have never hired me back. Wonders truly never cease, and the sun occasionally shines on the simple minded.
The offer was for me to work ‘part-time’ for as long as the next two years, during which time we would sell the hotel, and then come back to work full time; and no ifs, ands or buts, that full time thing included relocating to the corporate office in Jackson. Some might have cautioned that I play harder to get, as it was they who contacted me, and in spite of the Business Boner of the Millennium that I had committed, they still placed a value on my services. Let me tell you, I was as coy with them as a Times Square hooker; a nanosecond seems an eternity to the speed at which I accepted their generous offer. The only one who moved faster than me at accepting their largesse was Julie in pushing me to accept; I believe I still have the bruises on my shoulder blades where she pushed me.
And then came Miracle #2 – we had a buyer for the hotel. We were approached by an individual – a local – who expressed what I felt at the time was a serious and sincere interest in buying the hotel. Not only did they have the desire to own The Riverside, but I believed that they had the resources; mentions were actually made of “cashing in CD’s” to fund the purchase of the property. It was at this point that Julie and I mentally checked out as the owners and operators of The Riverside. Julie immediately went from looking online for 2nd income opportunities to looking for tony residences in Mississippi. We weren’t going to sell the hotel for that gaudy dream sum I mentioned earlier, but we were going to recoup all that we had invested into the business, and that was enough to get us out of debt and put us into a home in Jackson.
However, that “mentally checking out” thing ended up being critical towards our ultimate demise, as we would have definitely done things differently if we didn’t think (actually, we were 99% certain) that we had the place sold. I’m not saying we would have been able to salvage the place, just that we would have put time, money and resources in different areas that may have allowed us to ultimately sell the property, and at the very least, minimize some of the bleeding that ultimately occurred.
I really checked out, as I started traveling a bit for the new job in early June, leaving Julie and Rachel behind to fend for themselves. I also quit paying attention to the business side of the business, the penalty of which I would later pay for with some late, frantic nights trying to assemble for the IRS the gory financial details of a year in ruin.
In the middle of July, the buyer for the hotel swiftly, and without warning, backed out of the deal. We quickly contacted a realtor – a friend who was confident that if properly marketed, we’d be able to sell the hotel, even in the current economic climate – and officially put the hotel on the market. In the first few weeks, we had a few people kick the tires, but no serious buyers. What appeared to be our first serious prospect were a young couple who flew down from New York to look at the place – it was their dream to own a B&B in Colorado; and while they loved The Riverside, they were savvy enough (as savvy as your average 5-year old would be savvy, which is unfortunately savvier than me) to know what a tough go it would be to make a living in the out-of-the way shithole that is Hot Sulphur Springs. “Thanks, but no thanks”, they said.
Next we had a business owner from nearby Glenwood Springs, a man who’d made a good living in the construction supply business and was looking to sell that business and make a lifestyle change. (Take it from me; buying The Riverside and moving to Hot Sulphur Springs would slake the thirst of the thirstiest lifestyle changing wanna-be.) This really had me excited, as here we had an individual that was a native, already accustomed to the brutal life and winters of small town, mountainous Colorado, which was the major put-off for our heretofore interested Yankees; and more importantly, he had the money to actually make it happen. His first tour of the property had him salivating, envisioning then vocalizing the improvements he would make, including building a covered, heated deck overlooking the river, with French doors out of the dining room onto the deck. I watched with muted glee as he excitedly painted a picture of the life he was going to change and the business he was going to transform. As he left, he made arrangements to come back and spend the next weekend with his family at the hotel. I never heard from him again.
Then there was a woman from Iowa, who’d inherited a large sum of money and “really wanted to do something crazy with the rest of her life”, something I suppose that wouldn’t ultimately define her as an Iowan. It turns out she met a man from Denver, (in an ‘online’ dating forum, that sacred place where those oh-so strongest of personal bonds are formed), and he knew of The Riverside and knew with the right people running the place, they could make a go of it. He actually told our realtor that we were idiots and had no clue about what we were doing, which was why we were failing so miserably; while his assessment of us was spot on, my hurt feelings would have quickly disappeared when the check cleared. The woman was making the arrangements to visit us, and her cyber beau for the first time, when she called to ask me some questions. It was maybe a few words into the conversation when it occurred to me that if there was someone on this earth with less sense than I, she was in fact now on the other end of the phone line, in Des Moines. She told me that she was starting to have second thoughts, not so much about buying the hotel and moving to Colorado, but about her boyfriend, as in their last few discussions, he had become verbally violent and abusive towards her, and she wasn’t certain if she still wanted to include him in the venture. “Oy!” I thought. She never heard from me again.
And so went the attempted sale of The Riverside…….
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Friday the 13th...The Final Chapter / Part III
The previous owner of The Riverside ran a cash-only business, (I think, duh, maybe for screwing the IRA tax reasons) and therefore, kept no reliable records as to the earning potential of the hotel and restaurant; no occupancy rates, no average # of diners/month, no monthly or annual revenue figures – nothing. So not only did we quit good jobs and leave friends and family to buy a 106-year old haunted building in need of major repairs with fetid living quarters in an out-of-the-way town that smells like rotten eggs in a climate that would freeze the ass off of Nanook of the North for nine months out of the year, we also invested our life savings into the textbook definition of a financial "pig-in-the-poke".
The business plan that I developed for the bank was based upon some wild-ass guesses using formulas that involved days of operation, number of rooms, number of dining room seats, room rates per night and price of the average meal ticket, and put that against estimated monthly expenses – most of which came from Abe; no, unfortunately not Honest Abe Lincoln, but Abe Rodriguez. I conservatively figured, or so I thought at the time, that our break even point was at a 20% occupancy rate. I actually took a lot of time putting occupancy numbers together, with bell curves trending during busy seasons along with expenses, and felt that I had a pretty good grasp of things. After all, (although most who’ve read prior entries to this blog and have marveled at my lack of business acumen, nay in many instances, my lack of a single, properly functioning brain cell, will call absolute screaming BS on this) I ran a successful business for the better part of 20 years, a large part of which involved the financial management of budgets and expenses and generation of revenues. So while I was a neophyte in the hotel and restaurant business, I certainly wasn’t a neophyte in running a successful business. While The Riverside was nothing but an endless string of bad decisions, I previously had a history of making mostly good decisions; the bank relied upon that fact in buying into my 20% occupancy rate business plan, which included 5-year cash flow and pro-formas.
The first summer seemed to go pretty well, in spite of the fact that we’d done zero marketing or advertising. We ended up being at full occupancy every Saturday night from the middle of June until mid September, with numerous near sell outs throughout the weeknights. Our lunch traffic was steady to good throughout the summer, with bustling dinner business on the weekends. I was able to comfortably pay the bills, and even had the cash to make an extra mortgage payment in September. But in October and November, our business dropped like a Boulder boulder; but the expenses held steady. I started eating through our cash like a victorious football team at a post-game buffet. A decent Christmas season helped momentarily to right the ship; then came the off-season (January, February and March), followed by the dead season, or more commonly referred to as ‘mud season’, which is comprised of April, May and the first two weeks of June. I terrifically miscalculated the amount of business that was available to us during Ski season; from a lodging perspective, it was virtually non-existent, as skiers want to be on the slopes, and we were 25 miles away from Winter Park. If not for Valentines Day weekend and a couple of group events, our first full winter would have been disastrous. It was in March that I went to the bank for that promised line-of-credit that was ultimately denied; if not for me raiding my 401k, we wouldn’t have made it to our second summer season.
We shut the hotel down in mid-April after an Easter Sunday brunch and headed to KC for a few weeks. We still had our unsold, unoccupied home in KC that we were making payments on – a situation that never even in my ‘worst case scenario’ plan occurred to me when we packed up in June of 2008 and headed west; not only was I not budgeting in a house payment, I had budgeted in the income from the quick sale of that house at pre-depression real estate values.
There was another nasty little ‘what if?’ that I missed when I was running the business plan numbers on this venture that was now strangling us to a slow, very intense fiscal death – the depression. While I now have profound doubts about our ability to have been successful at The Riverside in a robust economy, I for damn sure know the current state of the economy didn’t do anything but hurt our situation. As bad as things are nationally, they’re far worse in Grand County, CO, with the hub of the pain and suffering being centered in Hot Sulphur Springs – the county seat. The whole raison d’être behind Grand County, CO is tourism, and tourism is fueled by discretionary spending and discretionary spending is the first thing to dry up in a depressed economy.
The difference between our first summer (economy still robust) and our second summer (economy in the toilet) was profound and immediately discernable. Our bustling lunch business of 2008 disappeared in the summer of 2009; on many days not a single soul walked through the door, but a cook was paid and the prepped food went to waste. It was a slow, agonizing financial death; by August I’d sent home all of the peripheral help, and it was down to Julie, our cook and me to handle all of the chores. I had way too much 10:00 AM – 2:00 PM empty lunch time, listening to the dining room playlists and reading books, whilst sitting, hoping and praying that a customer would walk through the door; not one second of it was relaxing or enjoyable.
Our 2009 pre-season hotel room bookings were non-existent and the Saturday afternoon walk-in crowd of 2008 that filled the hotel every single weekend was hunkered down someplace else. Business was in the toilet but the fixed expenses were still in the penthouse.
We were bleeding, we were dying, and the coffers were bare….
The business plan that I developed for the bank was based upon some wild-ass guesses using formulas that involved days of operation, number of rooms, number of dining room seats, room rates per night and price of the average meal ticket, and put that against estimated monthly expenses – most of which came from Abe; no, unfortunately not Honest Abe Lincoln, but Abe Rodriguez. I conservatively figured, or so I thought at the time, that our break even point was at a 20% occupancy rate. I actually took a lot of time putting occupancy numbers together, with bell curves trending during busy seasons along with expenses, and felt that I had a pretty good grasp of things. After all, (although most who’ve read prior entries to this blog and have marveled at my lack of business acumen, nay in many instances, my lack of a single, properly functioning brain cell, will call absolute screaming BS on this) I ran a successful business for the better part of 20 years, a large part of which involved the financial management of budgets and expenses and generation of revenues. So while I was a neophyte in the hotel and restaurant business, I certainly wasn’t a neophyte in running a successful business. While The Riverside was nothing but an endless string of bad decisions, I previously had a history of making mostly good decisions; the bank relied upon that fact in buying into my 20% occupancy rate business plan, which included 5-year cash flow and pro-formas.
The first summer seemed to go pretty well, in spite of the fact that we’d done zero marketing or advertising. We ended up being at full occupancy every Saturday night from the middle of June until mid September, with numerous near sell outs throughout the weeknights. Our lunch traffic was steady to good throughout the summer, with bustling dinner business on the weekends. I was able to comfortably pay the bills, and even had the cash to make an extra mortgage payment in September. But in October and November, our business dropped like a Boulder boulder; but the expenses held steady. I started eating through our cash like a victorious football team at a post-game buffet. A decent Christmas season helped momentarily to right the ship; then came the off-season (January, February and March), followed by the dead season, or more commonly referred to as ‘mud season’, which is comprised of April, May and the first two weeks of June. I terrifically miscalculated the amount of business that was available to us during Ski season; from a lodging perspective, it was virtually non-existent, as skiers want to be on the slopes, and we were 25 miles away from Winter Park. If not for Valentines Day weekend and a couple of group events, our first full winter would have been disastrous. It was in March that I went to the bank for that promised line-of-credit that was ultimately denied; if not for me raiding my 401k, we wouldn’t have made it to our second summer season.
We shut the hotel down in mid-April after an Easter Sunday brunch and headed to KC for a few weeks. We still had our unsold, unoccupied home in KC that we were making payments on – a situation that never even in my ‘worst case scenario’ plan occurred to me when we packed up in June of 2008 and headed west; not only was I not budgeting in a house payment, I had budgeted in the income from the quick sale of that house at pre-depression real estate values.
There was another nasty little ‘what if?’ that I missed when I was running the business plan numbers on this venture that was now strangling us to a slow, very intense fiscal death – the depression. While I now have profound doubts about our ability to have been successful at The Riverside in a robust economy, I for damn sure know the current state of the economy didn’t do anything but hurt our situation. As bad as things are nationally, they’re far worse in Grand County, CO, with the hub of the pain and suffering being centered in Hot Sulphur Springs – the county seat. The whole raison d’être behind Grand County, CO is tourism, and tourism is fueled by discretionary spending and discretionary spending is the first thing to dry up in a depressed economy.
The difference between our first summer (economy still robust) and our second summer (economy in the toilet) was profound and immediately discernable. Our bustling lunch business of 2008 disappeared in the summer of 2009; on many days not a single soul walked through the door, but a cook was paid and the prepped food went to waste. It was a slow, agonizing financial death; by August I’d sent home all of the peripheral help, and it was down to Julie, our cook and me to handle all of the chores. I had way too much 10:00 AM – 2:00 PM empty lunch time, listening to the dining room playlists and reading books, whilst sitting, hoping and praying that a customer would walk through the door; not one second of it was relaxing or enjoyable.
Our 2009 pre-season hotel room bookings were non-existent and the Saturday afternoon walk-in crowd of 2008 that filled the hotel every single weekend was hunkered down someplace else. Business was in the toilet but the fixed expenses were still in the penthouse.
We were bleeding, we were dying, and the coffers were bare….
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Friday the 13th...The Final Chapter / Part II
Our first six months of operation were not indicative of the financial struggles that lay ahead. First of all, Julie and I weren’t there to experience the experience; rather, we were relying on three un-supervised inn-keeping novices under the age of 25 to manage our life savings. The business still had a decent amount of money in the bank, and Julie and I both still had jobs and incomes. I’d sit down monthly to pay bills and payroll for the distant business without feeling much of a sting; I went along as happily as if I had good sense.
