Quaint Vituperations: the Glen House Inn Controversy

Miami Township map overlay bwBelow is the first section of a forthcoming nonfiction novella that chronicles the goings on of a small township in southwestern Ohio. I was sent to cover a township trustee meeting as a reporter for an area newspaper. Although nobody from the public normally attended those meetings, this was in particular was a hotbed of controversy and drew a dozen or so irate citizens. A rogue bed and breakfast was making waves in a neighborhood, and some neighbors wanted it shut down. The anti-B&B neighbors had a list of complaints against the inn that they said stretched back years.

However, a number of the B&B’s neighbors were friends of the owners and supported what the B&B was doing. The neighborhood was divided into cranky adherents on both sides, and the following trustee meeting was attended by pro-B&B neighbors refuting the points made by the first. To the neighbors, depending on what the trustees decided, the township was either tyrannical or ineffective.

While this may not sound like a riveting thing to write about, it was. The nature of the dispute and the personalities involved are fascinating, and the ways in which they clashed are hilarious, aggravating, serious, and quaint, all at the same time.

And this isn’t even taking into account the rest of the evening’s meeting, which involved everything from unknown remains found in an old cemetery to a visit to the Ohio Snow and Ice Removal Conference. My upcoming novella, logically titled “Dance of the Trustees,” discusses life in the township, from its history of burial mounds and murders to the storied careers of the township trustees who have taken it upon themselves to steer such a multifaceted ship.

Quaint Vituperations: the Glen House Inn Controversy

Trustee Mark Crockett is a man who speaks deliberately, delivering each phrase with the ponderousness of a court justice who has all the time in the world. He sat in an equivalent posture on the evening of September 9, slightly reclined in his chair behind the table at the head of the room, fingers interlocked over his belly. He looked out on the room with equanimity, observing the proceedings and taking them in.

Crockett, like the other trustees, was in an interesting position. He had lived in the area with his wife for almost 40 years, owned a business, and was otherwise just a man around town. But he, like the other trustees, made decisions on behalf of his fellow residents.

Neither Crockett nor any of the other trustees had previous experience holding political office. Spracklen was a farmer, Mucher used to own the area’s video store, and Crockett is a jeweler and guitar player. (Though Mucher was an in-law to the DeWine family, an Ohio political dynasty.) But civic management skills were picked up on the job, and the public had trusted them enough to reelect each of them multiple times.

However, President of the Miami Township Boards of Trustees Chris Mucher looked around the meeting room warily on September 9. He could sense tempers were a little high, and so the outcome of the evening would likely make some proportionally serious waves. Any decision made is bound to offend someone, and in the case of the first portion of that evening’s meeting, any official position would offend at least half of an entire neighborhood.

The meeting began shortly after 7 p.m.

Mucher stood up and introduced himself and the rest of the people at the table: fellow trustee Mark Crockett, Margaret Silliman, the financial officer, “number one road employee” Dan Gochenouer, Miami Township Zoning Inspector Richard Zopf, and StepIMG_20160505_164722337hanie Hayden, the Greene County assistant prosecutor, who had been called in specifically to give her interpretation of the B&B dispute.

Mucher’s right hand stayed in the pocket of his khakis as he gave a referee-esque preamble to the proceedings.

“In our opinion, the board of trustees is the bedrock of local government,” he said. “It’s the place where the balance begins between the rights of the property owner and the rights of society. Sometimes it gets a little messy, but I assure tonight isn’t going to be messy. It’s going to be polite and dignified.”

The balance between the rights of the property owner and the rights of society were indeed going to be discussed. The meeting was the latest skirmish in an ongoing battle between a bed and breakfast and the neighbors it reportedly annoyed. The anti-Inn neighbors, the Concerned Circle Citizens (CCC), sat in the front row and nodded. Their de facto spokesperson brought with her a folder full of stapled documents to prove the soundness of their position. Nobody in favor of the B&B was there, as pains had been taken to avoid telling them the topic was going to be addressed at the meeting.

On the surface, the debate may seem a bit droll: how often does a quaint B&B drive neighbors mad? But such charming disputes are practically written into the township’s DNA.

An odd bit of Ohio Code allows the average residential homeowner to run a B&B out of her home with little official oversight.[1] In fact, a number of area residents were taking advantage of this allowance. Miami Township encompasses a number of picturesque hamlets, including the village of Yellow Springs, a progressive small town full of art galleries, a tourist destination most appropriately served by quaint B&Bs. A bumper sticker claims the area is “2.2 square miles surrounded by reality,” and the area’s pastoral vistas suggest this may be the case.

However, Crockett said most people who live in Miami Township just want to be left alone. The presence of a B&B in a quiet neighborhood a few miles outside of Yellow Springs was said to be aggressively challenging the desire to live unmolested. The Glen House Inn, located in a quiet neighborhood a few miles outside of Yellow Springs, was accused of hosting dozens of visitors and large-scale events like weddings, self-help workshops, and Solstice vigils, a far cry from the romantic (and manageable) couples who usually patronize B&Bs. The excess noise and people “undermined the quiet integrity of the neighborhood,” as one neighbor put it, and another said he never would have moved to the neighborhood in the first place had he known the Inn would so loud. Negotiations between the sides had deteriorated, if they were ever civil at all. Both sides accused the other of being obstinate and dishonest, and both accused the township of not acting with consistency in enforcing its laws.

As such, on September 9, the parties sought a definitive interpretation of code. Was the Inn operating legally or not? Should the Inn be found in compliance, the neighbors would just have to deal with it; should the Inn be found in violation, the B&B would have to scale back its operations, a change the owner said would ruin him financially.

Prosecutor Hayden was there to give an official interpretation of the law, and to offer suggestions about what steps could be taken to square everything with code. Throughout the meeting, her face held a look of intelligent skepticism, the fiercely judicious look of someone professionally capable of seeing through bullshit.

The crowd murmured, eager to get started. Richard Zopf, the wild-bearded township zoning inspector, tried to look relaxed while knowing that the whole room was eager to blame him for their troubles. Gochenouer, the road crewman and cemetery sexton whose official business didn’t have anything to do with the crowd, folded his hands and smiled faintly.

Genesis of the Dispute


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Grinnell Circle, where the Glen House Inn is located, is a ten-minute drive from the MTFR building. Down Corry Street, past a nature preserve and a stable of therapeutic horses, is Grinnell Road. A left turn on Grinnell takes the visitor down a sizable hill and onto a road overlooked by the colorful buildings of a recently revamped wastewater treatment plant. A few miles further south and the visitor will come to a noticeably bucolic setting, a clearing with stone walls and an old mill with water wheel set among hedges and trees. The Glen Circle neighborhood is back in this splendiferous idyll.

Glen Circle is a collection of homesteads grouped around an acre of common area. Some neighbors have gates; some have none; most have a decent amount of money. Eric and Deirdre Owen, the owners of the Inn, spent $700,000 to build a large house on the Circle in 2005, largely because of its regal charm. Both grew up in Yellow Springs, and wanted to return. The house is based on a dream home they sketched on a cocktail napkin in Europe many years before.

Owen is in his late 40s, thickset, unkempt in a way that speaks for consistent productivity in his pursuits. He’s a kind of wheeler-dealer, active in the art world and owner of a few properties, including part of a hotel in small-town Michigan. He was thrust into bed and breakfast ownership when he had a falling out with the partners of a company he founded 25 years before. He took a year’s salary and retired, but quickly recognized the money was not enough to sustain him forever. He knew he had to do something to secure his retirement. A beautiful house was at his disposal, and he decided to turn it into a B&B. The Glen House Inn’s website was up and running within thirty days of his decision. He said it was the only way to save the house.

In the interest of being open about his plans and in order to get a permit to follow through with them, Owen met with the Board of Zoning Appeals in July 2011. The BZA overhears building plans, checks them against zoning code, and questions prospective builders about the effects the construction will have on the surroundings. All BZA meetings are open to the public, and citizens are encouraged to attend and weigh in with their concerns. Anti-Inn neighbors came to the BZA meeting, anticipating the B&B would be trouble, and wanting to register their reservations.

Both sides grant some kind of tenuous agreement was reached regarding the operations of the Inn, but none of the claims about what was said can be proven, as the official record for this meeting has disappeared. Video of any BZA meeting would ordinarily be available through the local cable access station or on a DVD at the library, but the master recording could no longer be found, and the person who took notes at the meeting no longer worked for the Township. Ultimately, Zopf recalled, “there was no reason not to grant Owen a permit,” as Owen’s plans seemed kosher.

