General Non-Fiction posted September 16, 2021 |
Proposal quashed; developer takes petty revenge
The Unwitting Tattle-Tale
by Elizabeth Emerald
This morning, since I happened to be in the vicinity of his house, I paid an unexpected visit to my friend Scott, shop owner and town historian. He was pleased to see me, notwithstanding that I did not come bearing cupcakes.
Scott said he'd wanted to call me, but my number had slipped its thumbtack and been blown to parts unknown. He was glad I showed up; he had a story for me, best followed by a hands-on component to complement the tale.
Take it away, Scott.
Back-tracking to last fall--unbeknownst to me at the time--this big-shot contractor, Len Nolan, goes to the city planning board to get permission to develop three adjacent storefronts in the town square. They tell Nolan they'll grant his request, provided the abandoned properties are not official historical structures.
So, Rick Jackson, from the historical society, stops in and asks to see my archives. Rick comes by now and then to research property records. I have no clue as to the purpose of this visit; I just pull out what he asks for. He takes copies, and I don't think anything of it.
About a week later, this Nolan fellow, bald, burly, beefy arms, storms into my shop. The upshot is, he's pissed because he was denied a permit on the grounds that the properties are deemed historical. And he's blaming me, because Jackson credited me as the source.
Nolan skirts the regulations; he gets a special permit to build low-income, subsidized housing. In our town, promotion of social programs trumps preservation of history.
Jackson makes Nolan promise that, during the demolition, he'll set aside substantial sections of all original moldings and such for my collection.
So, yesterday afternoon, Nolan stalks into my yard and thrusts four dirty, white-painted, unadorned brackets at me, and says, snidely, "Here's your historical samples, Scott."
Historical, my foot; here, Liz, hoist these suckers.
Scott handed me the four brackets; they were unexpectedly light-weight.
Though, not surprisingly so; they were Styrofoam.
This morning, since I happened to be in the vicinity of his house, I paid an unexpected visit to my friend Scott, shop owner and town historian. He was pleased to see me, notwithstanding that I did not come bearing cupcakes.
Scott said he'd wanted to call me, but my number had slipped its thumbtack and been blown to parts unknown. He was glad I showed up; he had a story for me, best followed by a hands-on component to complement the tale.
Take it away, Scott.
Back-tracking to last fall--unbeknownst to me at the time--this big-shot contractor, Len Nolan, goes to the city planning board to get permission to develop three adjacent storefronts in the town square. They tell Nolan they'll grant his request, provided the abandoned properties are not official historical structures.
So, Rick Jackson, from the historical society, stops in and asks to see my archives. Rick comes by now and then to research property records. I have no clue as to the purpose of this visit; I just pull out what he asks for. He takes copies, and I don't think anything of it.
About a week later, this Nolan fellow, bald, burly, beefy arms, storms into my shop. The upshot is, he's pissed because he was denied a permit on the grounds that the properties are deemed historical. And he's blaming me, because Jackson credited me as the source.
Nolan skirts the regulations; he gets a special permit to build low-income, subsidized housing. In our town, promotion of social programs trumps preservation of history.
Jackson makes Nolan promise that, during the demolition, he'll set aside substantial sections of all original moldings and such for my collection.
So, yesterday afternoon, Nolan stalks into my yard and thrusts four dirty, white-painted, unadorned brackets at me, and says, snidely, "Here's your historical samples, Scott."
Historical, my foot; here, Liz, hoist these suckers.
Scott handed me the four brackets; they were unexpectedly light-weight.
Though, not surprisingly so; they were Styrofoam.
Scott said he'd wanted to call me, but my number had slipped its thumbtack and been blown to parts unknown. He was glad I showed up; he had a story for me, best followed by a hands-on component to complement the tale.
Take it away, Scott.
Back-tracking to last fall--unbeknownst to me at the time--this big-shot contractor, Len Nolan, goes to the city planning board to get permission to develop three adjacent storefronts in the town square. They tell Nolan they'll grant his request, provided the abandoned properties are not official historical structures.
So, Rick Jackson, from the historical society, stops in and asks to see my archives. Rick comes by now and then to research property records. I have no clue as to the purpose of this visit; I just pull out what he asks for. He takes copies, and I don't think anything of it.
About a week later, this Nolan fellow, bald, burly, beefy arms, storms into my shop. The upshot is, he's pissed because he was denied a permit on the grounds that the properties are deemed historical. And he's blaming me, because Jackson credited me as the source.
Nolan skirts the regulations; he gets a special permit to build low-income, subsidized housing. In our town, promotion of social programs trumps preservation of history.
Jackson makes Nolan promise that, during the demolition, he'll set aside substantial sections of all original moldings and such for my collection.
So, yesterday afternoon, Nolan stalks into my yard and thrusts four dirty, white-painted, unadorned brackets at me, and says, snidely, "Here's your historical samples, Scott."
Historical, my foot; here, Liz, hoist these suckers.
Scott handed me the four brackets; they were unexpectedly light-weight.
Though, not surprisingly so; they were Styrofoam.
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