Things started to get a little hinky when we hired the previously-mentioned bar-tender/building contractor to redo our living quarters. Again, this was an instance of me ignoring the fact that I was all but being beat to within an inch of my life by red flags, as prior to engaging Irish Car Bomb Bob the Builder to tackle the big job of renovating our quarters, I hired him to redo our walk-in cooler that the State Department of Health mandated be redone. That job went 40% over budget and took two weeks longer to complete than promised; yet armed with this knowledge, I went ahead and rehired Farson & McBytemee for the living quarters. Their proposal seemed sound, and while at the high end of what we could afford, the numbers still fell within my worst-case budget for the project. There was one important little fact that the contractors held from us in their proposal; a fact that would play heavily into the project taking five weeks longer to complete than promised.
In fact, Farson & McBytemee, while tackling the Riverside renovation, were also in the midst of building a competing bar and restaurant in neighboring Tabernash, CO – their bar and restaurant. The plan was for them to have their place, The Tabernash Tavern, open by Memorial Day weekend, 2008 – the same Memorial Day weekend that Julie and I had intended to take up residence in our new living quarters, so we could manage our first, busy, sold out holiday weekend on site. This didn’t happen, as I’m strongly supposing that any extra of F&McB’s workers, time and efforts went to meet their restaurants deadlines; the fact that July 4th was the first night we were able to spend in our bedroom tells me my supposition is more than just such. I wouldn’t dare either insinuate that the 25% overage they hit us with in labor and materials would have been due to any bad accounting or misallocated costs from their restaurant project. Why, only a thief or a crook would do something like that, and there certainly weren’t any of those in Grand County that hadn’t already been signed on to work at the local bank.
That first night sleeping in our new bedroom opened my eyes to another issue that I’d never considered before buying a hotel, bar and restaurant, and had I considered it and given it the necessary due diligence, no way would I have pulled the trigger on the purchase; that issue was vomit. Those that know me well know that I would rather face a pack of hungry lions while wearing rib-eye underwear than deal with vomit; the only possible thing worse than dealing with a vomiting human would be dealing with a vomiting tarantula. Oh Lord, let us not go there.
The restaurant was busy, and the hotel was sold out on this Grand County 4th of July night. Fortunately all of the diners and hotel guests ate early, and all but one couple departed for the fireworks extravaganza at Grand Lake – a good 45 minute drive from the Riverside. This would be the first time since moving to the hotel 10 days earlier that I would be able to sit quietly in the lobby and enjoy a cocktail in peace, as the couple that remained went quietly to their room. They were the last to check in that evening, not having a reservation and taking our only available room. When I was showing the gentleman the room, he asked if we had an elevator, as he told me his wife wasn’t in good shape and would be unable to go up and down the steps. When I said no, I felt certain that he would leave and I wouldn’t see any more of him; but I was wrong. A few minutes later, his wife and he were standing in the lobby, asking to check in; they’d flown to Denver from Kentucky that morning, driven through Rocky Mountain National Park, over the 11,000 foot summit of Trail Ridge Road, and were hungry, tired and ready to settle in, stairs or no stairs. His wife, who was 60-ish and not able to wear slim dresses, felt that she could make it up and down the stairs, although she was admittedly having a difficult time breathing, she felt, due to the altitude. She had me just a little worried.
Our visitors from Kentucky were the last to be seated for dinner, and after getting over the crankiness that often comes with traveling, they seemed to begin enjoying themselves and The Riverside. The wife had our Pan-seared Scallops w/Asparagus Tips in a Buerre Blanc sauce, while the husband enjoyed Prime Rib, with both enjoying a bottle of Riesling then desserts; a $100 restaurant tab on top of an $80 room rental that I didn’t think I’d get for the evening. Off they went to bed, off everyone else went to the fireworks and off I went to my quiet lobby and cold martini. Even Julie had decided to pack it in early, anxious for a rest in our own king-size bed, a bed that had been sitting for 10 days in the unfinished bedroom of the unfinished living quarters.
I had less than an hour of uninterrupted bliss, when the guest from Kentucky appeared in the lobby with a concerned look on his face.
“Can I help you?” I asked with a smile that tried to hide what I really wanted to ask – “what in the hell are you doing down here disturbing my peace???”
“Your scallops have made my wife sick. She’s thrown up all over the bedroom. Can you call 911?”
“Oh My God!” I thought, “I forgot about vomit. How in the hell could I have forgotten about vomit? Who in the hell is going to clean up the vomit?? There’s no way I can clean up the vomit! I doubt I’ll ever even be able to go upstairs again, let alone clean up the damn vomit!”
“You’re serious?” I asked. “You really need me to call 911? I mean, the vomit is about the worst thing that could have happened at this point in my life, but I don’t need 911!”
So I called 911, which will have to come from Granby, some 14 miles away. I stand out in front of the hotel, waiting anxiously for help, hoping the lady doesn’t die in our hotel, but more importantly hoping that she’ll be well enough to help clean up her vomit.
Within 15 minutes that seemed like the proverbial eternity, the ambulance showed and I pointed the Paramedics in the direction of the vomit-filled room. A few minutes later, the two male Paramedics, (there was a third female Paramedic), came down to retrieve the stretcher.
“How is she” I asked.
“Severe altitude sickness”, one answered, “a really bad idea for someone her age, in her shape, to come from sea level to 11,000 feet in an 8-hour period.”
“How bad is the room” I asked, cognitive of my being polite to ask first about the lady before asking about what really concerned me.
“Pretty bad” was the answer.
Pretty bad!!! These guys are used to dealing with all sorts of nasty stuff, and he said ‘Pretty bad’. Oh my God, what awfulness awaits me?
It was another 30 minutes before the ambulance crew started to traverse the stairs with the stretcher that contained our guest. It’s work to slither up and down those stairs with a box of donuts; imagine transporting a human cargo on a 7’, wheeled gurney. My hat’s still off to those dudes, who were making something that I would have considered impossible look easy. Our guest didn’t look well; she was pale, sweating and strapped to the gurney with much needed oxygen being tubed to her nostrils. She gave me a sad look, a faint wave and mouthed “I’m sorry!” I know she felt sick, and worse, badly for me and the situation.
By this time, guests had begun to return from the fireworks and were milling around the front of the darkened hotel. Off went the ambulance, followed by her husband in their rented Ford Taurus; that being followed by $180 that went unpaid for the room and the dinner, half of the latter of which was left behind in the ‘Linda’ room.
When I finished dealing with the guests and locking the place down, and thanking my darling daughter Rachel, to whom I will forever be eternally grateful to for her courage in cleaning up the vomit, I went back to spend my first night in my old bed in my new room. I belive it was 2 AM.
Julie awoke from a deep sleep, to mumble/ask, “how’d things go?”
“Before or after the ambulance left?”
To be continued………..
Things started to get a little hinky when we hired the previously-mentioned bar-tender/building contractor to redo our living quarters. Again, this was an instance of me ignoring the fact that I was all but being beat to within an inch of my life by red flags, as prior to engaging Irish Car Bomb Bob the Builder to tackle the big job of renovating our quarters, I hired him to redo our walk-in cooler that the State Department of Health mandated be redone. That job went 40% over budget and took two weeks longer to complete than promised; yet armed with this knowledge, I went ahead and rehired Farson & McBytemee for the living quarters. Their proposal seemed sound, and while at the high end of what we could afford, the numbers still fell within my worst-case budget for the project. There was one important little fact that the contractors held from us in their proposal; a fact that would play heavily into the project taking five weeks longer to complete than promised.
In fact, Farson & McBytemee, while tackling the Riverside renovation, were also in the midst of building a competing bar and restaurant in neighboring Tabernash, CO – their bar and restaurant. The plan was for them to have their place, The Tabernash Tavern, open by Memorial Day weekend, 2008 – the same Memorial Day weekend that Julie and I had intended to take up residence in our new living quarters, so we could manage our first, busy, sold out holiday weekend on site. This didn’t happen, as I’m strongly supposing that any extra of F&McB’s workers, time and efforts went to meet their restaurants deadlines; the fact that July 4th was the first night we were able to spend in our bedroom tells me my supposition is more than just such. I wouldn’t dare either insinuate that the 25% overage they hit us with in labor and materials would have been due to any bad accounting or misallocated costs from their restaurant project. Why, only a thief or a crook would do something like that, and there certainly weren’t any of those in Grand County that hadn’t already been signed on to work at the local bank.
That first night sleeping in our new bedroom opened my eyes to another issue that I’d never considered before buying a hotel, bar and restaurant, and had I considered it and given it the necessary due diligence, no way would I have pulled the trigger on the purchase; that issue was vomit. Those that know me well know that I would rather face a pack of hungry lions while wearing rib-eye underwear than deal with vomit; the only possible thing worse than dealing with a vomiting human would be dealing with a vomiting tarantula. Oh Lord, let us not go there.
The restaurant was busy, and the hotel was sold out on this Grand County 4th of July night. Fortunately all of the diners and hotel guests ate early, and all but one couple departed for the fireworks extravaganza at Grand Lake – a good 45 minute drive from the Riverside. This would be the first time since moving to the hotel 10 days earlier that I would be able to sit quietly in the lobby and enjoy a cocktail in peace, as the couple that remained went quietly to their room. They were the last to check in that evening, not having a reservation and taking our only available room. When I was showing the gentleman the room, he asked if we had an elevator, as he told me his wife wasn’t in good shape and would be unable to go up and down the steps. When I said no, I felt certain that he would leave and I wouldn’t see any more of him; but I was wrong. A few minutes later, his wife and he were standing in the lobby, asking to check in; they’d flown to Denver from Kentucky that morning, driven through Rocky Mountain National Park, over the 11,000 foot summit of Trail Ridge Road, and were hungry, tired and ready to settle in, stairs or no stairs. His wife, who was 60-ish and not able to wear slim dresses, felt that she could make it up and down the stairs, although she was admittedly having a difficult time breathing, she felt, due to the altitude. She had me just a little worried.
Our visitors from Kentucky were the last to be seated for dinner, and after getting over the crankiness that often comes with traveling, they seemed to begin enjoying themselves and The Riverside. The wife had our Pan-seared Scallops w/Asparagus Tips in a Buerre Blanc sauce, while the husband enjoyed Prime Rib, with both enjoying a bottle of Riesling then desserts; a $100 restaurant tab on top of an $80 room rental that I didn’t think I’d get for the evening. Off they went to bed, off everyone else went to the fireworks and off I went to my quiet lobby and cold martini. Even Julie had decided to pack it in early, anxious for a rest in our own king-size bed, a bed that had been sitting for 10 days in the unfinished bedroom of the unfinished living quarters.
I had less than an hour of uninterrupted bliss, when the guest from Kentucky appeared in the lobby with a concerned look on his face.
“Can I help you?” I asked with a smile that tried to hide what I really wanted to ask – “what in the hell are you doing down here disturbing my peace???”
“Your scallops have made my wife sick. She’s thrown up all over the bedroom. Can you call 911?”
“Oh My God!” I thought, “I forgot about vomit. How in the hell could I have forgotten about vomit? Who in the hell is going to clean up the vomit?? There’s no way I can clean up the vomit! I doubt I’ll ever even be able to go upstairs again, let alone clean up the damn vomit!”
“You’re serious?” I asked. “You really need me to call 911? I mean, the vomit is about the worst thing that could have happened at this point in my life, but I don’t need 911!”
So I called 911, which will have to come from Granby, some 14 miles away. I stand out in front of the hotel, waiting anxiously for help, hoping the lady doesn’t die in our hotel, but more importantly hoping that she’ll be well enough to help clean up her vomit.
Within 15 minutes that seemed like the proverbial eternity, the ambulance showed and I pointed the Paramedics in the direction of the vomit-filled room. A few minutes later, the two male Paramedics, (there was a third female Paramedic), came down to retrieve the stretcher.
“How is she” I asked.
“Severe altitude sickness”, one answered, “a really bad idea for someone her age, in her shape, to come from sea level to 11,000 feet in an 8-hour period.”
“How bad is the room” I asked, cognitive of my being polite to ask first about the lady before asking about what really concerned me.
“Pretty bad” was the answer.
Pretty bad!!! These guys are used to dealing with all sorts of nasty stuff, and he said ‘Pretty bad’. Oh my God, what awfulness awaits me?
It was another 30 minutes before the ambulance crew started to traverse the stairs with the stretcher that contained our guest. It’s work to slither up and down those stairs with a box of donuts; imagine transporting a human cargo on a 7’, wheeled gurney. My hat’s still off to those dudes, who were making something that I would have considered impossible look easy. Our guest didn’t look well; she was pale, sweating and strapped to the gurney with much needed oxygen being tubed to her nostrils. She gave me a sad look, a faint wave and mouthed “I’m sorry!” I know she felt sick, and worse, badly for me and the situation.
By this time, guests had begun to return from the fireworks and were milling around the front of the darkened hotel. Off went the ambulance, followed by her husband in their rented Ford Taurus; that being followed by $180 that went unpaid for the room and the dinner, half of the latter of which was left behind in the ‘Linda’ room.
When I finished dealing with the guests and locking the place down, and thanking my darling daughter Rachel, to whom I will forever be eternally grateful to for her courage in cleaning up the vomit, I went back to spend my first night in my old bed in my new room. I belive it was 2 AM.
Julie awoke from a deep sleep, to mumble/ask, “how’d things go?”
“Before or after the ambulance left?”
To be continued………..
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Friday the 13th.........The Final Chapter
No, this isn’t another Riverside ghost story, but it is for damn sure a horror story. And as for the ‘Final Chapter’, is it the end of the blog?
Maybe….
There are still untold stories – some really, really good untold stories. I’ve yet to tell the story of the previous owner, and that is one humdinger of a story. There are other stories, partly written, about other characters and events that need to be told; but I want to make certain that we’ve been totally immersed into the Mississippi Witness Protection Program, with the requisite assumed identities, before exposing all of the juicy details of the people we encountered and events that occurred during our two year fling in the mountains.