With the impression everything was on the up-and-up, the Owens opened the Glen House Inn. Guests lined up to rent its five spacious rooms, lounge on its patio, appreciate the impressive art collection, and swim in its stream-fed pool. The whole Inn is bathed in that tranquil, sunlit green characteristic of 18th century paintings. It’s an objectively beautiful location, and business was steady.

However, perhaps because of the bacchanalia such locations induce, neighbors said their concerns about disturbed peace were immediately proven correct. Catering trucks parked on the berm of the already-narrow road. Fireworks – “nice ones, like you’d see in town” – were said to have almost hit two houses at 12:45 a.m. Guests playing in the pool were too noisy. One resident said he was unhappy with unknown people lurking in the neighborhood, and described a recent occurrence where a car circled around the neighborhood before parking at the Inn.

“Why would they do that?” he asked. “I think it’s a safety concern.”

(The Owens maintain that some of these events happened once and never again, and that the neighbors have been referencing them for years. And people drive on the road, Owen said, because it’s a public road.)

The neighbors maintain they complained to the township and the county, to no avail, for at least four years. But in 2015, action was taken after the Inn’s busted septic system began stinking up the area. The ghastly effluence was definitely coming from the Inn, one neighbor said. “A lot of sniff-testing confirmed it.” The Greene County Health Department investigated – they have jurisdiction over septic systems – and deemed the septic system completely inadequate for the amount of people the Inn hosted.

By this point the Owens had moved back to Michigan and the operations of the Inn were being managed by a live-in caretaker Jody Farrar and her husband Bill. The Owens and Farrars conceded the septic system was not working and fixed it. Other repairs were undertaken and the Inn continued hosting guests and renting out their facilities at a rate of $5,000 per weekend. The noise was alleged to have continued unabated.

The final straw was when neighbors got wind that Owen was talking about reworking the property into a winery. It was a clever power play, as viticulture is exempt from zoning. A winery is considered an agricultural practice, which Ohio Code explicitly states townships have no jurisdiction over, including the zoning of buildings as part of the agricultural operation.[2]

Owen had no qualms using this possibility as leverage. “I’ll convert it to a winery rather than face foreclosure,” he said. “Then there’ll be hundreds of cars per weekend versus just a few.” (When the viticulture possibility was brought up at the meeting on Sept. 9, Stephanie Hayden wasn’t impressed. “We have a lot of people threaten to open a winery to get zoning off their back,” she said.)

Credible threat or not, the neighbors ramped up their efforts to get the township to intervene, hence asking the trustees to invite Hayden and the neighbors’ collective appearance at the meeting.

At the Meeting of September 9, 2015

September 9 was it. Their big meeting, their big chance for an official showdown. The neighbors were sober and ready to go; partners held hands for encouragement. After his brief opening speech, Mucher introduced Hayden.

Hayden was Greene County’s prosecutor, and by statue, the township’s lawyer, she said. She clearly and concisely explained what roles the various boards and commissions played in the drama. She outlined the process of suing someone over zoning concerns, the difference between civil and municipal court, and the possible outcomes of such a suit. ($500 per day per violation, in one instance.) Her elucidations were illustrated with examples of other problematic zoning cases. “One guy was a junk property owner, an outdoor hoarder. We disagree what the definition of ‘junk’ is,” she said.

She then asked the neighbors to present their case.

“When did these problems start?” Hayden asked.
“First of June, 2011,” said the head of the CCC immediately.
Her ready answer prompted laughs.
“We’re on top of this,” the neighbor said.

The CCC enumerated the violations and complaints that plagued the Inn since it had opened. And not only was the Inn hosting many more guests than was legally allowed, the CCC spokesperson argued, but the Owens didn’t even live in Ohio, which meant that the Inn wasn’t owner-occupied, which meant that it wasn’t even technically abiding by the B&B guidelines set out in code.

Hayden listened to the neighbor’s complaints with total concentration, her body involuntarily twitching when she heard a particularly egregious violation. The neighbors were very thorough. “You’re the best witnesses I’ve ever had,” Hayden said. Her assessment was obvious: the parameters of what is officially acceptable, for bed and breakfast and everything else, are plainly spelled out in the Ohio Revised Code, the Ohio Administrative Code, Miami Township Code or any of the other official regulations used by a county or city agency. These laws are indisputable, and she was clearly baffled that the Inn was still in operation at all. Her expression also hinted at her feelings as a human being annoyed by other humans who think they’re special.

All things considered, Hayden said it made sense to convene representatives from all agencies involved in the dispute and file a formal complaint against the Inn. She suggested giving the Inn a “fill-in-the-blanks violation of notice,” a pre-drafted letter the agencies could just fill in with the violations they’d inevitably discover. Hayden and Zopf agreed they would pay the Inn a visit in a few days. The trustees sat back in their chairs with evident relief. A decision had to be made, and it was.

This decision reached, about 98% of the people at the meeting got up and gathered their belongings. “You’re welcome to stay for the rest of the…” Mucher began, but the attendees filed past him and went back outside. Snatches of their conversation could be heard as the door swung open and closed. The first part of the September 9 meeting had taken one hour and fourteen seconds.

A Visit to the Inn

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Entering the Grinnel Circle neighborhood. The entrance to the Inn is to the left; straight ahead is the central common area.

The Inn was apparently subject to intimidation in the days following the September 9 meeting. Someone pounded on door in the middle of the night, and guests reported what sounded like guns being shot off right next to the house.

Things did not improve from there. Five days after the trustee meeting, on September 14, a contingent of county and township functionaries paid a visit to the Inn. The Owens travelled down from Michigan to lead the zoning and health code inspectors on what they thought was a “fact-finding mission” to determine what aspects of the Inn needed to be brought up to code. Instead, Owen said, they were surprised to find themselves served with a cease and desist letter, just as Hayden had suggested.

The letter said the Inn had two weeks from that day to scale back its operations or it would be shut down. The inn could have no more than five guests in its current incarnation, nor could it host any events. It also had to stop its activities as an art gallery (or venue of any kind), as it also violated statutes defining what constitutes a home-based business.

Eric Owen promptly called the Yellow Springs News, as he knew a reporter was at the Trustees meeting and wanted to provide the world with this most shocking update. He and Deirdre and the Farrars and his mother Luisa were sitting outside on deck chairs when the reporter arrived, gobsmacked by the morning’s events. Owen related what happened with the impassioned but disjointed cadence of someone thinking aloud. After a few minutes he paused and held out his lit cigarette.

“Look what they have me doing,” he said. “I don’t even smoke.”

The agencies’ letter effectively meant he would have to turn the B&B into a hotel, he said. In order for the Inn to host the number of guests it had been, Owen would have to install steel doors, fire dampeners, hood systems in the kitchen, and a 150,000-gallon cistern for a sprinkler system in his house, an expense he simply could not afford.

The CCC was basically a “lynch mob” that had their “tentacles” in county and township agencies. This was nothing like the community he used to know, he said. He said Greene County were toadies following the regulations created by and directly benefitting the worldwide hotel industry. Owen’s mother compared the Inn’s situation with the policies of the fascist regime she lived through as a young woman in a prison camp in Yugoslavia.

“Where I grew up, they would kill you for speaking up. If that were the case here, I would still speak up about the Inn,” she said.

But the caretakers got to work making two of the five rooms unavailable. They had to remove an illegal downstairs bathroom and take out some beds as a show of good faith that they wouldn’t secretly accommodate more guests than they were allowed. Jody Farrar said she had to call and tell people they couldn’t have their wedding at the Inn. The guests went from angry to devastated, she said, as some people had already ordered decorations specifically to go with the property.

All of this after the largesse the Inn has shown the area, Owen said, like the free use of the Inn for area cultural affairs and “at least 50 meals and $400 in wine purchased in town” by guests of a recent event.

They’d just have to wait and see if the Inn would still be sustainable.

The Second Meeting – September 21, 2015

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Looking toward the Glen House Inn across the neighborhood common area.

 

Tempers ran high at the subsequent trustees meeting two weeks later. If the previous meeting was noteworthy for its attendance, this one was exceptional. Supporters of the Inn said it was their duty to show up and testify on the Inn’s behalf, as they were deliberately excluded from the previous meeting. The CCC was there to advocate again for their position.

