Read Online A Wedding on the Banks by Cathie Pelletier - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cathie Pelletier
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peeling paint of the back rooms, they had already checked in, they were usually exhausted from the bumpy ride, and besides, Albert had no competition. His was the only place a weary traveler could sleep from Mattagash to Watertown, short of sleeping on the old-settler ground itself.
Albert had built the motel so that its end was pressed firmly against the side of his two-story house. There was no entryway between the two buildings, but Albert wanted what was his to remain nearby, close. He wanted to keep a proprietorâs eye on his belongings. He had explained himself years ago to Ed Lawler, who once commented on the logic of the architecture.
âIf I hadnât nailed the motel to the house,â Albert Pinkham had told Ed, âthe Giffords would have carried it off by now.â But Ed Lawler had gone on, a year later, to commit suicide. So what did he know about motel architecture?
Hoping to keep up with progress, Albert added tubs and running water to his rooms in 1965.
âYou have to be careful,â Albert said to a group of men at Bettyâs Grocery when asked why he still hadnât furnished his rooms with hot water. âCity slickers are spoiled all year long. They appreciate a little inconvenience when they go on vacation. It makes them feel like theyâre really in the country. Makes them pretty damn sure they must be roughing it.â
But after a slew of complaints, Albert had taken it upon himself in 1967 to add hot running water to the rooms. Tourists complained about having to rent a hot plate to heat their own water and Albert conceded. And, of course, those who had paid for a large galvanized tub of bathwater had to come to Albertâs house to retrieve it from the stove. On occasion, Albertâs dog, Bruce, had bitten potential bathers as they knocked on the kitchen door. The most unfortunate bite occurred when Bruce sank his teeth into a white-water enthusiast from Baltimore, who then threatened to sue the Albert Pinkham Motel. But nothing came of it. The white-water enthusiast had gone back to Baltimore to bathe, a little less enthusiastic about H2O. Bruce had lost the tip of a good tooth and a little enthusiasm himself. Destined to miss out on many a juicy groundhog due to miscalculation of bite, he moped around the house for several days until the miniature poodle tied to a stake in Winnie Craftâs backyard was besieged with estrus. Albert had learned a lesson from the near lawsuit. He decided to pipe the luscious hot water into the rooms, sparing both Bruce and the customers an unnecessary embarrassment. But if hunters and fishermen wished to dangle a tea bag in a cup of very hot water before they began their day, they would fork over a buck fifty for a hot plate. Albert also rented radios, his ancient pair of binoculars, kitchen utensils, electric fans on those two or three fairly hot days in the summer, and tire pumps.
âYouâre a maniac!â one Rhode Islander had shouted at Albert when the latter charged him fifty cents for the quick use of a pop opener.
âYes, sir, I am,â Albert had answered with pride. âBorn and raised right here in Maine. In Godâs country.â
It may indeed have been Godâs country, but it gave many a tourist pause as to why God would want to fill his country with so many mosquitoes and blackflies and no-see-ums. Bugs aside, Albert made a killing. Complaints from customers fell on deaf ears and rattled like coins inside the drums. It was all money to him, this motel business, and he had it wrapped up. For years. A mogul. A hostelry tyrant. Until the spring of 1969 came around and Albert cleared up the wintry aftermath as best he could to set his motel in order. He expected the sightseeing tourists first. The real nature enthusiasts who never hunted or fished but walked, for Chrissakes, in the woods and took short, meaningless canoe trips.
âThe stuff city folks think up during the year,â Albert
Albert had built the motel so that its end was pressed firmly against the side of his two-story house. There was no entryway between the two buildings, but Albert wanted what was his to remain nearby, close. He wanted to keep a proprietorâs eye on his belongings. He had explained himself years ago to Ed Lawler, who once commented on the logic of the architecture.
âIf I hadnât nailed the motel to the house,â Albert Pinkham had told Ed, âthe Giffords would have carried it off by now.â But Ed Lawler had gone on, a year later, to commit suicide. So what did he know about motel architecture?
Hoping to keep up with progress, Albert added tubs and running water to his rooms in 1965.
âYou have to be careful,â Albert said to a group of men at Bettyâs Grocery when asked why he still hadnât furnished his rooms with hot water. âCity slickers are spoiled all year long. They appreciate a little inconvenience when they go on vacation. It makes them feel like theyâre really in the country. Makes them pretty damn sure they must be roughing it.â
But after a slew of complaints, Albert had taken it upon himself in 1967 to add hot running water to the rooms. Tourists complained about having to rent a hot plate to heat their own water and Albert conceded. And, of course, those who had paid for a large galvanized tub of bathwater had to come to Albertâs house to retrieve it from the stove. On occasion, Albertâs dog, Bruce, had bitten potential bathers as they knocked on the kitchen door. The most unfortunate bite occurred when Bruce sank his teeth into a white-water enthusiast from Baltimore, who then threatened to sue the Albert Pinkham Motel. But nothing came of it. The white-water enthusiast had gone back to Baltimore to bathe, a little less enthusiastic about H2O. Bruce had lost the tip of a good tooth and a little enthusiasm himself. Destined to miss out on many a juicy groundhog due to miscalculation of bite, he moped around the house for several days until the miniature poodle tied to a stake in Winnie Craftâs backyard was besieged with estrus. Albert had learned a lesson from the near lawsuit. He decided to pipe the luscious hot water into the rooms, sparing both Bruce and the customers an unnecessary embarrassment. But if hunters and fishermen wished to dangle a tea bag in a cup of very hot water before they began their day, they would fork over a buck fifty for a hot plate. Albert also rented radios, his ancient pair of binoculars, kitchen utensils, electric fans on those two or three fairly hot days in the summer, and tire pumps.
âYouâre a maniac!â one Rhode Islander had shouted at Albert when the latter charged him fifty cents for the quick use of a pop opener.
âYes, sir, I am,â Albert had answered with pride. âBorn and raised right here in Maine. In Godâs country.â
It may indeed have been Godâs country, but it gave many a tourist pause as to why God would want to fill his country with so many mosquitoes and blackflies and no-see-ums. Bugs aside, Albert made a killing. Complaints from customers fell on deaf ears and rattled like coins inside the drums. It was all money to him, this motel business, and he had it wrapped up. For years. A mogul. A hostelry tyrant. Until the spring of 1969 came around and Albert cleared up the wintry aftermath as best he could to set his motel in order. He expected the sightseeing tourists first. The real nature enthusiasts who never hunted or fished but walked, for Chrissakes, in the woods and took short, meaningless canoe trips.
âThe stuff city folks think up during the year,â Albert
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