No, these untold stories will be for the book. Let’s face it. I was foolish enough to think that I could chuck it all and make a go of it in the mountains of Grand County, CO; getting a book written and published would be folderol compared to the task of paying the bills and earning a living, during a depression, in a ramshackle, haunted hotel in Hot Sulphur Springs, CO.
During our first full weekend of living at The Riverside, I received a harbinger of things to come that made my already nervous self-examination about “have we done the right thing?” look like a hungry buzzard hanging around the back door of a Kobe Beef processing plant.
A quick update; we bought the hotel on December 27th, 2007. My daughter Rachel, and two other family members, ran the place the best they could under the circumstances, until Julie and I showed up on June 25th, 2008. As I was driving into Hot Sulphur Springs on June 25th, following the jack-leg moving company that I hired on the cheap, I took a deep breath and drank in the moment. The sun was setting over Mt. Bross and the spacious valley that was carved by the Colorado River, the valley that is Hot Sulphur Springs; it all lay before us in spectacular fashion as we drove in for the first time as residents.
“Ahhh”, I exhaled, and said out loud to both Julie and myself, “it’s June 25th, and we’re arriving at our new home, and our new life. It’s hard to believe that we live here! Let’s never forget this date!”
No sooner were the words were out of my mouth, when my history-loving nerd-gene grabbed me by the ear in a combined Jesuit/nun-like fashion, and screamed the following at a deafening level, to which only I was privy – “JUNE 25!! YOU IDIOT!!! THAT’S THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE BATTLE OF THE LITTLE BIGHORN!! YOU KNOW, CUSTER’S LAST STAND ??!! HE WAS A FOOL, RUSHING BRAZENLY INTO THE UNKNOWN, FOR GLORY, FOR HIS EGO, AND HE WAS SLAUGHTERED ON THIS DAY, 132 YEARS AGO.BRUTALLY SLAUGHTERED, I TELL YOU! DO FOOLS NEVER LEARN FROM HISTORY???”
My history-loving nerd gene has a bit of an attitude, and typically offers me way too much information. But he often motivates me, and this is what he tossed out regarding Custer’s quest for greatness; a quote from Teddy Roosevelt that was offered in defense of Custer’s folly. I relate to it, and embrace it as an excuse for my Colorado brain fart.
“Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat”
The content of this fine quote gives me great comfort as I chastise and feel superior to you poor spirits, you that live in that gray twilight; you that still have your 401K’s intact in the bank.
So much for the pursuit of glory….
So back to the harbinger. Our first weekend had us hosting guests in 6 rooms, and one of the couples were old time ‘Abe’ guests, i.e. people that had stayed at The Riverside for years and knew both its charms and its foibles. They were celebrating a wedding anniversary, and were staying in the two-room suite overlooking the river; a wonderful couple who were very supportive of what we’d done to improve the hotel. They had a lovely dinner that they raved about, complete with wine and champagne, then retired to the bar for a ‘final-final’. Through bar chatter I learned that the gentleman was a Circuit Court Judge in Denver; a very distinguished, gentle, intelligent man – a man who’s opinion would hold some weight.
After I shared our story of quitting our jobs, packing it up and moving to a brave new life in the mountains, he looked at me, and earnestly said, “I really admire you for what you’ve done. You’ve done great things with this place, and I really hope that you’re able make a go of it. But I can tell you, Grand County is a damn tough place to make a living. I can only wish you the best.”
When he told me this, the economy was still robust, or as we know now in retrospect, was still robust on the surface to us idiots. The bubble had yet to burst, and this guy who dealt with the day to day reality of making a go of it in Colorado, looked me in the eye, with a face that showed genuine concern, and said “….Grand County is a damn tough place to make a living. I can only wish you the best.”
After our first weekend in our new venture, it began to occur to me that the carrion of Kobe Beef might stand a better chance against vultures, and our ultimate demise, than we.
To Be Continued…………
Maybe….
There are still untold stories – some really, really good untold stories. I’ve yet to tell the story of the previous owner, and that is one humdinger of a story. There are other stories, partly written, about other characters and events that need to be told; but I want to make certain that we’ve been totally immersed into the Mississippi Witness Protection Program, with the requisite assumed identities, before exposing all of the juicy details of the people we encountered and events that occurred during our two year fling in the mountains.
No, these untold stories will be for the book. Let’s face it. I was foolish enough to think that I could chuck it all and make a go of it in the mountains of Grand County, CO; getting a book written and published would be folderol compared to the task of paying the bills and earning a living, during a depression, in a ramshackle, haunted hotel in Hot Sulphur Springs, CO.
During our first full weekend of living at The Riverside, I received a harbinger of things to come that made my already nervous self-examination about “have we done the right thing?” look like a hungry buzzard hanging around the back door of a Kobe Beef processing plant.
A quick update; we bought the hotel on December 27th, 2007. My daughter Rachel, and two other family members, ran the place the best they could under the circumstances, until Julie and I showed up on June 25th, 2008. As I was driving into Hot Sulphur Springs on June 25th, following the jack-leg moving company that I hired on the cheap, I took a deep breath and drank in the moment. The sun was setting over Mt. Bross and the spacious valley that was carved by the Colorado River, the valley that is Hot Sulphur Springs; it all lay before us in spectacular fashion as we drove in for the first time as residents.
“Ahhh”, I exhaled, and said out loud to both Julie and myself, “it’s June 25th, and we’re arriving at our new home, and our new life. It’s hard to believe that we live here! Let’s never forget this date!”
No sooner were the words were out of my mouth, when my history-loving nerd-gene grabbed me by the ear in a combined Jesuit/nun-like fashion, and screamed the following at a deafening level, to which only I was privy – “JUNE 25!! YOU IDIOT!!! THAT’S THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE BATTLE OF THE LITTLE BIGHORN!! YOU KNOW, CUSTER’S LAST STAND ??!! HE WAS A FOOL, RUSHING BRAZENLY INTO THE UNKNOWN, FOR GLORY, FOR HIS EGO, AND HE WAS SLAUGHTERED ON THIS DAY, 132 YEARS AGO.BRUTALLY SLAUGHTERED, I TELL YOU! DO FOOLS NEVER LEARN FROM HISTORY???”
My history-loving nerd gene has a bit of an attitude, and typically offers me way too much information. But he often motivates me, and this is what he tossed out regarding Custer’s quest for greatness; a quote from Teddy Roosevelt that was offered in defense of Custer’s folly. I relate to it, and embrace it as an excuse for my Colorado brain fart.
“Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat”
The content of this fine quote gives me great comfort as I chastise and feel superior to you poor spirits, you that live in that gray twilight; you that still have your 401K’s intact in the bank.
So much for the pursuit of glory….
So back to the harbinger. Our first weekend had us hosting guests in 6 rooms, and one of the couples were old time ‘Abe’ guests, i.e. people that had stayed at The Riverside for years and knew both its charms and its foibles. They were celebrating a wedding anniversary, and were staying in the two-room suite overlooking the river; a wonderful couple who were very supportive of what we’d done to improve the hotel. They had a lovely dinner that they raved about, complete with wine and champagne, then retired to the bar for a ‘final-final’. Through bar chatter I learned that the gentleman was a Circuit Court Judge in Denver; a very distinguished, gentle, intelligent man – a man who’s opinion would hold some weight.
After I shared our story of quitting our jobs, packing it up and moving to a brave new life in the mountains, he looked at me, and earnestly said, “I really admire you for what you’ve done. You’ve done great things with this place, and I really hope that you’re able make a go of it. But I can tell you, Grand County is a damn tough place to make a living. I can only wish you the best.”
When he told me this, the economy was still robust, or as we know now in retrospect, was still robust on the surface to us idiots. The bubble had yet to burst, and this guy who dealt with the day to day reality of making a go of it in Colorado, looked me in the eye, with a face that showed genuine concern, and said “….Grand County is a damn tough place to make a living. I can only wish you the best.”
After our first weekend in our new venture, it began to occur to me that the carrion of Kobe Beef might stand a better chance against vultures, and our ultimate demise, than we.
To Be Continued…………
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Chicken Spiedini for the masses
I thought it only fitting that I should follow up a story about the bounteously heinous discovery in the kitchen crawl space with a recipe for one of our restaurants best selling, if not our signature, entree – Chicken Spiedini.
We brought this dish from a storied Italian eatery in Kansas City, Garozzo’s Ristorente, which built a bit of an empire on the back of this grilled, garlic-laden fowl. The first time I ate at the original location on 5th & Harrison, down near the KC City Market, the waiter suggested the Spiedini over a pasta dish I was tempted to order; I took his advice, and found that I’d never tasted anything quite like it. It was one of those seminal degustatory moments that jarred you into the realization that there was a whole culinary world beyond your mother’s meatloaf. Mr. Garozzo went on to open three more restaurants, including one in Wichita, KS, all of which were fueled by the success of his Spiedini. Chicken Spedini even wrought new, competitive restaurants from former Garozzo employees, including the original Garozzo’s chef who opened his own place, loudly proclaiming himself the inventor of the dish; he didn’t make it a year, while all of the Garozzo’s are still churning out Spiedini.
At The Riverside, we never claimed Chicken Spiedini as an original recipe, but gave due credit by referring to the dish on our first menu as ‘Chicken Spiedini a la Garozzo’. (I’m not certain what ‘a la’ means, but I’d seen it on a lot of other menus, and thought, ‘what the hell’.) I do steadfastly believe that our version was better than Garozzo’s; an opinion that was shared by numerous Kansas-Citians who had eaten the dish in both KC and at The Riverside. The only restaurant review that we ever received in the local paper, good or bad, was a one-line mention in a “What to do this weekend” column from the Sky-High Daily News entertainment writer, saying “try the Chicken Spiedini at The Riverside – it’s incredible!”
While it was immensely popular, it was also very labor intensive to prepare, and in our last few months of operation, down to a single chef, we decided to scrap the dish in favor of easier preparations. Make it at home, and you’ll get a feel for what our kitchen help had to do on a daily basis for the throngs (ok, maybe not throngs; if there had been throngs, we may yet still be in business) of dinner guests who ordered, and adored, Spiedini. I’m proud that we threw very little un-eaten food away at The Riverside, and when we did, never was it Spiedini.
Serves 4
2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken breasts
¾ cup flour
¾ cup olive oil
2 tablespoons dried sweet basil
½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
1 ½ cup bread crumbs (buy ‘em, don’t make ‘em)
AMOGIO SAUCE
¾ cup olive oil
¾ cup vegetable oil
1 medium-sized head of garlic
1 thin-skinned, damn juicy lemon, juiced
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh basil
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh parsley
A few hefty grinds of fresh black pepper and a few stout pinches of Kosher salt
You’ll need ka-bob skewers, and in a perfect world, a nice, hot bed of coals to grill the Spiedini over; if you can’t grill, you can also cook the skewers indoors on a hot griddle. Spiedini is an Italian term with the loose translation of ‘skewers of meat or fish, grilled over a flame’; the direct translation is ‘skewers of meat that are slowly prepared, to the sound of blaring heavy-metal/ bad rap music, by highly paid kitchen staff.’
Pound the chicken breasts thin, about a quarter inch thick, and cut length-wise into 1” wide strips. If you’ve pounded your breasts thin enough, you should get 14 – 16 strips from the 2# of chicken.
You’ll also need three prep bowls, one which will contain the ½ cup of olive oil, one the flour, and the third a well-mixed blend of the bread crumbs, the grated parm cheese and the basil flakes.
Lightly salt and pepper the chicken strips, thoroughly wash your hands (this is an important step that was often overlooked by our kitchen staff, no matter how much I yelled at them when I found them preparing this dish, and others, with dirty, filthy hands), and grab a chicken strip. Dredge it in the flour, shake off the excess, dip it in the olive oil, drip off the excess, and dredge it in the bread crumb mixture. Place the coated strip on your work surface and roll it into a pinwheel. Stick this onto a skewer, obviously jamming the business end of the skewer through the entire diameter of the pinwheel, and repeat the process with all of the strips. Dependent upon your dredging, dripping and shaking skills, you may end up needing more flour, oil or bread crumb mix; but you’d have hopefully figured that out on your own, as any cook knows that a recipe is but a yardstick, not a micrometer.
Let your skewered, Spiedini-ed chicken sit patiently on your cooking sheet, and begin preparing the Amogio sauce. Peel your garlic cloves, and chop to a fine dice. Don’t use a garlic press; there is a profound difference in how garlic tastes and reacts to other ingredients when it is chopped versus pressed. Throw your finely diced garlic in a mixing bowl along with all of the other ingredients, and stir it gently with a spoon every so often. Don’t whisk it, as you don’t want to emulsify the lemon juice into the blend. Be gentle.
You can make the Amogio sauce the day before, but needless to say, the longer it sits, the more potent it gets. If you do make it the day before, I’d leave out the freshly squeezed lemon juice; add that closer to meal time. Stir gently after adding the lemon juice.
Grill or griddle your chicken to doneness – and you have to be careful about this, as the rolled up chicken will need to cook through; but be careful not to burn the crap out of the outer portion of the chicken in the process. Grilling is a skill, not to be maligned, chided and laughed at by those who don’t practice, but only eat the fruits of the hot iron grate. The first time we had the dish at the newly opened restaurant of the ‘inventor’ chef, the inner part of our Spiedini was RAW; not undercooked, but blind-ass, naked RAW! The waiter was flustered, and actually said, “Uh, keep this quiet, and the Tiramisu is on the house!” Mmmmm, raw chicken and Tiramisu, one of my favorite Italian delights! What wine goes with that?