The trustees filed in from the corridor. Trustee Lamar Spracklen wasn’t at the previous meeting, but he was this time. He sat down in his chair and stared out at the room. He looked like a grizzled boxing instructor commanding someone to punch a side of meat, and he had a bandage on his face that stretched from his lip to his cheekbone. His eyes scanned the crowd, like he was just waiting for someone to ask what happened. Gochenouer was at the table, and so were Crockett, Silliman, and Zopf.

Chris Mucher stood up, and with little official township preamble addressed the crowd. There was a slight tremble in his voice.

“If anyone thinks they’re in the wrong place, they’re not,” he said. “This is exactly where you want to be. This is a public meeting of the Board of Trustees.”

The Inn’s supporters were ready to go. A neighbor named Dan Rudolf spoke, lauding the operations of the Inn and saying he was not bothered by the occasional noise. His speech was delivered with an eloquence that bespoke serious conviction, or at least a lot of time rehearsing the delivery. Innkeeper Bil Farrar, tall, with a wispy red beard and long red ponytail, stood up and added his piece. He tried to make the difficult argument that the neighbors were being un-neighborly – a subjective characteristic that was hard to objectively prove, and a point that was difficult to understand because his speech was peppered with phrases like “maybe it’s not your job to promote community” and “losing the opportunity to eat potato salad with the Lithgows[3],” on top of referring to the proceedings as a “plot.” By the looks on the faces of the other attendees, the strength of his case was dampened by the profligate use of these rhetorical illustrations. Nevertheless, their abundance spoke for the seriousness of his convictions.

Owen’s eyes were sparkling with a barely-containable desire to speak. He leapt up. Did the Township know the position he and Deirdre were being put in? he asked.

“We’re basically vagabonds,” he said. “We have no house; we sleep when there are free rooms in the bed and breakfast.” He already worked eighteen hours a day, he said, and now he had to deal with this.

“If the neighbors wanted a gated community, why don’t they just create a gated community?” he asked.

He wasn’t inherently opposed to code, he said, and every time he was asked he tried to square his property with it. But the changes the Inn had to make were difficult to understand thanks the unclear information given by the Township and the fact that county and Ohio codes didn’t always line up. It was tough to tell which code took precedence, he said, but either way, he felt the Inn was being ganged up on.

“I don’t know what club you’re part of,” Owen said.

“I don’t have a club,” said Mucher. “This has absolutely nothing to do with any other department or political subdivision.”

“I mean the club we’re being beaten with,” Owen said.

More testimony was heard from Bob Bingenheimer, who had a letter to the editor entitled “Glen House Closing Shows Worst of People and Government” published in the paper earlier that week, though its incendiary title was changed to something less acerbic. Another innkeeper in town offered her take on the issue, arguing against the necessity of strictly following the owner-occupancy requirement for small-scale B&Bs.

Here trustee Spracklen weighed in. He sympathized with the Owens and told of his own troubles running his own B&B. He is the owner-operator of another picturesque area inn, and his B&B necessarily operates under the auspices of the same township code. Spracklen’s establishment had recently come under fire for serving a breakfast far too large for its permit, and he sarcastically explained how the Health Department demanded significant upgrades to the kitchen.[4]

“Don’t make me laugh or my tape’ll fall off,” he said, touching his bandage.

(A few weeks later he would basically be in Owen’s position, pleading his case to the Health Department and visibly trying to stifle his irritation at their inability to understand why he should just be allowed to do what he wants to do.)

The CCC was there and pleaded their case anew, going point-for-counterpoint with Owen’s. The argument got more convoluted as more people weighed in. There was a circuitous discussion of what defines traffic on the circle, and then a discussion on the nature of socializing itself. Mucher stepped in and gave a ten-minute warning, mentioning again that no real or enforceable resolution would be coming from this meeting, or the next one, or any future meetings. A change to the zoning code required advocating for the change before the Zoning Commission, who would render their expert opinion and eventually suggest a change for the trustees to vote on.

The public debate portion of the Sept. 21 meeting ran for the next ten minutes, and the trustees wrapped it up. There was not much more to say, and little that could be done at that moment. The attendees once again got up and left as soon as the debate session was over, the two sides avoiding further interaction and leaving the building to fume together or in private.

Ultimately, the case added up to this: because the Owens had more than five guests, because it was shown that the Owens are registered tax-payers in Michigan, because the property is zoned residential, and because they didn’t have the appropriate health, fire, and food licenses, the Glen House Inn would have to limit its bed and breakfasting operations to those allowed in residentially-zoned properties. The mandates of the letter signed jointly by the Greene County Combined Health District and the Miami Township offices were not up for debate – code was there for a reason, and that reason could not be selectively enforced, no matter how fascistic or unfair it may seem. There had to be some structure, and that structure was outlined in Miami Township Code.

“That’s the most dramatic thing about being a trustee – whether you like it or not, changes happen,” Crockett said. “Our job is to try to make the best decision for the majority of the people in the community.”

A decision had been reached on September 14, and it stood.

Update, Spring 2016: An article about this controversy was published in the Yellow Springs News not long after the second Board of Trustees meeting. The article presented an overview of the debate and reported on the cease and desist letter, suggesting the Inn was shut down as a result. Richard Zopf was quick to point out was not the case. He wrote a letter to the editor that said the article made the Zoning Inspector look bad and misinterpreted the township’s position. The Inn was not closed down, he pointed out, it just had to stop its violations. He maintained that this was his position all along – all of the suggestions he had ever given, all of the leniency he’s shown the Owens – were all in the interest of getting the Inn in compliance with Code. He, in his duty as Zoning Inspector, was simply trying to follow the letter of the law. He admitted he had been lenient in the time he allowed residents to comply, but no more. He had been taken advantage of by both sides, he said, and from that point on was going to be strict in his definitions of what was acceptable and not.

The Inn reduced its operations within the fourteen days demanded by the letter and has stayed at that level ever since. Its available rooms are booked fairly consistently. (It was determined that the Owens did have residency in Ohio, as the Inn was their registered address and Ohio law does not specify a length of time required for residency.)

Jody Farrar said it seemed like the authorities were trying to cover their tracks in going after the Inn. There are five B&Bs in the area, she said, but the Inn got “dissected” because the health department realized they were supposed to be monitoring B&Bs but weren’t, and went after one in order to save face. Bil Farrar, speaking with his customary grandiloquence, said “the shrapnel rained down and gave us all paper cuts; we didn’t die but we were severely injured.” Owen said members of the CCC have called them and pretended to be someone looking to book an event to see if the Inn would slip up.

In late March of 2016, a pro-Inn neighbor wrote a letter to the editor to be published in the Yellow Springs News. It was entitled “Unintended Consequences: An Essay About Community, a Cautionary Tale” and decried the Township’s decision, saying that all semblance of neighborly cooperation had been bulldozed by the CCC’s intractable opposition to the Owens. The letter ran almost 3,000 words, and the editor of the News said it had to be cut down by about 75 percent in order to be published. The author said she couldn’t do this, the argument had to be presented in its entirety, and she said was willing to pay the full $800 to run the essay as a full-page ad. The staff of the News was unsure about this proposition, as a mockup of the full-page version of the essay looked a lot like the screed of a maniac demanding its publication in order prevent further tragedy. The News was unsure if they wanted to open the paper up to that kind of thing.

Ultimately, Owen asked the well-intentioned neighbor not to go through with publishing her lengthy missive. He had a prospective buyer for the property and didn’t want to dredge up problems associated with the house. As of April 2016, the house is en route to be being sold and will revert back to its first incarnation as a private residence. According to Owen, it just wasn’t worth it to keep the Glen House Inn going.

“I’ve dealt with this same provincial shit before with my hotel in Michigan,” Owen said, “but this was something else.”

[1] 5.308 Bed and Breakfast Operations, under the following conditions:

5.3101 All operations hereunder must meet the definition of Bed and Breakfast.
5.3102 Are operated totally within the principal dwelling and not within a garage or accessory building.
5.3103 Does not have exterior evidence of operation other than one (1) square foot wall sign as permitted under Section 2.14
5.3104 Shall contain no additional, separate kitchen facilities for guests.
5.3105 Shall provide one (1) off-street parking space for every guest room in addition to the off-street parking otherwise required for the principal structure as provided in each district.
5.3106 Shall permit access to the guest room only through the principal structure.
5.3107 Shall obtain an occupancy permit from Greene County Building Inspection Department prior to the commencement of operations to ensure compliance with all applicable building and safety standards.