To plate, liberally spoon 1/3 cup of the Amogio on a plate, un-skewer the properly grilled chicken onto the pool of sauce, top the chicken and rim the plate with a little finely chopped parsley, spoon another tablespoon or two of the remaining Amogio over the top of the chicken and accompany with sides. I’d suggest a nice penne pasta with a light, slightly sweet marinara sauce as an accompaniment, as you’ll want something all-but bland to offset the punch-in-the-nose you’ll get from the Amogio sauce. Nicely prepared fresh green beans or broccoli will seal the meal.
Listen to some Sinatra and quaff some Chianti, or Amarone, if the finances will allow.
We brought this dish from a storied Italian eatery in Kansas City, Garozzo’s Ristorente, which built a bit of an empire on the back of this grilled, garlic-laden fowl. The first time I ate at the original location on 5th & Harrison, down near the KC City Market, the waiter suggested the Spiedini over a pasta dish I was tempted to order; I took his advice, and found that I’d never tasted anything quite like it. It was one of those seminal degustatory moments that jarred you into the realization that there was a whole culinary world beyond your mother’s meatloaf. Mr. Garozzo went on to open three more restaurants, including one in Wichita, KS, all of which were fueled by the success of his Spiedini. Chicken Spedini even wrought new, competitive restaurants from former Garozzo employees, including the original Garozzo’s chef who opened his own place, loudly proclaiming himself the inventor of the dish; he didn’t make it a year, while all of the Garozzo’s are still churning out Spiedini.
At The Riverside, we never claimed Chicken Spiedini as an original recipe, but gave due credit by referring to the dish on our first menu as ‘Chicken Spiedini a la Garozzo’. (I’m not certain what ‘a la’ means, but I’d seen it on a lot of other menus, and thought, ‘what the hell’.) I do steadfastly believe that our version was better than Garozzo’s; an opinion that was shared by numerous Kansas-Citians who had eaten the dish in both KC and at The Riverside. The only restaurant review that we ever received in the local paper, good or bad, was a one-line mention in a “What to do this weekend” column from the Sky-High Daily News entertainment writer, saying “try the Chicken Spiedini at The Riverside – it’s incredible!”
While it was immensely popular, it was also very labor intensive to prepare, and in our last few months of operation, down to a single chef, we decided to scrap the dish in favor of easier preparations. Make it at home, and you’ll get a feel for what our kitchen help had to do on a daily basis for the throngs (ok, maybe not throngs; if there had been throngs, we may yet still be in business) of dinner guests who ordered, and adored, Spiedini. I’m proud that we threw very little un-eaten food away at The Riverside, and when we did, never was it Spiedini.
Serves 4
2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken breasts
¾ cup flour
¾ cup olive oil
2 tablespoons dried sweet basil
½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
1 ½ cup bread crumbs (buy ‘em, don’t make ‘em)
AMOGIO SAUCE
¾ cup olive oil
¾ cup vegetable oil
1 medium-sized head of garlic
1 thin-skinned, damn juicy lemon, juiced
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh basil
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh parsley
A few hefty grinds of fresh black pepper and a few stout pinches of Kosher salt
You’ll need ka-bob skewers, and in a perfect world, a nice, hot bed of coals to grill the Spiedini over; if you can’t grill, you can also cook the skewers indoors on a hot griddle. Spiedini is an Italian term with the loose translation of ‘skewers of meat or fish, grilled over a flame’; the direct translation is ‘skewers of meat that are slowly prepared, to the sound of blaring heavy-metal/ bad rap music, by highly paid kitchen staff.’
Pound the chicken breasts thin, about a quarter inch thick, and cut length-wise into 1” wide strips. If you’ve pounded your breasts thin enough, you should get 14 – 16 strips from the 2# of chicken.
You’ll also need three prep bowls, one which will contain the ½ cup of olive oil, one the flour, and the third a well-mixed blend of the bread crumbs, the grated parm cheese and the basil flakes.
Lightly salt and pepper the chicken strips, thoroughly wash your hands (this is an important step that was often overlooked by our kitchen staff, no matter how much I yelled at them when I found them preparing this dish, and others, with dirty, filthy hands), and grab a chicken strip. Dredge it in the flour, shake off the excess, dip it in the olive oil, drip off the excess, and dredge it in the bread crumb mixture. Place the coated strip on your work surface and roll it into a pinwheel. Stick this onto a skewer, obviously jamming the business end of the skewer through the entire diameter of the pinwheel, and repeat the process with all of the strips. Dependent upon your dredging, dripping and shaking skills, you may end up needing more flour, oil or bread crumb mix; but you’d have hopefully figured that out on your own, as any cook knows that a recipe is but a yardstick, not a micrometer.
Let your skewered, Spiedini-ed chicken sit patiently on your cooking sheet, and begin preparing the Amogio sauce. Peel your garlic cloves, and chop to a fine dice. Don’t use a garlic press; there is a profound difference in how garlic tastes and reacts to other ingredients when it is chopped versus pressed. Throw your finely diced garlic in a mixing bowl along with all of the other ingredients, and stir it gently with a spoon every so often. Don’t whisk it, as you don’t want to emulsify the lemon juice into the blend. Be gentle.
You can make the Amogio sauce the day before, but needless to say, the longer it sits, the more potent it gets. If you do make it the day before, I’d leave out the freshly squeezed lemon juice; add that closer to meal time. Stir gently after adding the lemon juice.
Grill or griddle your chicken to doneness – and you have to be careful about this, as the rolled up chicken will need to cook through; but be careful not to burn the crap out of the outer portion of the chicken in the process. Grilling is a skill, not to be maligned, chided and laughed at by those who don’t practice, but only eat the fruits of the hot iron grate. The first time we had the dish at the newly opened restaurant of the ‘inventor’ chef, the inner part of our Spiedini was RAW; not undercooked, but blind-ass, naked RAW! The waiter was flustered, and actually said, “Uh, keep this quiet, and the Tiramisu is on the house!” Mmmmm, raw chicken and Tiramisu, one of my favorite Italian delights! What wine goes with that?
To plate, liberally spoon 1/3 cup of the Amogio on a plate, un-skewer the properly grilled chicken onto the pool of sauce, top the chicken and rim the plate with a little finely chopped parsley, spoon another tablespoon or two of the remaining Amogio over the top of the chicken and accompany with sides. I’d suggest a nice penne pasta with a light, slightly sweet marinara sauce as an accompaniment, as you’ll want something all-but bland to offset the punch-in-the-nose you’ll get from the Amogio sauce. Nicely prepared fresh green beans or broccoli will seal the meal.
Listen to some Sinatra and quaff some Chianti, or Amarone, if the finances will allow.
Monday, August 2, 2010
The Three Portals of Hell....Part V
Really Awful Offal....
In many cases, one would save the best for last. I’ve done the opposite, as the final story of the three Riverside portals is indeed saving the worst, most offensive, most God-awful for last. Portal Number One involved snakes in the bedroom – BUPKIS! Portal Number Two involved bad plumbing, raw sewage and a Meth addict manhandling a rented high-pressure Jetter in the underbelly of the hotel – Sheer Folly!
Portal Number Three involves the kitchen; it involves grease, old food and bad dishwater festering in a darkened crawl space – it involves an agglomeration of things so bad that people actually go to school to become lawyers, so that they can avoid ever having to be within anything short of tort distance from this holy trinity of gluck.
As mentioned previously, the space under the kitchen was original to the hotels 1903 construction. It had a shorter head clearance than the crawl space under the hotel lobby, by maybe a foot; you were in a serious crouch in this space, and in most cases to get done what you had to do when you were down there, you had to kneel on the lengths of 2 x 12s that ran the length of the space. The two kitchen drains ran under this section, both ultimately leading into the infamous ‘grease trap’, a 16” square box that collected…well…the sort of things that would not only turn you into a Boulder-proud vegan, you’d possibly never eat again if you saw what it contained. The exit side of the grease trap consisted of a 3” pipe that ran into the main sewer line in the crawlspace in Portal Number Two, where it joined with the 3” exit pipes from the toilets, sinks and showers.
(Side Note from Richard Paradise, Restaurant/B&B Consultant LLC: If you, the prospective first-time restaurateur and B&B Operator, just read this last paragraph, and you still want to get into the restaurant & hotel business, quickly send me another $10,000, so that I can further counsel, advise and save you $1,000,000 worth of blood, sweat, tears and actual cash money; not to mention the eventual date with your grease trap.)
It was the end of the Easter weekend, 2009, when we were shutting the hotel down, for both a vacation and a kitchen reconstruction. The plan involved a big-bang, farewell Easter brunch, two-weeks out of Hot Sulphur, then a return to gut and replace the old, inherited equipment we’d been dealing with the past year, replace the existing slippery linoleum floor with some kick-ass commercial floor tile I’d scored from an old adhesive-business contact, and be ready to fly by Memorial Day, 2009.
I can’t remember why our chef went into Portal Number Three shortly before our two-week vacation, but he did, and he reported something pretty wretched.
“The pipe from the dishwasher/disposal has a crack in it, and the crawl space is flooded with….uh….well…some pretty bad stuff. There’s, like, a foot of really bad water down there.”
This was one of those times when procrastination seemed the wiser option. There was a basement full of fetid water, that wouldn’t be added to when we were on vacation. We’d rent a pump when we got back from vacation, drain it, fix the pipe, the floor, the kitchen, etc. No point in delaying our much anticipated and much deserved vacation to deal with this seamy little issue. Unlike us, it sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere.
Two weeks later, we’re back at the Riverside, ready for one hell of a floor ripping-up, crawl-space draining good time. I didn’t even bother to look in the flooded crawl space before heading to the local equipment-rental place for a portable sump pump. Money down, pump in hand, we sucked it up and opened the crawl space, to find….no water! Closer inspection found a substance that, much unlike water, was indefinable. Several months full of restaurant flotsam and jetsam, discharging through the dishwashing system through the crack in the exhaust pipe, in small dribs and drabs over the past few months, into the dirt floor of the crawl space, to sit, stew and percolate, had turned into a gel, a goo, an all but living, breathing, writhing clot. There is really no better way to describe this substance other than it being a grayish, rubbery subterranean pudding, smelling like no pudding you could imagine. If evil sought out a smell, it would have latched onto this layer of gloosma like corruption seeks out politicians.
“Crap!” I thought, “I planned on being able to pump this problem out of my life.” No, it would require a shovel, some plastic bags, and me kneeling/crouching in the cramped quarters of the Third Portal of Hell. While my chef honorably offered to do this dirty beyond dirty job, I couldn’t reasonably ask anyone that I was paying less than $140/second to perform this horrific task.
I previously might have mentioned that it smelled really bad; it did, but when the gelatinous smelogma was actually disturbed, i.e., turned and probed by the peak of the spade, the odor that was unleashed from this custard of a thousand previous Riverside dinners was indescribable. It was very quick duty; throw a plastic trash bag in the hole, hold my breath, descend and scrape two or three shovelfuls into the bag, stick my head above the crawl space for a breath of air, hold my breath, and repeat. There were a few times I had to exhale and breathe on my way back up, and the gag reflex was major; just a momentary whiff of what I was excavating was potentially lethal. Any bad human act – you name it; robbery, terror, murder, greed, vengeance - could be averted by the threat of having to smell this hellish concoction.
It took a while, but the job was completed. I might have imagined this, but I don’t think so, as the trash dumpster, containing the bags of crawl space sploojisma, emitted a fluorescent greenish glow from beneath its lid as it sat in our side yard, waiting patiently for the 2nd Tuesday of the month pick-up.
The puddinous spoosma collected, a layer of lime was deposited upon the crawl space floor, eliminating any of the remaining odors, and slaying the resident microbial villains that had been wrought from the no-longer festering foodsmegjisma.
I now live in Mississippi, and am fortunate to have a job with a large corporation. People often ask me “Why would you move from Colorado to Mississippi? Didn’t you love the restaurant business? Aren’t you sorry that you gave up your dream?”
Those are fair questions. If you want the real answer, please contact me at:
Be prepared to spend a Grand. I’ll save you a fortune.
In many cases, one would save the best for last. I’ve done the opposite, as the final story of the three Riverside portals is indeed saving the worst, most offensive, most God-awful for last. Portal Number One involved snakes in the bedroom – BUPKIS! Portal Number Two involved bad plumbing, raw sewage and a Meth addict manhandling a rented high-pressure Jetter in the underbelly of the hotel – Sheer Folly!
Portal Number Three involves the kitchen; it involves grease, old food and bad dishwater festering in a darkened crawl space – it involves an agglomeration of things so bad that people actually go to school to become lawyers, so that they can avoid ever having to be within anything short of tort distance from this holy trinity of gluck.
As mentioned previously, the space under the kitchen was original to the hotels 1903 construction. It had a shorter head clearance than the crawl space under the hotel lobby, by maybe a foot; you were in a serious crouch in this space, and in most cases to get done what you had to do when you were down there, you had to kneel on the lengths of 2 x 12s that ran the length of the space. The two kitchen drains ran under this section, both ultimately leading into the infamous ‘grease trap’, a 16” square box that collected…well…the sort of things that would not only turn you into a Boulder-proud vegan, you’d possibly never eat again if you saw what it contained. The exit side of the grease trap consisted of a 3” pipe that ran into the main sewer line in the crawlspace in Portal Number Two, where it joined with the 3” exit pipes from the toilets, sinks and showers.
(Side Note from Richard Paradise, Restaurant/B&B Consultant LLC: If you, the prospective first-time restaurateur and B&B Operator, just read this last paragraph, and you still want to get into the restaurant & hotel business, quickly send me another $10,000, so that I can further counsel, advise and save you $1,000,000 worth of blood, sweat, tears and actual cash money; not to mention the eventual date with your grease trap.)
It was the end of the Easter weekend, 2009, when we were shutting the hotel down, for both a vacation and a kitchen reconstruction. The plan involved a big-bang, farewell Easter brunch, two-weeks out of Hot Sulphur, then a return to gut and replace the old, inherited equipment we’d been dealing with the past year, replace the existing slippery linoleum floor with some kick-ass commercial floor tile I’d scored from an old adhesive-business contact, and be ready to fly by Memorial Day, 2009.
I can’t remember why our chef went into Portal Number Three shortly before our two-week vacation, but he did, and he reported something pretty wretched.
“The pipe from the dishwasher/disposal has a crack in it, and the crawl space is flooded with….uh….well…some pretty bad stuff. There’s, like, a foot of really bad water down there.”
This was one of those times when procrastination seemed the wiser option. There was a basement full of fetid water, that wouldn’t be added to when we were on vacation. We’d rent a pump when we got back from vacation, drain it, fix the pipe, the floor, the kitchen, etc. No point in delaying our much anticipated and much deserved vacation to deal with this seamy little issue. Unlike us, it sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere.
Two weeks later, we’re back at the Riverside, ready for one hell of a floor ripping-up, crawl-space draining good time. I didn’t even bother to look in the flooded crawl space before heading to the local equipment-rental place for a portable sump pump. Money down, pump in hand, we sucked it up and opened the crawl space, to find….no water! Closer inspection found a substance that, much unlike water, was indefinable. Several months full of restaurant flotsam and jetsam, discharging through the dishwashing system through the crack in the exhaust pipe, in small dribs and drabs over the past few months, into the dirt floor of the crawl space, to sit, stew and percolate, had turned into a gel, a goo, an all but living, breathing, writhing clot. There is really no better way to describe this substance other than it being a grayish, rubbery subterranean pudding, smelling like no pudding you could imagine. If evil sought out a smell, it would have latched onto this layer of gloosma like corruption seeks out politicians.
“Crap!” I thought, “I planned on being able to pump this problem out of my life.” No, it would require a shovel, some plastic bags, and me kneeling/crouching in the cramped quarters of the Third Portal of Hell. While my chef honorably offered to do this dirty beyond dirty job, I couldn’t reasonably ask anyone that I was paying less than $140/second to perform this horrific task.
I previously might have mentioned that it smelled really bad; it did, but when the gelatinous smelogma was actually disturbed, i.e., turned and probed by the peak of the spade, the odor that was unleashed from this custard of a thousand previous Riverside dinners was indescribable. It was very quick duty; throw a plastic trash bag in the hole, hold my breath, descend and scrape two or three shovelfuls into the bag, stick my head above the crawl space for a breath of air, hold my breath, and repeat. There were a few times I had to exhale and breathe on my way back up, and the gag reflex was major; just a momentary whiff of what I was excavating was potentially lethal. Any bad human act – you name it; robbery, terror, murder, greed, vengeance - could be averted by the threat of having to smell this hellish concoction.
It took a while, but the job was completed. I might have imagined this, but I don’t think so, as the trash dumpster, containing the bags of crawl space sploojisma, emitted a fluorescent greenish glow from beneath its lid as it sat in our side yard, waiting patiently for the 2nd Tuesday of the month pick-up.
The puddinous spoosma collected, a layer of lime was deposited upon the crawl space floor, eliminating any of the remaining odors, and slaying the resident microbial villains that had been wrought from the no-longer festering foodsmegjisma.
I now live in Mississippi, and am fortunate to have a job with a large corporation. People often ask me “Why would you move from Colorado to Mississippi? Didn’t you love the restaurant business? Aren’t you sorry that you gave up your dream?”
Those are fair questions. If you want the real answer, please contact me at:
rwparadise.restaurantconsultant.com/hellportal
Be prepared to spend a Grand. I’ll save you a fortune.
Friday, July 23, 2010
The Three Portals of Hell....Part IV
After about twenty minutes that seemed an eternity, the Critter Ridder emerged from this subterranean snake farm empty handed. No writhing, slithering masses were clutched in his clenched fists, nor did he triumphantly hold up a squirming gunny sack.
“I can’t find a single snake. I looked all the way back into the deepest corner – no live snakes, no dead snakes. Whatever problem you had is gone now.”
“Well I suppose that’s good news.” I said; now for the tough part. “How much do I owe you?”
“$140.00”
“Per second?” I asked, praying like hell that he would say “No, per minute.”
“No, I charge $90 per call, plus any materials, and there’s a $50 fee for driving over from Kremmling.”
As I wrote the check, I worried that perhaps crawling around in the dank, moldy darkness had terribly skewed the poor mans cognitive ability, and during his drive home, reality would re-inhabit his skull, the car brakes would be slammed, and he’d steam “Wait just a minute. I only charged that repto-phobic bastard $140 to crawl around in the dark, under his house and look for snakes??” Never have I written a check so quickly, and never have I been happier to write one. Julie went back to sleeping in the house, and never again did we find a snake in the Riverside.
Portal Number Two, the middle portal to hell, contained the plumbing guts to the Riverside. All of the main valves that shut the water on and off were located in this space, along with the main sewage line, which when I inspected the space during the mechanical, had no threaded cap, but a few rags jammed into the open end. I was to learn later that quick access to the sewer line was needed so often, that taking the time to continuously and under duress wrench open a 3” pipe plug would get cumbersome. Again, these little red flags flew right by me, unnoticed, during the due diligence process.
I’ve told previously in this blog the best story relating to Portal Number Two, and for the six of you who’ve already read this story, my apologies.
The Second Portal of Hell
It was January 2nd, 2009, the butt end of a busy holiday weekend. I was back in our living quarters taking my shower, getting ready for the evening, when I noticed the shower drain wasn’t draining so well. Out of the shower, I then notice the toilet is also backed up. Our newly remodeled and re-plumbed living quarters had already had a few issues with the plumbing, so I cursed the plumbing issues and the half-assed contractor who did the half-assed job, quickly got dressed and told Julie I’d plunge later, as the dinner rush had started. I’m not long in the kitchen when I see that one of the sinks, one that is supposed to be used only for washing hands but is also frequently used by our cooking staff as a dump sink for food stuffs, has standing water and isn’t draining. I throw my first bona-fide fit in front of the help since owning the hotel – cussing, throwing things, yelling “how many times have I told you not to dump food in the sink!!” at everyone but no one in particular. They weren’t impressed. I then notice the floor drain isn’t draining. I was then quick to deduce that there was a pattern, a pattern that I’d seen once before – I knew we had a clogged main sewage line.
The State of Colorado Department of Health & Environment – the folks who oversee the safety and sanitation of our restaurant – have a pretty basic rule about not being able to prepare or serve food without access to a free-flowing water and waste disposal system. Damned pesky bureaucrats! I had no choice but to close the restaurant; a nearly full restaurant, with a nearly full bar waiting for tables, as well as numerous reservations for tables later in the evening. My hope was that I could get this problem solved in time to at least re-open in an hour and accommodate the evening’s second seating. But wait a minute….I suddenly remembered we weren’t in Kansas anymore. I remembered that you can’t get a plumber in Grand County to show up for a scheduled job at 10:00 on a Monday morning (unless maybe it’s to fix the dispensing valve on your beer keg), let alone answer an after hour emergency call on a Friday night. I tried my best, going alphabetically through all of the Grand County plumbers, all of whose ads touted “24 Hour Emergency Service”, and got not one, not a single one, who could make it to The Riverside that evening.
(Shortly after moving to Hot Sulphur, one of my neighbors told me a story about how they went to one of the local plumbers who lived across the street from them on a Saturday, and begged him to come fix a plumbing emergency. They promised double the amount, in cash, that he would necessarily get for such a job. “Please, Please, Pleeeeze” they begged of him. His simple and direct reply was “I’m not feeling it today.” I’ve come to learn that is pretty much the working man’s mantra in Grand County.)
I was left with no other option than to call my friend Tony, (who lives up the street and is an excellent plumber), of whose good and reliable nature I hate to take advantage. Tony is in Denver and unable to help, but as luck would have it, Tony’s company has a plumber, Ron, on call, and he also lives in Hot Sulphur. I call the number, but it goes to voice mail; I leave my pleading message with Ron, and then go to my second-to-last resort.
I send my son Scott up to the Barking Dog Pub in search of another local plumber who has the same name as a deceased rock star, (first name rhymes with “Jan” and last name rhymes with “Hogleberg”), and is known to frequent the Barking Dog. More to the truth, he lives at the Barking Dog and is occasionally known to frequent his house. (I don’t mean to malign that un-named plumber, as he has saved our plumbing bacon on more than one occasion, and were he to read this blog and figure out who I’m talking about, I thank him for his past fine efforts on our behalf.) Scott triumphantly returns with good news – no, the deceased rock star-named plumber isn’t there, but there was another plumber sitting at the end of the bar who volunteered his services, and he would be down shortly. And who says only the Irish have such fine luck?
In walks our Johnny-on-the-spot plumber, Ron; this would be Tony’s Ron who was on call that evening. Did I say “in walks”? Perhaps I should say in reeled, in staggered, in swayed, in teetered, in lurched, in weaved; Mr. Roget doesn’t yet have a synonym for the one word you would use to aptly describe Ron’s’ mode of locomotion. I direct Ron, with great effort, back to the kitchen, where he immediately spots the backed-up hand sink. Without saying a word, he plops himself down on the floor and begins to attempt to dismantle the P-trap under the sink. I say to Ron, and I was being very dramatic at this point by raising my voice, waving my arms about and pointing in all directions, “It’s not the P-trap! We’re backed up in our bathroom, we’re backed up in the bar, we’re backed up in the kitchen; WE’RE BACKED UP EVERYWHERE. THE MAIN IS BACKED UP!!” Ron looks up at me and, uttering his first words of the night, says “Shlow down a minute, will ya?” He then turns his glazed eyes back on the P-trap, which he successfully dismantles, and watches as the turbid water rushes from the sink drain into his lap.
I help a very wet and still very drunk Ron up from the floor, and lead him to the main hotel lobby, where the entrance to the crawl space, which contains the main plumbing lines, is located. Down into the space we go, and I point out the main sewage discharge line. Ron looks all around the crawl space as if he was looking for an “Easy” button, or perhaps a detonator that would blow this plumbing problem into the next county. Remember, he’s having a tough time with his equilibrium, so the sight of this man half hunched over in the 5’ tall crawl space looking and pointing at the pipes all about him took on the appearance of a drunken sailor swatting at bees below deck in a violent sea.
Ron finally gets his bearings, and faces me with his assessment of the situation. He also delivers this assessment in a dramatic fashion, similar to my aforementioned dramatic outburst in the kitchen. “Everythings backwards down here. Thish pipe ish running backwards, thish pipe should be goin th’other way. Whoever built thish thing got it all screwed up!” He then proceeds to crawl slowly and carefully up the steps, and sits on the edge of the crawl space, his legs dangling over the abyss, his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. He doesn’t move for 15 minutes. When he finally stirs – I wasn’t there to see this but heard it second hand – he gets up, says not a word to anyone present, then staggers/reels/teeters/sways/weaves/lurches his way out the front door and into the cold, dark, January night.
In walks one of our kitchen employees, who happens to have a drug connection who is also a plumber. (This drug connection thing is not uncommon in Grand County, or in the restaurant business.) I previously mentioned that the dead rock star-named plumber was my second-to- last resort – this drug connection plumber was indeed my last resort. That story about “I’m not feeling it today,” - that might also be this guy. But then I figure, “What do I have to lose?” At the very least, I’ll have more fodder for the blog.
Enter Plumber #3, the most unreliable plumber in Grand County. That’s like being the worst sinner in Las Vegas or the biggest drunk at Mardi gras, or…..you get the point.
Not only am I stunned that he showed up when summoned, but he’s bright eyed, he’s clean, he’s sober, and he’s ready to tackle the problem. All those present, at least those who knew this gentleman and his predilections, could’ve been knocked over by a puff of bong exhaust.
Four hours and $400 dollars later, our local hero has the lines flowing free. He worked down in that fetid crawl space from 8:00 until midnight, flushing the line with a high pressure “jetter”, and then cleaning up the offal responsible for the clog. This was a job so nasty and so incredibly filthy, that the Dirty Jobs guy on TV would’ve hired it out; and our man did it with a smile. No matter what Plumber #3 didn’t do before, or what he may yet not do in the future, the night of January 2nd will forever be known in local lore as the night that Grand Counties most infamous slacker plumber, actually plumbed, and in doing so, saved our bacon and allowed The Riverside to continue to serve some of Grand Counties finest food in a sewage-free environment, per the State code.
To be concluded........
“I can’t find a single snake. I looked all the way back into the deepest corner – no live snakes, no dead snakes. Whatever problem you had is gone now.”
“Well I suppose that’s good news.” I said; now for the tough part. “How much do I owe you?”
“$140.00”
“Per second?” I asked, praying like hell that he would say “No, per minute.”
“No, I charge $90 per call, plus any materials, and there’s a $50 fee for driving over from Kremmling.”
As I wrote the check, I worried that perhaps crawling around in the dank, moldy darkness had terribly skewed the poor mans cognitive ability, and during his drive home, reality would re-inhabit his skull, the car brakes would be slammed, and he’d steam “Wait just a minute. I only charged that repto-phobic bastard $140 to crawl around in the dark, under his house and look for snakes??” Never have I written a check so quickly, and never have I been happier to write one. Julie went back to sleeping in the house, and never again did we find a snake in the Riverside.
Portal Number Two, the middle portal to hell, contained the plumbing guts to the Riverside. All of the main valves that shut the water on and off were located in this space, along with the main sewage line, which when I inspected the space during the mechanical, had no threaded cap, but a few rags jammed into the open end. I was to learn later that quick access to the sewer line was needed so often, that taking the time to continuously and under duress wrench open a 3” pipe plug would get cumbersome. Again, these little red flags flew right by me, unnoticed, during the due diligence process.
I’ve told previously in this blog the best story relating to Portal Number Two, and for the six of you who’ve already read this story, my apologies.