[2] 519.21 Powers not conferred on township zoning commission by chapter: Except as otherwise provided in division (B) of this section, sections 519.02 to 519.25 of the Revised Code confer no power on any township zoning commission, board of township trustees, or board of zoning appeals to prohibit the use of any land for agricultural purposes or the construction or use of buildings or structures incident to the use for agricultural purposes of the land on which such buildings or structures are located, including buildings or structures that are used primarily for vinting and selling wine and that are located on land any part of which is used for viticulture, and no zoning certificate shall be required for any such building or structure.

Section B of the above references includes exceptions such as a parcel of land of five acres or less or one located in a platted subdivision containing 15 or more lots. On a lot that is one acre or smaller, zoning may prohibit or regulate all agricultural activities.

[3] Sometimes the Inn was rented out by Antioch College as a home for its special guests, which once included actor John Lithgow and his family. Lithgow’s father was a theater professor at Antioch, and John Lithgow attended daycare in Yellow Springs.

[4] A few years before, a local woman named Nora Byrnes began serving free breakfasts to the community from her home on a residential street. She’d take custom orders and had an impressive buffet anyone could help themselves to. Everyone was welcome, and donations were tacitly accepted. Breakfasts at Norah’s grew to be so well liked that Norah would have between forty to sixty people eating at her house. Friends volunteered as waitstaff, and the breakfast operations began to look like a professional restaurant, though the community-minded approach (everyone sat family style) was said by her fans to engender a uniquely communal environment. Of course, regularly serving food to sixty people caught the eye of the Health Department, who said she was totally unlicensed and had to shut down. The community was in an uproar that her generosity was being circumscribed, and so Spracklen began letting Byrnes use his B&B to host her breakfasts once a week. These breakfasts likewise drew the attention of the Health Department. Byrnes was forced to stop serving breakfast at Spracklen’s inn, but in a case that may give hope to the Owens, Byrnes later appeared before the BZA to lay out her plans to resume serving breakfasts in her own home, and the reasons why she should be allowed to do it. She gave a persuasive interpretation of code, and a dozen or more citizens from the town testified on her behalf about how wonderful her breakfasts are. While the specifics of the BZA’s decision are too lengthy to address, suffice it to say code was creatively interpreted in such a way that she could resume breakfasts at her home in a limited capacity.

“You’re not going to have GFS semi-trucks delivering to your house this time, are you?” asked one BZA member.
“No,” she said.

A Motley Collection of Locals and Mercenary Vacationers: the 7th Annual Women’s Armwrestling Contest of Ocracoke Island

Championship match - Fat Jesus vs. the BakerCoauthor credit and special thanks to P. Williams

The crowd and campers

The crowd and campers

It was perhaps the most raucous if not the raunchiest public radio benefit one could imagine. Picture this – a campground behind a Texaco, hidden from the road, aluminum bleachers and a makeshift bar encircling a makeshift fighting ring. Golf carts and cars are parked in equal measure in the dirt parking lot and alongside the road. Spectators are gathered under the evening sun, drinking everything from Coors Light to Bud Light from a makeshift bar made of discarded 6×6 beams. Everything is surrounded by huge camper trailers with accouterments indicating varying degrees of permanence – string lights, laundry lines, lawn furniture. The nexus of excitement is the pod of costumed combatants bouncing giddily next to a golf cart next to the ring. The warriors are bedecked in everything from Dali moustaches to bloodied wedding dresses. A comingled sense of exuberant fun and the tension of impending competition colored the air. The 7th Annual Women’s Armwrestling Contest was held June 18th, 2015 on Ocracoke Island, a semi-sanctioned armwrestling event sponsored by Combat Armsports and benefitting WOVV 90.1, the local public radio station. Combatant sign-ups were still taking place as spectators took their seats – anyone who felt lucky enough could try to best a motley collection of locals and mercenary vacationers.

Ocracoke Island is a small, thin stretch of land in North Carolina’s Outer Banks. The island is sixteen miles long and less than a mile at its widest and is accessible only by ferry. It is an old, small sea town whose relative quaintness is maintained by a National Seashore designation and strict building codes. (One builder tried to flaunt these regulations and was required to dismantle the entire top floor of the enormous home he built.) But despite its clapboard homes and the infinite amount of basketed, slowly-pedaled bikes, Ocracoke is also known for its legacy of piracy. It’s the place where Blackbeard the Pirate was not only beheaded but whose headless body swam around his ship seven times before it sank. Ocracokers are hardy just by dint of living there – hurricanes blow through with dispiriting regularity, causing evacuation and a proliferation of stinking muck when floodwaters recede, and the mosquitos are stuff of legend. Armwrestling, then, is not a cultivated hobby but a demonstration of inborn strength.

The island has approximately 970 permanent residents, but given the ever-changing stream of weeklong vacationers, it’s rare that a strong local presence is detected. (The average summer week ratchets the population to seven thousand.) Local flavor wasn’t missing at this event, however. The armwrestling tournament is one of the premier events on the island. At least half of the 2015 competitors were residents of Ocracoke, and this was a lower percentage than most years. Most everyone else in attendance was strongly encouraged to attend, if not sign up, by the waitress or clerk or local working at whatever facility the vacationer was patronizing. The camaraderie of contestants who work and swim and party together and the fun of an event clearly anticipated by the people that live there gave spectators the sense that they were sitting in on the proceedings of a different world.

(Though it’s not just vacationers that get a glimpse of the surreal. Locals are no doubt aware of guests endowed with oversized personalities. One guy in the audience recognized someone making a recent splash – “Hey! The Thong Girl is here!” noting a young woman wearing nigh-invisible bottoms all day every day throughout town. A sight hearkening of the evening’s event was a guy jogging up and down the main road wearing a sweatsuit and weights tied to his hands – a serious boxer doing serious training.)

Clearly it was a different world no matter where you came from. The stage was made of four rickety fold-out stage rectangles with nylon rope running through holes drilled in PVC pipe turnbuckles. Special thanks were given by the announcer to the “guy who spent all day in the sun setting up this fine venue.” A whiteboard sat in the grass, leaning against the announcers booth, the brackets penned with numerous cross-outs and revisions. In the first of many such instances, the PA kicked on with a startling burst of noise. The transitions between music and announcing always featured one of the two being significantly louder than the other, as if to shock you into attention, and a balance was never quite reached during the entirety of the event.

Completed Bracket

Completed Bracket

No matter – attention was grabbed and the contestants were summoned to the ring to learn the rules. Locals came from the ringside party and the brave vacationer-competitors left groups of friends in the bleachers. Incredibly, a professional arm wrestler had been brought into referee the event. He was the Man, the Myth, the 220lb armwrestling champ from Sunbury, North Carolina, a beefy toned and tanned guy with the incongruous name Giles Russell. Everyone gathered in the ring around a professional armwrestling table furnished by Combat Armsports. He imparted how it would all go down.

The ceremony was brief, and Julie, alias So Fresh So Clean Clean in reference to the hotel-white towels wrapped around her torso and her hair, summarized how you play for her friends.

“You have to break the plane of a small cushion,” she said.

A tournament-ready armwrestling table has two cushions on the outside of an open battlefield, where combatants’ elbows rest. There is an open area in the middle, with two strikepads on either side. These are the cushions a wrestler has to touch with her opponent’s hand. Vertical poles with grips are next to the elbow pads. These are held by the non-wrestling hand for leverage. As soon as a hand touches the strikepad (or wrist in the case of combatants with forearm-size disparity), the bout is over.

“Apparently somebody in Vegas broke their hand,” So Fresh said. “Last time I arm wrestled was when I was ten. Maybe I’ll discover a hidden talent!”

So Fresh took a swig from her beer. Approximately 85% of the audience was drinking. So Fresh was with a group of friends from Nashville, New York, and Maryland. They were staying on Cape Hatteras and had planned on a day trip to Ocracoke but when their server at Howard’s Pub was so effusive in her recommendation of the tournament that they decided to stay and throw one of themselves into the fray.

So Fresh was calm, jovial, a little tipsy perhaps. There was the faintest glimmer of intimidation.

“Dalí looks tough. How should I trash talk?”

“Call her ‘Noodle Arms!’”

“Maybe I shouldn’t say anything at all.”

Her friends also offered coaching tips.