The Second Portal of Hell
It was January 2nd, 2009, the butt end of a busy holiday weekend. I was back in our living quarters taking my shower, getting ready for the evening, when I noticed the shower drain wasn’t draining so well. Out of the shower, I then notice the toilet is also backed up. Our newly remodeled and re-plumbed living quarters had already had a few issues with the plumbing, so I cursed the plumbing issues and the half-assed contractor who did the half-assed job, quickly got dressed and told Julie I’d plunge later, as the dinner rush had started. I’m not long in the kitchen when I see that one of the sinks, one that is supposed to be used only for washing hands but is also frequently used by our cooking staff as a dump sink for food stuffs, has standing water and isn’t draining. I throw my first bona-fide fit in front of the help since owning the hotel – cussing, throwing things, yelling “how many times have I told you not to dump food in the sink!!” at everyone but no one in particular. They weren’t impressed. I then notice the floor drain isn’t draining. I was then quick to deduce that there was a pattern, a pattern that I’d seen once before – I knew we had a clogged main sewage line.
The State of Colorado Department of Health & Environment – the folks who oversee the safety and sanitation of our restaurant – have a pretty basic rule about not being able to prepare or serve food without access to a free-flowing water and waste disposal system. Damned pesky bureaucrats! I had no choice but to close the restaurant; a nearly full restaurant, with a nearly full bar waiting for tables, as well as numerous reservations for tables later in the evening. My hope was that I could get this problem solved in time to at least re-open in an hour and accommodate the evening’s second seating. But wait a minute….I suddenly remembered we weren’t in Kansas anymore. I remembered that you can’t get a plumber in Grand County to show up for a scheduled job at 10:00 on a Monday morning (unless maybe it’s to fix the dispensing valve on your beer keg), let alone answer an after hour emergency call on a Friday night. I tried my best, going alphabetically through all of the Grand County plumbers, all of whose ads touted “24 Hour Emergency Service”, and got not one, not a single one, who could make it to The Riverside that evening.
(Shortly after moving to Hot Sulphur, one of my neighbors told me a story about how they went to one of the local plumbers who lived across the street from them on a Saturday, and begged him to come fix a plumbing emergency. They promised double the amount, in cash, that he would necessarily get for such a job. “Please, Please, Pleeeeze” they begged of him. His simple and direct reply was “I’m not feeling it today.” I’ve come to learn that is pretty much the working man’s mantra in Grand County.)
I was left with no other option than to call my friend Tony, (who lives up the street and is an excellent plumber), of whose good and reliable nature I hate to take advantage. Tony is in Denver and unable to help, but as luck would have it, Tony’s company has a plumber, Ron, on call, and he also lives in Hot Sulphur. I call the number, but it goes to voice mail; I leave my pleading message with Ron, and then go to my second-to-last resort.
I send my son Scott up to the Barking Dog Pub in search of another local plumber who has the same name as a deceased rock star, (first name rhymes with “Jan” and last name rhymes with “Hogleberg”), and is known to frequent the Barking Dog. More to the truth, he lives at the Barking Dog and is occasionally known to frequent his house. (I don’t mean to malign that un-named plumber, as he has saved our plumbing bacon on more than one occasion, and were he to read this blog and figure out who I’m talking about, I thank him for his past fine efforts on our behalf.) Scott triumphantly returns with good news – no, the deceased rock star-named plumber isn’t there, but there was another plumber sitting at the end of the bar who volunteered his services, and he would be down shortly. And who says only the Irish have such fine luck?
In walks our Johnny-on-the-spot plumber, Ron; this would be Tony’s Ron who was on call that evening. Did I say “in walks”? Perhaps I should say in reeled, in staggered, in swayed, in teetered, in lurched, in weaved; Mr. Roget doesn’t yet have a synonym for the one word you would use to aptly describe Ron’s’ mode of locomotion. I direct Ron, with great effort, back to the kitchen, where he immediately spots the backed-up hand sink. Without saying a word, he plops himself down on the floor and begins to attempt to dismantle the P-trap under the sink. I say to Ron, and I was being very dramatic at this point by raising my voice, waving my arms about and pointing in all directions, “It’s not the P-trap! We’re backed up in our bathroom, we’re backed up in the bar, we’re backed up in the kitchen; WE’RE BACKED UP EVERYWHERE. THE MAIN IS BACKED UP!!” Ron looks up at me and, uttering his first words of the night, says “Shlow down a minute, will ya?” He then turns his glazed eyes back on the P-trap, which he successfully dismantles, and watches as the turbid water rushes from the sink drain into his lap.
I help a very wet and still very drunk Ron up from the floor, and lead him to the main hotel lobby, where the entrance to the crawl space, which contains the main plumbing lines, is located. Down into the space we go, and I point out the main sewage discharge line. Ron looks all around the crawl space as if he was looking for an “Easy” button, or perhaps a detonator that would blow this plumbing problem into the next county. Remember, he’s having a tough time with his equilibrium, so the sight of this man half hunched over in the 5’ tall crawl space looking and pointing at the pipes all about him took on the appearance of a drunken sailor swatting at bees below deck in a violent sea.
Ron finally gets his bearings, and faces me with his assessment of the situation. He also delivers this assessment in a dramatic fashion, similar to my aforementioned dramatic outburst in the kitchen. “Everythings backwards down here. Thish pipe ish running backwards, thish pipe should be goin th’other way. Whoever built thish thing got it all screwed up!” He then proceeds to crawl slowly and carefully up the steps, and sits on the edge of the crawl space, his legs dangling over the abyss, his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. He doesn’t move for 15 minutes. When he finally stirs – I wasn’t there to see this but heard it second hand – he gets up, says not a word to anyone present, then staggers/reels/teeters/sways/weaves/lurches his way out the front door and into the cold, dark, January night.
In walks one of our kitchen employees, who happens to have a drug connection who is also a plumber. (This drug connection thing is not uncommon in Grand County, or in the restaurant business.) I previously mentioned that the dead rock star-named plumber was my second-to- last resort – this drug connection plumber was indeed my last resort. That story about “I’m not feeling it today,” - that might also be this guy. But then I figure, “What do I have to lose?” At the very least, I’ll have more fodder for the blog.
Enter Plumber #3, the most unreliable plumber in Grand County. That’s like being the worst sinner in Las Vegas or the biggest drunk at Mardi gras, or…..you get the point.
Not only am I stunned that he showed up when summoned, but he’s bright eyed, he’s clean, he’s sober, and he’s ready to tackle the problem. All those present, at least those who knew this gentleman and his predilections, could’ve been knocked over by a puff of bong exhaust.
Four hours and $400 dollars later, our local hero has the lines flowing free. He worked down in that fetid crawl space from 8:00 until midnight, flushing the line with a high pressure “jetter”, and then cleaning up the offal responsible for the clog. This was a job so nasty and so incredibly filthy, that the Dirty Jobs guy on TV would’ve hired it out; and our man did it with a smile. No matter what Plumber #3 didn’t do before, or what he may yet not do in the future, the night of January 2nd will forever be known in local lore as the night that Grand Counties most infamous slacker plumber, actually plumbed, and in doing so, saved our bacon and allowed The Riverside to continue to serve some of Grand Counties finest food in a sewage-free environment, per the State code.
To be concluded........
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Three Portals of Hell....Part III
Sorry for the cheap suspense, but there was no body or human remains under the hump in the floor; just a big heave-ho of expansion and contraction in the floor boards. However, knowing Abe as I did, it would not have surprised me if some unsuspecting visitor to the Riverside ended up bludgeoned and buried under that floor – particularly a sales tax collector from the Colorado Department of Revenue.
The building contractors, Farson & McBytemee, were hired to renovate the Riverside living quarters; while they came with a few good recommendations, truth had it they were two bartending ski-bums who, during a normal Grand County night of drunken debauchery (probably a Tuesday), set a friends deck on fire, burning it to the ground, then in a fit of soberness, rebuilt the deck. Rumor has it that the deck rebuild was true, level and square; they then deemed themselves building contractors.
25% over budget and one very expensive month behind schedule later, we had our new living quarters. Caveat Emptor, again.
It was Labor Day weekend, 2008, and the hotel was full for the entire three days. Full hotel means non-stop busy; up at 5:30 AM making endless pots of coffee, chatting with and checking people out, starting laundry, cleaning rooms and changing sheets, more laundry, helping with lunch-prep dishes, more laundry, lunch service, doing lunch dishes, cleaning the dining room and setting up for dinner service, more laundry, chatting with and checking guests in, helping with dinner prep, more laundry, grabbing a bite to eat on the fly, a quick shower, doing dinner prep dishes, dinner service, bartending, closing down the kitchen, bartending until 12:00 AM, closing down, locking up……then to bed.
It’ll start all over in four hours. This was our dream job. WTF were we thinking???
It was Sunday evening of Labor Day weekend, maybe 10:30ish, when Julie came back from our living quarters into a fairly busy bar to announce, in a slight panic, that there was a snake in our bedroom. As I was pretty damn busy manning the bar, I was unable to manhandle that snake, as would have been my normal duty. Yes sir, I would have normally jumped right in and handled that sort of task. Fortunately our good friend and neighbor, Tony the sober plumber, was quick to step in, and went back into our living quarters to slay the monster. After playing a little bit with Julie, telling her that it was a poisonous copperhead, he dispatched the 8” long, pencil thin snake. There’s one nice thing about the Hot Sulphur Springs 7700’ altitude and the long winters – it allows for no snakes or big hairy tropical spiders. The only snakes to be found at that elevation are small, non-poisonous black snakes, and the 9-month winters never give them the opportunity to grow much beyond 12” in length.
But let’s be honest here – a snake is a snake, and you damn sure don’t want them crawling around in your bedroom; not even a tough guy like me likes that sort of thing. Julie calmed down a bit, as I tried to assure her that this was an anomalous occurrence, and I doubted very much she’d see another snake in the living quarters. With the busy day we’d had, doors open and closing all day with people coming in and out, the slinky little fella had probably slithered his way in to get out of the blistering high-altitude afternoon sun, and found a nice, cool quiet place to lie on our closet floor. So back Julie went to bed, and back I went to tend bar.
It wasn’t five minutes before Julie was out the door of our living quarters, looking anxiously into the noisy, crowded bar for the specific purpose of getting my attention. While I’d actually never before seen Julie’s “Holy shit! There’s another snake in the bedroom!” expression, I was pretty sure that I was seeing it now. And in fact, there was another small snake in the bedroom, and another, then another. They were crawling through ¼” gaps between the floor and the trim that our crack deck builders had left open and unsealed. What was strange was why, all of a sudden at 10:30 on this Sunday night, were the snakes coming through all at once, right before our eyes? They even began crawling through another gap in the floor in the back bathroom. Was it a simple game of follow the leader – one snake made it through and then yelled back down into the crawl space, “Follow me boys, I’ve found some people up here to scare the shit out of!”
Most of the snakes were really small, not much bigger than your average fishing worm. But they had that big snake head that a worm doesn’t have, and they glided along the tile floor in that ssssnaky manner that makes those of you wussies that are afraid of snakes even more afraid of them. No question, this was not a good situation, and there was only one thing that could put a temporary halt to this situation – duct tape. I grabbed the roll that I keep on my bedpost for night time emergencies, and began taping the gaps in the floor, temporarily holding the little devils at bay. With the living quarters secured for the evening, Julie finally settled down enough to go to bed; I think she slept in the car.
The next day brought an end to the busy holiday weekend and a trip to the hardware store for a tube of clear silicone caulk to seal the gaps in the floor. I wasn’t sure what I’d see when I removed the duct tape; i.e. would the little buggers start flying through the cracks in an Omaha Beach sort of onslaught? Fortunately that wasn’t the case, as there was no evidence of snakes when they tape was removed, and I quickly went to the task of caulking the gaps, hoping it would dry quickly enough to offer the resistance necessary to forestall another PM snake blitz.
Caulk one up for polymer science and the fine folks at Dow Chemical, as the silicone cured and the reptilian onslaught was abated. That was good enough for me; but not for my business partner.
“Do you seriously expect me to live in a house that’s built over a set from an Indiana Jones movie?”
“Well of course not dear, but, who’s gonna, I mean, how would I……there ain’t no way I’m going down into that crawl space after a nest of snakes. In fact, I wouldn’t go into that crawl space after a treasure chest full of gold coins…..and we could damn sure use some gold coins!”
The internet was perused for methods of getting snakes out of your crawl space. I read numerous links, with a myriad of suggestions – from the ASPCA green, organic, non-kill recommendations (reason with them; tell them in a soothing tone that a better life awaits them in the neighbors crawl space), to the toxic – Ted Nugent’s web site suggested a modified flame thrower, which, coincidentally, he had for sale, free shipping included. Without a doubt, the best method involved hiring someone else to do the dirty work, and I found a business in nearby Kremmeling, CO; the “Critter Ridder”.
The Critter Ridder showed on time, with an assistant, equipped with flashlights, ladders and glue traps. When I explained the situation, the man quietly went to the truck, and returned with a TyVek jumpsuit, a respirator and a miner’s hat.
“Where’s the crawlspace?” he quietly asked.
I took him to the first portal of hell, the entry to the crawl space under our living quarters with the three full feet of headroom; the crawl space I’d never been in, and was certain I’d never have any reason to enter, in spite of the possibility of it containing a fortune in gold coins.
Mr. Critter Ridder donned the jumpsuit, strapped on the respirator, and topped it all off with the miners hat. He switched on the miners hat light, switched on his kick-ass big-time halogen flashlight (the kind most guys would kill for), and slowly descended into the first portal of hell. Off he crawled, without a “wish me luck”, into the inky darkness, in search of this nest of vipers.
Two things immediately occurred to me as our brave servant disappeared beneath the floor joists. One, suppose he finds the snake nest, he appears to be totally unarmed; what will he use to eradicate them? He had no flame thrower, no AA-12 automatic shotgun, no light saber – what in the hell would he use to kill these slinky little bastards? Two, how much was he going to charge us to do what he was in the process of doing? We didn’t discuss this before his descent into the abyss, and it quickly occurred to me that I wouldn’t climb down there, and LOOK FOR SNAKES, for a penny less than $500,000. While I didn’t have that sort of ready cash, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he would have emerged from beneath the floor, the flashlight between his teeth, and hundreds of writhing, tiny snakes clutched in his fists, saying through clenched jaws “You owe me $500,000!” Let’s be honest; any guy that would be man enough to crawl under your floors and capture live reptiles would have no problem shaking you down for cash.
To be continued……..
The building contractors, Farson & McBytemee, were hired to renovate the Riverside living quarters; while they came with a few good recommendations, truth had it they were two bartending ski-bums who, during a normal Grand County night of drunken debauchery (probably a Tuesday), set a friends deck on fire, burning it to the ground, then in a fit of soberness, rebuilt the deck. Rumor has it that the deck rebuild was true, level and square; they then deemed themselves building contractors.
25% over budget and one very expensive month behind schedule later, we had our new living quarters. Caveat Emptor, again.
It was Labor Day weekend, 2008, and the hotel was full for the entire three days. Full hotel means non-stop busy; up at 5:30 AM making endless pots of coffee, chatting with and checking people out, starting laundry, cleaning rooms and changing sheets, more laundry, helping with lunch-prep dishes, more laundry, lunch service, doing lunch dishes, cleaning the dining room and setting up for dinner service, more laundry, chatting with and checking guests in, helping with dinner prep, more laundry, grabbing a bite to eat on the fly, a quick shower, doing dinner prep dishes, dinner service, bartending, closing down the kitchen, bartending until 12:00 AM, closing down, locking up……then to bed.
It’ll start all over in four hours. This was our dream job. WTF were we thinking???
It was Sunday evening of Labor Day weekend, maybe 10:30ish, when Julie came back from our living quarters into a fairly busy bar to announce, in a slight panic, that there was a snake in our bedroom. As I was pretty damn busy manning the bar, I was unable to manhandle that snake, as would have been my normal duty. Yes sir, I would have normally jumped right in and handled that sort of task. Fortunately our good friend and neighbor, Tony the sober plumber, was quick to step in, and went back into our living quarters to slay the monster. After playing a little bit with Julie, telling her that it was a poisonous copperhead, he dispatched the 8” long, pencil thin snake. There’s one nice thing about the Hot Sulphur Springs 7700’ altitude and the long winters – it allows for no snakes or big hairy tropical spiders. The only snakes to be found at that elevation are small, non-poisonous black snakes, and the 9-month winters never give them the opportunity to grow much beyond 12” in length.
But let’s be honest here – a snake is a snake, and you damn sure don’t want them crawling around in your bedroom; not even a tough guy like me likes that sort of thing. Julie calmed down a bit, as I tried to assure her that this was an anomalous occurrence, and I doubted very much she’d see another snake in the living quarters. With the busy day we’d had, doors open and closing all day with people coming in and out, the slinky little fella had probably slithered his way in to get out of the blistering high-altitude afternoon sun, and found a nice, cool quiet place to lie on our closet floor. So back Julie went to bed, and back I went to tend bar.
It wasn’t five minutes before Julie was out the door of our living quarters, looking anxiously into the noisy, crowded bar for the specific purpose of getting my attention. While I’d actually never before seen Julie’s “Holy shit! There’s another snake in the bedroom!” expression, I was pretty sure that I was seeing it now. And in fact, there was another small snake in the bedroom, and another, then another. They were crawling through ¼” gaps between the floor and the trim that our crack deck builders had left open and unsealed. What was strange was why, all of a sudden at 10:30 on this Sunday night, were the snakes coming through all at once, right before our eyes? They even began crawling through another gap in the floor in the back bathroom. Was it a simple game of follow the leader – one snake made it through and then yelled back down into the crawl space, “Follow me boys, I’ve found some people up here to scare the shit out of!”
Most of the snakes were really small, not much bigger than your average fishing worm. But they had that big snake head that a worm doesn’t have, and they glided along the tile floor in that ssssnaky manner that makes those of you wussies that are afraid of snakes even more afraid of them. No question, this was not a good situation, and there was only one thing that could put a temporary halt to this situation – duct tape. I grabbed the roll that I keep on my bedpost for night time emergencies, and began taping the gaps in the floor, temporarily holding the little devils at bay. With the living quarters secured for the evening, Julie finally settled down enough to go to bed; I think she slept in the car.
The next day brought an end to the busy holiday weekend and a trip to the hardware store for a tube of clear silicone caulk to seal the gaps in the floor. I wasn’t sure what I’d see when I removed the duct tape; i.e. would the little buggers start flying through the cracks in an Omaha Beach sort of onslaught? Fortunately that wasn’t the case, as there was no evidence of snakes when they tape was removed, and I quickly went to the task of caulking the gaps, hoping it would dry quickly enough to offer the resistance necessary to forestall another PM snake blitz.
Caulk one up for polymer science and the fine folks at Dow Chemical, as the silicone cured and the reptilian onslaught was abated. That was good enough for me; but not for my business partner.
“Do you seriously expect me to live in a house that’s built over a set from an Indiana Jones movie?”
“Well of course not dear, but, who’s gonna, I mean, how would I……there ain’t no way I’m going down into that crawl space after a nest of snakes. In fact, I wouldn’t go into that crawl space after a treasure chest full of gold coins…..and we could damn sure use some gold coins!”
The internet was perused for methods of getting snakes out of your crawl space. I read numerous links, with a myriad of suggestions – from the ASPCA green, organic, non-kill recommendations (reason with them; tell them in a soothing tone that a better life awaits them in the neighbors crawl space), to the toxic – Ted Nugent’s web site suggested a modified flame thrower, which, coincidentally, he had for sale, free shipping included. Without a doubt, the best method involved hiring someone else to do the dirty work, and I found a business in nearby Kremmeling, CO; the “Critter Ridder”.
The Critter Ridder showed on time, with an assistant, equipped with flashlights, ladders and glue traps. When I explained the situation, the man quietly went to the truck, and returned with a TyVek jumpsuit, a respirator and a miner’s hat.
“Where’s the crawlspace?” he quietly asked.
I took him to the first portal of hell, the entry to the crawl space under our living quarters with the three full feet of headroom; the crawl space I’d never been in, and was certain I’d never have any reason to enter, in spite of the possibility of it containing a fortune in gold coins.
Mr. Critter Ridder donned the jumpsuit, strapped on the respirator, and topped it all off with the miners hat. He switched on the miners hat light, switched on his kick-ass big-time halogen flashlight (the kind most guys would kill for), and slowly descended into the first portal of hell. Off he crawled, without a “wish me luck”, into the inky darkness, in search of this nest of vipers.
Two things immediately occurred to me as our brave servant disappeared beneath the floor joists. One, suppose he finds the snake nest, he appears to be totally unarmed; what will he use to eradicate them? He had no flame thrower, no AA-12 automatic shotgun, no light saber – what in the hell would he use to kill these slinky little bastards? Two, how much was he going to charge us to do what he was in the process of doing? We didn’t discuss this before his descent into the abyss, and it quickly occurred to me that I wouldn’t climb down there, and LOOK FOR SNAKES, for a penny less than $500,000. While I didn’t have that sort of ready cash, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he would have emerged from beneath the floor, the flashlight between his teeth, and hundreds of writhing, tiny snakes clutched in his fists, saying through clenched jaws “You owe me $500,000!” Let’s be honest; any guy that would be man enough to crawl under your floors and capture live reptiles would have no problem shaking you down for cash.
To be continued……..
Friday, July 9, 2010
The Three Portals of Hell................Part II
The arrival of the automobile brought about the departure of the livery stable. I don’t know the exact year that the Riverside converted the stable into additional hotel rooms, but I have to think by looking at the pictures that it was in the early 1920’s. The transformation from horse house to guest house - (horse house to whore house would have been more alliterate, and possibly more accurate) - gave the hotel 11 additional guest rooms and new living quarters for the owner or manager. In subsequent years, two of the downstairs guest rooms were converted into the laundry room and tool room, while the remaining two downstairs guest rooms were seldom used by the paying public.
When Abe owned the hotel, the living quarters were separated from the hotel lobby by two doors, always closed and somewhat foreboding. It was a bit of a mystery as to what was actually behind the doors, as Abe himself was….uh… a bit of a mystery; but Abe is for another chapter. It’ll be a long one.
During our tire-kicking phase of deciding whether or not to buy the hotel, we made four visits over the course of the spring and summer of 2007. We never saw the owner’s quarters, the place where we would live the next X years of our lives, until the fourth and final visit. The truth was, we were both afraid of what lay beyond those doors – afraid that it would be so despicable that it would immediately squelch our desire to make this radical lifestyle change in this idyllic setting on the banks of the Colorado River. While we wanted a change, we didn’t necessarily want to leave our house in Kansas City – a beautiful house that we built and in which we raised our family.
At the end of that fourth visit, our cars packed and goodbyes being said, Abe finally asked if we’d like to see the owner’s quarters. With just the slightest bit of trepidation (I’m being sarcastic here) we headed through the foreboding doors, back into the unknown world of Abraham Rodriguez. We were accompanied by friends from KC who went with us on this trip to see, as they couldn’t help but believe, if we’d totally lost our minds.
In we went, me in front with the others lagging behind. I didn’t spend much time in the place, and didn’t talk or discuss with the others what we were seeing. I had no questions for Abe, who kind of stood back, very quietly, with a sheepish look on his face that said “I sure hope they don’t notice that 500-pound turd sitting in the middle of the room.”
When we got in the car to leave, Julie started peppering me with question after question – “did you see this”, “did you notice that”, “could you believe what was in that one room”, etc. The truth of the matter was, I didn’t see or notice much of anything, as I walked through that place much like you’d walk through a busy hospital emergency room trauma ward – with your eyes straight ahead, not looking to either side for fear of what horrific thing to which you might be a witness.
There was a simple answer to this hell on earth, this fetid collection of cobbled-together rooms, shelves, nooks and crannies that was the Riverside living quarters – “don’t view it as it is, view it as what it can be.” That philosophy, adopted before I ever set foot in the place, was what allowed me to walk through and not be affected by the horrors contained in this sub-human dwelling. If only there had been a 500 pound turd to be affronted by; trust me, it would have been a classy addition to the actual contents of Abe’s inner sanctum. Pure and simple, the place had to be gutted down to the studs. Any vestiges of the previous owner had to be banished, burnished, bazooka-ed, burned, banned, bulldozed and buried; then fumigated.
The Riverside was purchased, and a contractor hired to literally strip the living quarters to the studs and the bare earth below, down to the floor of the crawl space. This would be the first time in 130 years that the earthen floor had seen daylight. And although Geraldo has moved on to less risky stunts, there was a little bit of ‘what would we find??’ when we exposed what lay beneath those floors. The biggest question came from a noticeable hump – a hump shaped suspiciously like a human body in repose – from a floor section in Abe’s bedroom. No lie; to the right of Abe’s bed, in an open spot of floor in front of the entry door – conspicuously hidden under a throw rug – was an 8” hump that was 6’ in length and 2.5’ in width. Poe’s vulture-eyed antagonist surely would have fit nicely in such a space. What could be the cause of this unnatural protuberance?
To be continued…………..
When Abe owned the hotel, the living quarters were separated from the hotel lobby by two doors, always closed and somewhat foreboding. It was a bit of a mystery as to what was actually behind the doors, as Abe himself was….uh… a bit of a mystery; but Abe is for another chapter. It’ll be a long one.
During our tire-kicking phase of deciding whether or not to buy the hotel, we made four visits over the course of the spring and summer of 2007. We never saw the owner’s quarters, the place where we would live the next X years of our lives, until the fourth and final visit. The truth was, we were both afraid of what lay beyond those doors – afraid that it would be so despicable that it would immediately squelch our desire to make this radical lifestyle change in this idyllic setting on the banks of the Colorado River. While we wanted a change, we didn’t necessarily want to leave our house in Kansas City – a beautiful house that we built and in which we raised our family.
At the end of that fourth visit, our cars packed and goodbyes being said, Abe finally asked if we’d like to see the owner’s quarters. With just the slightest bit of trepidation (I’m being sarcastic here) we headed through the foreboding doors, back into the unknown world of Abraham Rodriguez. We were accompanied by friends from KC who went with us on this trip to see, as they couldn’t help but believe, if we’d totally lost our minds.
In we went, me in front with the others lagging behind. I didn’t spend much time in the place, and didn’t talk or discuss with the others what we were seeing. I had no questions for Abe, who kind of stood back, very quietly, with a sheepish look on his face that said “I sure hope they don’t notice that 500-pound turd sitting in the middle of the room.”
When we got in the car to leave, Julie started peppering me with question after question – “did you see this”, “did you notice that”, “could you believe what was in that one room”, etc. The truth of the matter was, I didn’t see or notice much of anything, as I walked through that place much like you’d walk through a busy hospital emergency room trauma ward – with your eyes straight ahead, not looking to either side for fear of what horrific thing to which you might be a witness.
There was a simple answer to this hell on earth, this fetid collection of cobbled-together rooms, shelves, nooks and crannies that was the Riverside living quarters – “don’t view it as it is, view it as what it can be.” That philosophy, adopted before I ever set foot in the place, was what allowed me to walk through and not be affected by the horrors contained in this sub-human dwelling. If only there had been a 500 pound turd to be affronted by; trust me, it would have been a classy addition to the actual contents of Abe’s inner sanctum. Pure and simple, the place had to be gutted down to the studs. Any vestiges of the previous owner had to be banished, burnished, bazooka-ed, burned, banned, bulldozed and buried; then fumigated.