“Let them get ahead a bit then take them out.”

“Swing a folding chair!”

Another squall of feedback made everyone jump. The announcer rattled off a list of the sponsors, which was practically half the businesses on the island. He gave props to WOVV and said that the event would be starting momentarily. In years past, the tournament was a benefit for both the radio station and the fire department. In 2012, $3,200 was raised for the radio station and $1200 for the fire department, but the event now benefits the radio station exclusively. The tournament is held every year on the anniversary of the station’s first broadcast.

Ultimately fifteen contestants had signed up. A few were recurring combatants. This was the third tournament for Fat Jesus, for example. Those who were new were encouraged to make up a nom de guerre and an exciting back story. All contestants could rest a little easier knowing that Karm “the Arm” Laton retired after winning the last four tournaments straight.

The roster for the evening included the following:

Armed and Dangerous Archer – who had machine guns made out of electrical tape on her biceps and a white cape with a machine gun on it and the phrase “come and take it” held around her shoulders with handcuffs. Her “favorite athlete is herself,” according to the announcer.

Salvador Dalía – she had a Dalí moustache on her face made out of electrical tape, blue hair, and stars tattooed on one temple. Two giant melting clocks hung from her chest. “She’s here to melt your clock!” the announcer noted.

The Baker – walked up to the ring throwing bread crumbs into the audience. The puffs of powder were backlit majestically by the spotlights. She was wearing an apron and is a Pisces.

Dorothy the Dominator – wore a St. Paul’s Girl-style dress and drank a lot of Corona. She had an ankle brace but no shoes. She was announced as being from Oz.

So Fresh So Clean Clean – wore towels around her hair and torso. From New York by way of Ohio. She was skeptical of another combatant’s claim of Ohio roots and took this as some kind of obscure taunt. At least six friends were there to cheer her on. “Fresh outta the shower!” yelled one.

Wildcard – had mom jeans, hair bun, and a sleeveless button-up with what seemed to be a hipstery print. She was “raised by wolves in Nepal” and brought a Red Stripe up to the table with her when she wrestled. She is the one who So Fresh thought was lying about her Ohio origins.

Fat Jesus – She had a swimsuit top under one of those shirts whose sides are cut out so profoundly that the bottom of the shirt could tear at any second. The Zach Galifianakis design on her shirt would lead one to believe that her name is a reference to the movie the Hangover. She was wearing high-heeled sandals and “still lives at home.”

Shark Attack – she danced her way up to the stage to tropical pop songs and gnashed her teeth and made intimidating shark fin gestures at her opponents. She was wearing a bloodied dress and was revealed to have two prosthetics legs from the knees down. She occasionally took one off and menaced the crowd with it.

Demolition Dolly – wore pocketless blue jorts and a baseball comprised what someone in the crowd deemed early-2000s fashion. She belatedly donned an appropriately huge and blonde Dolly Parton wig. “She had breast reduction surgery last week!”

Soo Well – was sent up with a bunch of high-fives from her friends. She had billowy hippie pants. “Her father was a pig farmer.”

Hair of the Dog – wore her salt and pepper hair long and windblown. She was bedecked in all white and didn’t talk to anyone.

Crystal the Bone Crusher – looked like a tough older biker, if bikers wore Teva sandals, with an arm tattoo that may or may not have been real. She “idolizes Winnie the Pooh.”

Danger Ranger – is a Sagittarius from the Pennsylvania section of Appalachia. Her hair was a battle-ready ponytail and she wore a Yellowstone Park tee.

Banana Slug – she laughed a lot and fought with a phone in her back pocket. She “used to be a pacifist before the armwrestling tournament and is the captain of both an alien and pirate ship.”

Green Terror – seemingly the youngest of the bunch and a late addition. As such, she had to fight two people back to back in the second round. She is a vegan – “vegetables killed her parents so now she kills vegetables!”

Everyone was thus introduced, and with a classic ‘LET’S GET IT ON!’ the armwrestling was underway.

Round 1

Wildcard's Round 1 victory over Banana Slug

Wildcard’s Round 1 victory over Banana Slug

Salvador Dalía trounced Dorothy the Dominator in under a second. Soo Well was so evenly matched with So Fresh that there was a stalemate for minutes until Soo Well finally won. The bout between Shark Attack and Demolition Dolly was restarted after a false start, then Shark Attack won in less than a second. “I’m all arms!” she yelled. Fat Jesus sidled up to the table against Hair of the Dog, whose super, super-serious expression was no help. The losers of the last two rounds looked like they were actually mad. The Baker threw out crumbs as she walked to the ring. She fought Crystal the Bone Crusher and won. The announcer made a brief announcement. “Look into your pockets! Aside from the money should be donating to WOVV, somebody lost an iPod!” Armed and Dangerous Archer beat Danger Ranger fairly quickly and then went back and hugged her sons. After a serious positioning of the arms by Russell, Wilcard beat Banana Slug.

Post-round, Russell was encircled by wrestlers and fans. He was imparting his wisdom to anyone who had questions. The atmosphere was one of revelry and intense concentration, depending on the role for the night. Demolition Dolly and Hair of the Dog listened attentively, having lost their first bouts rather quickly. (Though to be fair they did lose to competitors who made it to the last rounds.) They both had the look of someone really trying to internalize something, as if stalwart concentration insures the ability to put it into practice. They were the most serious competitors; the pained expressions and their stony silence indicated that they were taking this really seriously.

“You can slide your elbow all over the table. You just can’t pick it up,” Russell said. “So when you’re pullin’ and she’s pullin’ and you realize you have all this space behind you, start pullin’ her back. The next move should be a drag. Open her arm up. A subtle drag. Do it subtly or you may open your own arm up. Good arm wrestlin’ is keepin’ ‘em locked nice and tight then start draggin.’ You wanna take everything down together, like this. [Here he showed her a fluid takedown motion, their hands interlocked like they were wrasslin.’] Not doing that is not good armwrestling technique – it’s ‘hurt yourself bad technique.’ I want everyone to have fun and an injury would be a huge buzzkill.

“A lot of people who haven’t seen it professionally think, ‘you’re using your body – that’s cheatin’!’ but no – as long as your elbow doesn’t come up and as long as your shoulder doesn’t go below the tabletop, it’s legal. You don’t want to twist your humerus – ”

A spectator in a flowered button-up shirt interjected, eager to show off his anatomical knowledge: “It’s shoulder blades, right? It’s all shoulder blades and latissimus dorsi, right? And the anterior deltoid?”

Russell sidestepped the question by acknowledging it then answering a slightly different question as to not embarrass the guy’s error and eagerness to name drop some muscles. Russell continued coaching Demolition Dolly, twisting her arm one way then another and pointing out different points of flexion. Any future arm wrestlers should note that reliance on brute strength is a novice’s mistake. It’s just as much about the leverage you can get. Ambitious students should study physics. An image Russell posted on his Facebook page reads: ‘Armwrestling – where gym junky ego is destroyed.’

Admirers with cameras ready

Admirers with cameras ready

Much is thought of Russell’s expertise. It is his fourth time reffing the Ocracoke tournament. Arrangements were made for his family to accompany him. His wife, daughter, and a thinner version of Russell who the announcer kept referring to as Young Giles were there with him.

His wife Tabitha was photographing the event and sat near him as a cadre of women with wine glasses filmed his impromptu lessons, giggling as they asked him to flex again and again. Young Giles looked on in awe. He was a little shy still but was no doubt eagerly awaiting the time he’ll be able to reap the benefits of the family sport. (The women slyly asked Russell the Elder about his leg placement during matches.) Young Giles was there as an assistant, and between rounds he had to take on a seemingly unending line of kid competitors taking up the offer to get on stage and arm wrestle him, including a battle with one of two kids in the audience that night that for some reason looked disturbingly like adults. Papa Giles gave his son a little nudge here and there to tell him he should let a kid win. Even as a teenager Young Giles was gracious in defeat. In one particularly endearing scene, Russell called on his daughter to come on stage and arm wrestle her brother. She leaped with excitement and ran up to the table and after a long struggle beat her brother. She strutted around in victory and then Young Giles held her over the ropes as she flexed for the crowd. The crowd went wild. She was in on the family sport too. She told a nearby spectator “I wrestled him all day in the hotel and I beat him. Don’t mess with me!” The last line was delivered with surprisingly sincere menace.