The Riverside was purchased, and a contractor hired to literally strip the living quarters to the studs and the bare earth below, down to the floor of the crawl space. This would be the first time in 130 years that the earthen floor had seen daylight. And although Geraldo has moved on to less risky stunts, there was a little bit of ‘what would we find??’ when we exposed what lay beneath those floors. The biggest question came from a noticeable hump – a hump shaped suspiciously like a human body in repose – from a floor section in Abe’s bedroom. No lie; to the right of Abe’s bed, in an open spot of floor in front of the entry door – conspicuously hidden under a throw rug – was an 8” hump that was 6’ in length and 2.5’ in width. Poe’s vulture-eyed antagonist surely would have fit nicely in such a space. What could be the cause of this unnatural protuberance?
To be continued…………..
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The Three Portals of Hell
The Riverside Hotel, whose construction date is officially noted as 1903, is comprised of four sections, two original structures and two later additions, which have been morphed into the seamless white façade of its current iteration. We had pictures hanging in our lobby that showed the progression of the buildings architecture, starting with what we believed to be the first 1903 picture, which shows a six window, two-story clapboard structure with a large “HOTEL” and “CAFÉ” painted on the front, adjoined with a turreted building which housed a livery stable. There are pictures of the stable that date back to 1870, and while the two buildings literally shared a wall in 1903, there was no congress between them. Picture #2 is from approximately 1915 with the livery façade still evident, but the two buildings made to look as one with the use of a faux brick, tar-paper façade. The next picture was taken in the 1920’s, and the turreted roof line of the livery stable – you’ve seen this roof line in pictures of old western towns, as it denoted a stable as a steeple denoted a church – was replaced with a straight ridge line across the entire front of the hotel, making it look for the first time in it’s 20 year existence as one building. Finally, the fourth picture, taken in the 1930’s, shows the hotel with the edition of the West wing, a 15’ widening that ran the length of the hotel, adding four rooms upstairs, and doubling the downstairs dining room and kitchen. The fourth and final addition, the single story River Room restaurant, was built onto the western side, or river side, of the hotel in the early 1970’s. It is the only part of the building that has foundation and structural problems.
One of the things I loved about these pictures was the fun in dating them by the type of transportation that was parked in front of the hotel. In the 1903 picture there were horses and a hitching post; in 1915, horse-drawn carriages along with a 1910 Model T Ford. The 1920s-era picture showed no signs of hitching posts, with equine power being replaced by a fancy sedan of unknown make and model. Finally, the 1930’s brought us a regal awning spanning the front of the hotel, offering afternoon shade to a sporty, 1932 Ford Coupe. These pictures were all taken in the summer, as traversing Berthoud Pass in a 1932 Ford Coupe during the winter would have been impossible; much as it can be today, even in a 2003 4WD Chevy Suburban.
It was often while viewing these pictures that our guests would have their feeling of awakening to the history that engulfed them as the stood in the lobby of The Riverside – you could figuratively see the light go on in their head, as their eyes would widen and a smile would break the plane of their face. It is a feeling you don’t often get anywhere else as we live our daily lives in the cities and suburbs of America, and it was certainly one of the feelings that brought us and our dreams to live in Grand County, in this magnificent building.
Each of the three sections of the building built before 1935 have their own separate foundation, constructed of native stone of irregular size and shape and tightly cemented together. It is as stout today as it was when it was built 100+ years ago. Each foundation also contains a crawl space, differing in size and depth, with the first construction under the stable literally being a ‘crawl space’ as the distance from bare dirt to the floor above is but 3’ in height. The crawl space of the middle structure, which housed the hotel lobby, café and 8 upstairs guest rooms and living quarters, is deep enough in the front end of the building to allow a person to stand almost upright, narrowing in depth as you move towards the back of the hotel. The third section of building, the 1930’s addition, has a real-life, honest-to-God basement, with poured concrete floors and enough head space to walk upright, assuming you’re me and not Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.
In August of 2007, before purchasing the hotel, I visited the Riverside to meet with Tim, the man who was hired to perform the mechanical inspection. After learning that the roof needed to be replaced, the kitchen didn’t meet all of the state health requirements, and a host of other things that would have sent an intelligent person back to Kansas with a pocket full of cash, searching for a new dream, Tim suggested we go down into the crawl spaces.
“Crawl spaces? Why do we have to go down in the crawl spaces? I really don’t need to see the crawl spaces” I whined.
Tim had shown me the exposed foundations while we toured the outside of the building, demonstrating – I think he pounded his clenched fist against them – how sturdily and solid the foundations were constructed. That was good enough for me; I didn’t need to see them from the inside of a dark, mysterious, possibly big hairy spider-containing crawl space.
Tim said “I’ve got to show you where all of the mechanical stuff is – the water main, the grease trap, the sewage main, the sump pit…..”
It was at this point that I really should have allowed myself to be beaten to death by an army of do-it-yourselfers bearing red flags. Grease traps, sump pits and sewage lines in a subterranean spider farm – and I was interested in owning this place???
The first space we entered – an outside entrance from the rear of the hotel - was the newest of the three, the one where you can stand upright. I entered cautiously, and no big deal, as it was well lit, spider-less and it looked as if someone had actually attempted to turn it into a living space by portioning off rooms and paneling the walls and ceilings with dog-eared, cedar 1x4 fence slats. This space was important as it contained the two relatively new 200-gallon hot water boilers. The current owner had them installed when he purchased the hotel in 1980, replacing the coal fired boiler that sat dormant, a permanent unmovable behemoth, in one of the little rooms. I didn’t think to notice at the time that in the event the boilers needed to be dealt with in the winter – you know, that time of the year in Hot Sulphur where it’s extremely cold, there’s 30 feet of snow piled in the back of the hotel, and the need for hot water in your shower really takes on a whole new dimension – that there was no way you could access this basement to fix those boilers without blasting caps and a Caterpillar tractor, as there was no entrance from the hotel above.
The back of the space contained an un-paneled storage area that was filled with old bed frames, mattresses, desks, chairs, doors….quite an assortment of old junk and furnishings not fit for the current hotel. If you saw what was at that time actually in the Abe-owned hotel, you could only imagine what lay fallow in the space below. The term ‘worthless junk’ has never found a more suited partner.
On to crawl space #2, this located under the original main building. There were two entrances to this space, which actually had a dividing wall, making two separate crawl spaces under the one structure – I didn’t have to pay any extra for this feature. I helped the inspector lift a 3’x5’, seemingly 200 lb. trapdoor from the floor in the back of the kitchen. It was very dark, and the cold air and dank moldy smell attacked us as we peered into the space below.
“Looks good to me!” I said.
“No” Tim replied, “I’ve got to show you where the main kitchen drain runs into the grease trap. You’re going to have to clean that grease trap fairly regularly to keep your lines from clogging.”
This is sort of like when the professor says to the students in medical school “you’re going to have to put this rubber glove on and stick your finger in…”, and the prospective Internist quickly switches over to Radiology. But no, more fool me; I forged ahead, bought the hotel and kept my appointment with that grease trap.
On to the next crawl space; this was accessed through a trap door on hinges located in the main lobby floor, just outside of the public Men’s & Women’s restrooms. This crawl space was approximately 5’ in height at its entry point, and sloped down a little towards the front of the building, enough so that you could all but stand upright. Standing upright would come in handy if it was ever necessary to unclog the main sewer line with a high-pressure sewer line jetter; it was ultimately necessary.
This space also contained the main water shut offs, which a person would have to quickly access and shut off in the event an old pipe burst, or a toilet got jammed up and overflowed; those events ultimately occurred.
Finally, on we went to the last crawl space, this one under the original stable; this one, the very shallow, literal crawl space.
Tim told me, as he struggled to lift the trap door, “There really isn’t much under here, except for water pipes and electrical conduit. No mains, no valves, breakers or shut offs. Not sure there’s really anything to show you. ”
“Great”, I smiled, “I’ll defer to your higher knowledge of crawl space amenities and pass on this one.”
I never did go into this creepiest of crawl spaces, but it wasn’t long before someone did.
To be continued………
One of the things I loved about these pictures was the fun in dating them by the type of transportation that was parked in front of the hotel. In the 1903 picture there were horses and a hitching post; in 1915, horse-drawn carriages along with a 1910 Model T Ford. The 1920s-era picture showed no signs of hitching posts, with equine power being replaced by a fancy sedan of unknown make and model. Finally, the 1930’s brought us a regal awning spanning the front of the hotel, offering afternoon shade to a sporty, 1932 Ford Coupe. These pictures were all taken in the summer, as traversing Berthoud Pass in a 1932 Ford Coupe during the winter would have been impossible; much as it can be today, even in a 2003 4WD Chevy Suburban.
It was often while viewing these pictures that our guests would have their feeling of awakening to the history that engulfed them as the stood in the lobby of The Riverside – you could figuratively see the light go on in their head, as their eyes would widen and a smile would break the plane of their face. It is a feeling you don’t often get anywhere else as we live our daily lives in the cities and suburbs of America, and it was certainly one of the feelings that brought us and our dreams to live in Grand County, in this magnificent building.
Each of the three sections of the building built before 1935 have their own separate foundation, constructed of native stone of irregular size and shape and tightly cemented together. It is as stout today as it was when it was built 100+ years ago. Each foundation also contains a crawl space, differing in size and depth, with the first construction under the stable literally being a ‘crawl space’ as the distance from bare dirt to the floor above is but 3’ in height. The crawl space of the middle structure, which housed the hotel lobby, café and 8 upstairs guest rooms and living quarters, is deep enough in the front end of the building to allow a person to stand almost upright, narrowing in depth as you move towards the back of the hotel. The third section of building, the 1930’s addition, has a real-life, honest-to-God basement, with poured concrete floors and enough head space to walk upright, assuming you’re me and not Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.
In August of 2007, before purchasing the hotel, I visited the Riverside to meet with Tim, the man who was hired to perform the mechanical inspection. After learning that the roof needed to be replaced, the kitchen didn’t meet all of the state health requirements, and a host of other things that would have sent an intelligent person back to Kansas with a pocket full of cash, searching for a new dream, Tim suggested we go down into the crawl spaces.
“Crawl spaces? Why do we have to go down in the crawl spaces? I really don’t need to see the crawl spaces” I whined.
Tim had shown me the exposed foundations while we toured the outside of the building, demonstrating – I think he pounded his clenched fist against them – how sturdily and solid the foundations were constructed. That was good enough for me; I didn’t need to see them from the inside of a dark, mysterious, possibly big hairy spider-containing crawl space.
Tim said “I’ve got to show you where all of the mechanical stuff is – the water main, the grease trap, the sewage main, the sump pit…..”
It was at this point that I really should have allowed myself to be beaten to death by an army of do-it-yourselfers bearing red flags. Grease traps, sump pits and sewage lines in a subterranean spider farm – and I was interested in owning this place???
The first space we entered – an outside entrance from the rear of the hotel - was the newest of the three, the one where you can stand upright. I entered cautiously, and no big deal, as it was well lit, spider-less and it looked as if someone had actually attempted to turn it into a living space by portioning off rooms and paneling the walls and ceilings with dog-eared, cedar 1x4 fence slats. This space was important as it contained the two relatively new 200-gallon hot water boilers. The current owner had them installed when he purchased the hotel in 1980, replacing the coal fired boiler that sat dormant, a permanent unmovable behemoth, in one of the little rooms. I didn’t think to notice at the time that in the event the boilers needed to be dealt with in the winter – you know, that time of the year in Hot Sulphur where it’s extremely cold, there’s 30 feet of snow piled in the back of the hotel, and the need for hot water in your shower really takes on a whole new dimension – that there was no way you could access this basement to fix those boilers without blasting caps and a Caterpillar tractor, as there was no entrance from the hotel above.
The back of the space contained an un-paneled storage area that was filled with old bed frames, mattresses, desks, chairs, doors….quite an assortment of old junk and furnishings not fit for the current hotel. If you saw what was at that time actually in the Abe-owned hotel, you could only imagine what lay fallow in the space below. The term ‘worthless junk’ has never found a more suited partner.
On to crawl space #2, this located under the original main building. There were two entrances to this space, which actually had a dividing wall, making two separate crawl spaces under the one structure – I didn’t have to pay any extra for this feature. I helped the inspector lift a 3’x5’, seemingly 200 lb. trapdoor from the floor in the back of the kitchen. It was very dark, and the cold air and dank moldy smell attacked us as we peered into the space below.
“Looks good to me!” I said.
“No” Tim replied, “I’ve got to show you where the main kitchen drain runs into the grease trap. You’re going to have to clean that grease trap fairly regularly to keep your lines from clogging.”
This is sort of like when the professor says to the students in medical school “you’re going to have to put this rubber glove on and stick your finger in…”, and the prospective Internist quickly switches over to Radiology. But no, more fool me; I forged ahead, bought the hotel and kept my appointment with that grease trap.
On to the next crawl space; this was accessed through a trap door on hinges located in the main lobby floor, just outside of the public Men’s & Women’s restrooms. This crawl space was approximately 5’ in height at its entry point, and sloped down a little towards the front of the building, enough so that you could all but stand upright. Standing upright would come in handy if it was ever necessary to unclog the main sewer line with a high-pressure sewer line jetter; it was ultimately necessary.
This space also contained the main water shut offs, which a person would have to quickly access and shut off in the event an old pipe burst, or a toilet got jammed up and overflowed; those events ultimately occurred.
Finally, on we went to the last crawl space, this one under the original stable; this one, the very shallow, literal crawl space.
Tim told me, as he struggled to lift the trap door, “There really isn’t much under here, except for water pipes and electrical conduit. No mains, no valves, breakers or shut offs. Not sure there’s really anything to show you. ”
“Great”, I smiled, “I’ll defer to your higher knowledge of crawl space amenities and pass on this one.”
I never did go into this creepiest of crawl spaces, but it wasn’t long before someone did.
To be continued………
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