Round 2

The championship belt

The championship belt, worn for approximately 27 minutes

Green Terror fell like a chomped vegetable to Wildcard. Dorothy took off her flip-flops as she took on So Fresh. Dorothy won and So Fresh pretended to cry. Soo Well lost to Dalía in what was a “live art performance.” “I get really pumped up,” Dalía said. “That’s not to say I train – I’m just naturally this awesome. I’m totally competitive – haven’t you seen me?” The announcer mentioned that the winner would get to wear the belt for “twenty-seven minutes” before giving it back. Despite the advice from Giles, Demolition Dolly was taken down by Hair of the Dog, who apparently did benefit from his lesson. Fat Jesus fought the Baker – it was a match between two of the strongest contestants and the hefty savior won. Crystal the Bone Crusher fought Danger Ranger in a match that featured unchanging expressions and eye-contact broken only after what seemed like minutes of the most extreme strain. Danger Ranger won. The PA played a funny “Fwee!” sound at every loss from now until the end. “We got someone from morning radio here!” said the announcer, even though he was the one in control of sound effects. Armed and Dangerous Archer, whose “guns are banned in twenty-six states,” fought Shark Attack. From this point on Shark Attack made a point of wiggling her behind at the crowd and tucking her dress into her lacy blue underwear. Despite her taunts and fierce expression as her opponent walked up to the stage, Archer won. Banana Slug slimed Green Terror.

After the round, the announcer bid people try their luck against Giles when the tournament was over. “Anyone want to take him? He’s out of shape.” Russell affected a slouch and pulled down on his bicep like it was drooping.

Round 3

Wildcard vs. Salvador Dalia, Round 3

Wildcard vs. Salvador Dalia, Round 3

Soo Well lost to Dorothy the Dominator and was eliminated. Wildcard flirted with the ref but still lost to Salvador Dalía. Spectator A: “She does that every time.” B: “What?” A: “Win.” All of the contestants ran up to the ring for the match between Danger Ranger and Hair of the Dog. Hair lost and the FWEE! effect played. She was eliminated. Shark Attack, who “loves foot rubs,” shook her booty, tucked her dress, eliminated Banana Slug, and then grabbed her chest and stuck her chin out at the crowd. A new explosion sound effect played. After noting that she “lost her pet monkey but collects monkeys and giraffes,” Fat Jesus beat Armed and Dangerous Archer. The Baker, an Ocracoke native, eliminated Dorothy. A guy yelled out a taunt that made the crowd laugh. He thought he could do better, apparently, as he said “No, no that wasn’t good” about his own comment.

After the match Shark Attack was seen reclining on a golf cart, throwing back drinks and just sucking down a cigarette. She and Armed and Dangerous then got up and danced with their kids. Giles arm wrestled Young Giles and was coaching him with fatherly affection. A guy from the audience ran up and challenged the older Giles and was quickly – and expectedly – dispatched to hell. A new admirer came up to Giles and was dancing as close as she could to him. He went along with it for a second and then excused himself, saying “I’m an arm wrestler, not a dancer!”

Round 4

Danger Ranger was up against Shark Attack, who did her now-standard dance-and-tuck (the sixth time her dress was tucked into her underwear, according to one observer). Shark Attack won and DQ’d Danger. Then the battle of high hair buns – Wildcard vs. the Baker. The Baker’s bun was stronger. Tacky rock music played the whole time, including “Happy Happy Birthday.” Fat Jesus fought Dalía; both were up to this point undefeated. But it was a quick fight – Fat Jesus won. Shark Attack fought again, this time against Armed and Dangerous Archer. Despite her physical taunts and chest-grabbing, Armed and Dangerous further bloodied her dress and kicked her out of the tournament.

Round 5

“Ocracoke is a community of costume lovers and connoisseurs. We have lots of reasons dress up as much as possible. We take the costume contest more seriously than the actual armwrestling,” explained Salvador Dalía. Easy to say when you are crushing the contest physically and sartorially, perhaps, but it was true that Ocracoke is a lover of costumes. Past costumes included a full-body rabbit costume with huge mask/helmet and a muscle suit with hand-sewn muscles. Before Round 5 started, the winners of the costume contest were announced.

3rd) a now regularly dressed So Fresh So Clean Clean
2nd) Shark Attack, who accepted the honor with trademark shark grimaces and sneers at the audience.
and
1st) Salvador Dalía!

Winners received a gift bag of indeterminate contents.

The costume winners were shuffled off and the next round started. The Baker roasted Archer, rendering her stale for good. The Baker fought another round right away, flinging flour as she walked up to the stage, and knocked Dalía out for good but granting Dalía a third place finish. Fat Jesus didn’t have to fight this round because she was undefeated. Round 5 determined who would fight her for the title, and the lucky contestant was The Baker.

Title Match

At this point the mosquitos were doing their customary duty and annoying the fat bejeesus out of everyone. Supposedly their role in the ecosystem is critical – food for bats and other creatures and all that – but the constant biting typically leads one to completely ignore this alleged benefit and wish them all an equally annoying death by a thousand bites.

The rented lights illuminated the ring with patterns straight out of a middle school dance. The Baker stayed on stage, her swimmer’s back and toned arms even more menacing under the interplay of shadow and light. Fat Jesus strode up to the stage in her high-heeled sandals, face ruddy with combat fatigue and drink. The crowd was on its feet and increasingly festive if not drunk. Even a kid with a big arm cast tripped over a pole, and another kid somehow tripped and got his body and shirt tangled around the base of a light. The crowd was laughing and buzzing with a mosquito-like thirst for blood. “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!” they yelled. “We love you Jesus!” “C’mon Jesus!” “WWJD? WWJD?!” The last comment was yelled by the guy with reliably funny shouts but who wasn’t too sure of his own sense of humor. A friend said, “That was a good one,” indicating a friend group with a surprisingly honest appraisal of their own quips and heckles. The Baker was hailed too: “Bake me a dozen!” “She’s got strong forearms from stirring flour!”

Your 2015 Champion FAT JESUS

Your 2015 Champion FAT JESUS!

The Baker had to win twice for the title since she had already lost once and Fat Jesus hadn’t lost at all. The Baker stood valiantly, hoping that the Gods of Armwrestling would shine down on her. Would it be one of those classic underdog stories? Would her pure desire be enough to turn the tide? Alas! No! The Baker was dispatched with the power one could expect from the unbeaten maniac known as Fat Jesus!

The belt was presented to the victorious Fat Jesus for photo-ops and to bestow its power to the champion that earned it, at least for twenty-seven minutes. Giles presented her the belt but it fell apart as he handed it to her, clanking loudly onto the ring. Fat Jesus threw her hands up in the classic pose of the victorious, and Giles held the busted belt around her waist. Locals and vacationers celebrated her success. Do we have a new Karm “the Arm” Laton in the making? Perhaps! Only next year will tell, at the 8th Annual Womens Armwrestling extravaganza on the one and only Ocracoke Island!

The Flying Octopus

Dispatch from the Outer Banks –

Meanwhile on Okracoke Island

Meanwhile on Ocracoke Island

Recently on Ocracoke Island, North Carolina, a sixty-foot octopus was flying above a family’s encampment on the first beach outside of town. The family had their towels and umbrellas and fishing supplies as most beachgoers do, but they were also fielding questions of amused passersby. Their octopus was flying halfway between the ground and a geometric craft another thirty feet above, two giant kites perfectly representing the family’s whimsical hobby. The octopus’s eight tentacles fluttered playfully in the breeze, and two googly eyes took it all in as the creature spun on its line.

“My mother-in-law makes them,” the Mom of the troupe said, “in a little room in her house on a little sewing machine.”

The kites are two of over one hundred in the family’s collection. Her mother-in-law has sold a few to those persistent in wanting to buy one, but all are initially made for the fun of it. The family selected the octopus and the box kite carefully before they left Ohio for the Outer Banks, taking a bunch out of storage in their garage and going over which ones hadn’t been flown in a while. Their kites are made of parachute silk and most are larger than life – the family has everything from an eighty-foot frog to a hundred-foot spinner. The frog weighs twenty-five pounds folded and bagged. (Storage demands no special conditions aside from keeping the kites dry.) The end result is tremendously impressive considering the kites can’t be seen in all their glory (or potential mistakes) until they are billowing aloft.

Kite DiagramThe Mom said that circular kites like the octopus are fairly easy to fly as long as there are holes for air to enter and exit. The exact physics of it all evades her, but the octopus essentially flies like a giant cephalopodian windsock. But geometric kites require a little more planning. “Certain angles” have to be calculated and many more strings and outflow holes have to be taken into consideration. The box kite they were flying had at least four compartments. Six cords made up the bridle – the set of strings between the kite – and the line, which is the cord running back down to Earth. (The part where the strings of the bridle meet the line is called the “connecting point,” if you’ll pardon the obscure kite-fan parlance.)

But the real difficultly lies in keeping such a huge kite tethered to Earth.

“See that drag mark there? That’s from the kite pulling the sandbag cause there wasn’t enough sand in it. See that other one? That’s where we dragged it back. I had to sit on it as we filled the bag with more sand.”

The drag marks zigged and zagged for about thirty feet. After the octopus’s near escape, a ditch was dug and the sandbag was filled with five-hundred pounds of sand. A wall was built around the outside of the ditch so the sandbag would have to travel out of the ditch and over the hump if the wind picked up again.

Adelir Antônio de Carli, 1966-2008

Adelir Antônio de Carli, 1966-2008

(The strength of giant kites is nothing to be sneezed at. In November 2010, gale force winds rocketed a kite surfer in France in from the beach, sucked him high into the air, dragged him across at least three rooftops and a pier, and then dropped him fifty feet into a courtyard, killing him instantly. And somewhat relatedly, a priest in Brazil was carried away in 2008 by one thousand balloons. He had successfully completed a balloon stunt before – his nickname was Padre Baloeiro, roughly translating to Father Balloon – and was undertaking his fatal trip to raise money for a spiritual rest stop for truckers. He made it to 19,685 feet and they stopped hearing from him. Pieces of balloons were found soon after contact was lost, and his legs were found floating in the ocean two and a half months later.)

Fortunately everyone was able to enjoy the kite without it escaping or dragging anyone over the dunes. An already incredible day on the beach was made that much more fantastical by the family’s additions. The Mom said that as far as she knew there are no regulations prohibiting the flying of giant kites. She looked a little eager to get back to her family after curious beachgoers interrogated her for minutes on end, but it was no doubt rewarding to inspire so many smiles. “They’re a curiosity, that’s for sure!” she laughed, and then walked back to her umbrella and a waiting fishing pole.

Things Left Behind by the Guy Whose Lease I Just Took Over

In celebration of my new apartment (which I actually really like), here is a list of the things I found when I moved in not too long ago. The previous tenant left:

  • a black futon mattress, on the ground, folded into quarters;
  • a porn DVD: “Video Magazine Nineteen, vol. 13: College Girls” (under the futon);
  • a miniature grill with two full cans of lighter fluid;
  • a J°S. A. Banks tie still wrapped in tissue paper, with a $79.95 price tag;
  • a drawer full of loose plastic utensils and a stack of paper plates;
  • a double-boiler;
  • corduroy pants and a blue button-up shirt;
  • a pair of underwear and scattered socks;
  • an almost untouched (still mostly shrink-wrapped) bulk package of peanut candy (which was, ahem, pretty good);
  • a small box of rice;
  • a Harry Potter beer stein, which is about a foot tall, has a heavy silver lid, and features the full-color insignias of all six houses; on the bottom is a price sticker reading $40;
  • a suit hanging in the closet in one of those suit bags you take when you’re traveling;
  • various plastic lids and tops to appliances;
  • a huge pack of paper towels;
  • a wobbly black desk with three white trash bags taped across the top like plastic sheeting, covered in crumbs and featuring one small chemical symbol drawn in pen;
  • and a plastic double-edged skull axe Halloween decoration.

Naturally I contacted him to return some of the valuable stuff. He didn’t want any of it.

(But this was nothing compared to one roommate experience I had. I arrived in Valencia, Spain for the year without arranging anywhere to live beforehand. Through a Craigslist-type message board, I found an apartment for rent and was able to see it that afternoon. I liked the apartment and was eager to stop paying for a hostel, so I was able to work out a deal that I could move in ASAP with the understanding that the remaining two rooms were to be filled as quickly they could, either with people I’d found myself or people that answered an ad the realtor posted online.

A day or two later we got a call from the realtor saying that she had found someone for us. We could come and meet him as soon as we wanted, because at that moment he was in the realtor’s office around the corner, waiting to move into the apartment. We walked over to meet him. We were introduced to his aunt and then to him. My roommate and I exchanged a subtle look because the roommate that the realtor was trying really hard to pretend was a great choice for us was sitting in the corner of the room, breathing heavily, sweating heavily, and looking at us in a way that can only be described as “distraught leering.” He was a big, solid guy and his hair was soaked through. His aunt had actually found the apartment for him and co-signed his lease, as she was looking after him while he was in town.

He seemed nervous and exhausted and his aunt explained that had been on a bus all day, traveling from the northwestern corner of Spain all the way across the country to Valencia. We talked with him and tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, as maybe his deranged appearance would lessen in severity after a shower and a good night’s sleep. He told us that he liked to cook, and we decided that a good way to get to know each other was to make a meal the next evening, after he finished moving in. My roommate and I shrugged as we walked back, trying to empathize with his journey and the stress of meeting new people.

Long story short, the meal was surprisingly good and the awkwardness was more or less only that which occurs when you have to spend time with someone new. A few days go by and it’s fine, though I do start to wonder what I’m going to do when my girlfriend comes to stay for four months, because I definitely wouldn’t feel safe leaving her alone with the new guy when I was at work. He hadn’t yet stopped breathing heavily and interjecting strange exhortations into our conversations and so I wasn’t sure if he was as socially adept as one might hope, a notion that I was trying to pretend was my only worry about him.

One night I went out with a bunch of people and end up staying on someone’s couch across town. My original roommate was going to have some people over, and I was told that there would probably be people crashing on our couch. Cool, the bohemian lifestyle; fine by me. But I got a phone call at about ten thirty the next morning from my roommate. He isn’t home, he says, because he almost got in a fight with the new guy. Why? Because earlier that morning, a girl that was staying on our couch woke up to find the new guy giggling and taking photos with his cellphone as she slept.

She got up and shut herself in the bathroom. She called my roommate, who came out into the living room and asked what was going on. The new guy immediately got super-defensive and says that it’s his house and he can do whatever he wants. The conversation got heated and so my roommate and all his friends leave the apartment. A little while later the new guy’s aunt calls my roommate and asks him why he threatened to punch her nephew. My roommate is gobsmacked and really wanted to ask her how she could possibly think that it was he who should be worried about in this situation.

Shit. I went home and tried to talk to the guy. He was wildly pacing around the apartment and continued to chain smoke. He snapped at me when I suggested he stop smoking because it’s against the lease to smoke inside. Finally we talked for a little while and he seemed to acknowledge that he did something really sketchy, but it’s one of those situations where the shame of it makes him not contrite but want to lash out in the embarrassment he can’t handle. (My roommate said the aunt told him that he made the new guy cry when he threatened him to punch him.) He calmed down a little but then flared up again when my roommate name came up. He pushed his way out of the apartment after calling me a ‘fucking American scum’(!).

My roommate and I met at a bar to discuss the situation. ‘We can’t go back there when he’s there. I won’t go back there when he’s there,’ he said. I agreed. I had a backpack with all of my valuables in it and we both had floors to sleep on that night. We would tell him he had to leave tomorrow. But do we confront him alone? What if he won’t leave? What if he gets violent?

But not too long after we got to the bar, I get a call from the guy’s aunt asking me to meet her. I go to the apartment to talk with her, hoping that this will somehow be resolved but not looking forward to how. We agree we’ll let each other tell our respective sides of the story, and I’m trying all the while to come up with the most tactful way to explain that her nephew is and was being super creepy to people. She was actually a genuinely understanding person, and fortunately for us it turned out that the guy was already on an overnight bus back to where he came from, and she just wanted to clear everything up and suss out what might have really happened.

We went home that night and looked into his room. We stood in the doorway for a second feeling a bit of trepidation about actually walking in, like the guy was in there waiting for us, or that his essence was adrift waiting to be breathed in. We walked in and looked around the room, trying process the weird couple of days we’d just experienced. We started opening drawers to see if he’d left anything behind. Right after nervously laughing about the discomfort we felt having him in the house, we discovered that he had stashed a long kitchen knife in the drawer of the table right next to his bed.

Despite this debacle, the landlord still thought she had the ability to select sane roommates and her search continued. (She also insinuated as long as we lived there that we were somehow at fault for running the guy out.) Unfortunately anyone we might know who needed a house had found one at this point, and so the next two people that lived in the house were people found somehow by the realtor.

Roommate A and I had a few days to ourselves before we were introduced to the next guy one afternoon. We came home from work and he was unpacking in the spare room. He seemed decent enough. He was happy-go-lucky, a moderate soccer fan, and was studying economics. He was from Portugal.

In time, we learned he liked to sing loudly and would belt out tone deaf renditions of 90s US pop songs, but only the choruses or a line or two from a verse repeated over and over. This happened a lot but wasn’t that big of a deal, and it was actually kind of endearing. The weirdest thing that happened with him was a result of my girlfriend and I agreeing to go out with him and his friend. We went to the bar down the street. We hung out and talked on the sidewalk about nothing in particular. The bar always had this incredible deal on tiny bottles of beer, and so every table around us was piled with literally dozens of bottles. Anyway, his friend was nice enough but we were distracted by the act of talking to him, since his face was engineered in such a way that his mouth was always open really, really wide and would blast out pressurized puffs of air into your face every time he used certain syllables. An hour or so later we ended up in a bar that was blasting the ‘Friends’ theme song when we walked in, a song much enjoyed by the patrons, almost all of who were all jumping up and down and clapping with the claps in the song. The new roommate had been really flirty with my girlfriend all night to the point where I was wondering if I should say something to him about it. (And I’m not a needlessly upset guy). But suddenly his attention shifted to me, and he started dancing high up on my thigh, with his eyes closed and head shaking in time with the music. Then he licked my neck and kissed me a couple of times before acting like nothing had happened. Thus the flirtation balance was restored and we continued on into the night.

Roommate A moved out a little while later (supposedly because he wanted to be closer to the center of town) and was replaced with a fresh-faced eighteen year-old kid from Morocco who had never lived outside his parents’ house. I learned that he could usually be found in his room laughing at top volume with his friends on Skype or watching soccer games. Sometimes he would leave to go to the Halal market around the corner, but that was about the only place he went aside from going school, which was down the street from our apartment, on the same block.

His most perplexing behavior was his bathroom behavior. He would shut himself in there for at least a half an hour a time, and when he finally left literally every surface of the bathroom was as soaking wet as if he’d sprayed the entire room with the shower. The toilet seat had drops of water all over it, the towels were damp, the walls were dripping. This never changed and I never learned what he did; I would only hope that I got to the bathroom before he did.

One day I walked in the kitchen as he was microwaving the collapsed remains of a rotisserie chicken, but not on a plate. It was just sitting on the rotating microwave tray. A little while later his dad came to visit for a week. His dad was always neatly dressed in a suit and tie. We didn’t speak any mutual languages so he just smiled at me or shook my hand profusely every time we passed. One evening I met them in the kitchen. They were preparing dinner by microwaving a box full of popcorn shrimp, again without a plate, just sitting on the rotating tray. The shrimp had a breading that in the oven would have been crispy and nice but in the microwave completely melted and turned into a gross glop that covered even a wider section of the microwave plate. I finally asked him why he did this. Not out of anger or disgust, just genuine curiosity about what was going on. He said that he didn’t use a plate because he didn’t know you could microwave them. But what about the soup you regularly microwave in a bowl? I asked. It’s the exact same principle. I saw him consider this and agree.
The last problem I experienced in this apartment happened in August, when I was moving out as almost the entire city of Valencia goes on vacation. I left a pair of shoes and sandals and a sweatshirt and some magazines there to get later but when I came back to get them, I found that the other two guys had already gone home, the realtor’s office was closed until September, and the guy who actually owned the place was far away on vacation as well. Thus the apartment consumed a handful of my belongings.)

Events coordinator with the American Arthritis Group

(Note: this is the first installment of what will hopefully be a fairly regular feature. Modelled after those in the oft-mentioned books by Studs Terkel, I want to provide an unbiased and wholly human accounts of various professions, as told by the people that work them. The following is that of an event coordinator for the American Arthritis Group, as told to me while she was setting up for an event that started the next day. She is in her mid-twenties and has been working at her current job for less than a year.)

         When I was looking for a job when I got out of college, I knew I really wanted to work for a nonprofit because I wanted to make sure I was doing my best to do something good.
         My position is primarily event coordination, and we fundraise a lot through events. This event [where the interview took place] brings in a couple hundred thousand dollars gross. We do a lot of events like this, where, you know, you spend money to make money and we also work with donors for charitable gifts and things like that.
         I went to school and got a degree in public relations, and it was always in the back of my mind that I’d kind of like to do events at some point, and so I’ve been working the past several years towards a true event coordinator type of position. Some of the events I’ve done in the past have been minor events with other tasks, but as it is at this job, my position is primarily event coordination and I’m really happy that I found it when I did.
         I’ve worked for a few nonprofits and this one is my favorite so far. It’s got a lot to do with my coworkers. I think that when you’re working with someone who doesn’t feel passionate about what they’re working on, the job is a lot more difficult. A lot of people, as with any job, only have the job because they need a paycheck. People who are apathetic or who come to work unhappy or who choose to be unhappy every day are just really tough people to be around. I think that’s true no matter where you are, but in the nonprofit sector it’s a little bit easier to identify when someone is just coming to work because it’s something they have to do.
         But even on days where I was working with coworkers who had this outlook, I could look at the mission and at least say that I was serving a higher purpose. It’s a workday no matter what, but working for a nonprofit does make it a little more palatable and it makes it easier to focus when you’re having a stressful day.
         I think that the mission we are serving is underserved. Arthritis is the number one disability in theUnited States. It causes the most insurance issues with workers comp and it affects nearly everyone by the time you die. And kids get arthritis too. Arthritis isn’t taken seriously because most people think it’s an old person’s disease, like “that won’t happen to me until I’m old.” But the fact of the matter is that it happens to people at all stages of life. There are different kinds of arthritis, and depending on the kind that you have, it can be really debilitating. People that can’t get out of bed, who are really, truly disabled…it’s just as painful and tragic as cancer or heart disease. People just don’t think arthritis is a big deal, that it’s not something they have to worry about. And that’s just not true.
         I think that it’s really important to spread American Arthritis Group’s message, and I get excited to share the message because I think other illnesses get tons of press but arthritis doesn’t. And I like being part of something where the message I’m spreading is a message that needs to be spread. I feel like there is a need and that makes it better.
         There is plenty of paperwork and plenty of desk time, but the thing that makes it worth it is that it all culminates in big events, which are exciting and a lot of fun. The best part for me is the excitement and when you get done with an event and you’re like, “Oh my gosh – that went great!” or, “That didn’t go so well; what do we need to do next time?” Or when it’s finished and you feel that sense of accomplishment and you look around and think “I did this!” and you look around and it’s a success and people feel good about it. Paperwork kind of sucks, and the worst part about the job I’m in now is changes in leadership. When leadership changes over, in any place, it’s kind of a challenge to figure out what comes next. But pretty much I really like going to work.
         There isn’t another nonprofit I’d specifically like to work for. Working for nonprofit after nonprofit, you kind of take on that mission and it becomes your main focus. And a lot of times they’re like ‘non-compete’ type things, so they don’t want you to donate your money to a fund that isn’t the one you’re working for. For example, we have an event, a 5k walk. I have a friend who works at a hospital in town, and she wasn’t allowed to walk in our walk because [the hospital where she works] sponsored some other nonprofit’s walk. It was kind of weird to me, because it’s like, why does it matter if we’re all trying to do something good?
         Due to the economic downturn it’s been harder over the last couple of years to get bigger donations, but in my experience, it hasn’t been harder to find positions at nonprofits. It’s a matter of looking the right places. And being confident and having a good resume; I haven’t had any trouble finding positions when I wanted them. I have friends who have had trouble, however I don’t think they have the same search methods that I have and maybe they’re not thinking outside the box. Personally I haven’t had any issues with [employment], but I’m sure every sector is affected in some way.
          I think with this job in particular I’ll stay for a while. I would never turn away from a really good opportunity, but at the same time, I really enjoy what I’m doing right now and I’m not looking for any changes. I think I’ll likely be in this position for something more like a career. I’ve only been here for a little more than a few months and I feel like there is a lot of opportunity for me at this point to move up, to see what’s going on within the organization. So yeah, this is my career for now.