The all-important town meeting we didn’t attend

Call Ty Pennington. (Photo by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.)

Our town of abode, West Bloomfield, NY, has had to close its Town Hall.
Town Hall is an old church-building built in 1825.
Floor beams had dry rot, so there was fear the building might collapse.
And so a long-running issue comes to a boil; the issue of what to do about Town Hall, which was an issue even before it closed.
I remember going up there once to pay our water-bill or something, and they had all the doors and windows of the Town Clerk’s office open.
Fans were on; something about mold in the basement.
Proposed was building a new Town Hall; at issue because it could be an overpriced Taj Mahal that would raise taxes.
Last Fall the Town proposed buying land from an owner who had already donated land for a park.
The land was adjacent to the already donated parkland.
Townspeople managed to get the proposed land-purchase on the ballot as a proposal.
It got voted down. It was a sweetheart deal; land way overvalued.
The Town Supervisor, who will probably not be reelected, floated the idea of moving all town functions to the proposed land purchase, including the Volunteer Fire Department.
Causing weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.
He even suggested unifying the Ionia Volunteer Fire Department with the West Bloomfield Fire Department, opening a hornets’ nest.
Ionia is a small village within the Town of West Bloomfield.
A hissy-fit ensued. Strident letters got published in the town newsletter, saying, in effect, the Town Supervisor was off his rocker.
So now that the Town Hall is closed, the issue is brought to a head.
Town offices had to be moved to the Fire Department prompting $8,000 in hookup fees; phone, Internet, etc.
The adjacent town of East Bloomfield offered to let West Bloomfield’s Town Court hold sessions therein, but the Town Justice has to render decisions in the town he was elected in.
Set up Town Justice in Congregational Church across the street. He rates a courtroom with 18-foot measurements.
The mighty Mezz weighed in, suggesting in an editorial the towns of East and West Bloomfield merge; that by so doing they could save megabucks.
It’s a litany that newspaper has been on for some time: too many gumint entities, so merge some of those entities.
Various Grannies in West Bloomfield went ballistic. I get to hear all about it, since my wife works part-time at the West Bloomfield Post-Office, a local gathering place.
The Messenger trotted out an example: the rejoining of Holcomb with Bloomfield village in 1990.
Holcomb had seceded from Bloomfield village long ago, primarily because a railroad had run through it.
The railroad (“the Peanut”) was stubbed in Holcomb long ago, and abandoned completely in the late ‘70s.
So Holcomb rejoined Bloomfield village — they shared an adjacent border anyway.
That adjacent border was trotted out by the Messenger as an example of why East and West Bloomfield should be merged.
“Well that’s just silly!” the Grannies bellowed. “East and West Bloomfield are hardly Holcomb and Bloomfield village.” (No matter they share a common border.)
So now the Town was gonna hold a meeting about what to do about Town Hall.
The Grannies were all lining up to attend, so should we attend? After all, this could raise our taxes.
I recall that long ago I attended a political meeting in Rochester of Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, while a bus-driver at Regional Transit Service.
Great idea, I was told. Get involved in politics.
I showed up in full regalia, frumpy uniform with all my glittering silverware; watch, punch, chains; the whole stinkin’ kabosh.
Stand on sidelines. “If you wanna speak, ya gotta sign up. For that ya get three minutes of podium time.
Our speaking allotment is already filled, so you’re too late.”
Utter boredom. One-by-one the Grannies attacked the podium, bellowing about Social Security, veteran benefits, protecting the unborn, supporting the handicapped. Three minutes each, then DING!
I forget what the meeting was supposed to be about, but the Grannies weren’t treating it.
Meanwhile, poor Moynihan had to sit quietly with his hands folded, enduring the Grannies. Is it any wonder they do junkets?
Is this what political service means; enduring mountains of blathering?
Sure, attend this here Town Meeting; and probably walk out after enduring a mountain of blathering, much like I did at that Moynihan meeting long ago.
“All it is is a story,” I said.
“But I’m sure it will be a good one,” Linda said. “Lotsa bellowing and screaming by the assembled crotchety Grannies.”
“I don’t wanna abandon the dog in the house just to go hear ceaseless blathering,” I said. “Anyway, there’s a story in not attending the meeting.”
If we’d had any input at all, it was to suggest the town call Ty Pennington, nuke the old Town Hall with flaming Monster-Trucks, and then build a new Town Hall complete with fancy gizmos provided by that decorator-guy: Michael Moloney.
“Can’t do that,” our neighbor Billy said. “Can’t rebuild on the old Town Hall site, because they can’t meet the new septic code.” (Billy is the onliest son of our recently deceased 94 year old nosy neighbor. He lives in their old house across-the-road.)
“They also can’t use the lot for sale down 5&20,” some Granny told my wife at the Post-Office. “Won’t perc.”
So the town is considering a prefabbed building built by prison inmates for $325,000.
“What about the Post-Office?” my wife asks. “That Post-Office will get closed eventually, and it when it does, the building remains.”
“How ya gonna hold meetings in that tiny building?” Billy asks.
“So how ya gonna hold meetings in a prefab building?” I ask.
“Tell me which meeting you’re going to,” I told Billy; “so I can avoid that meeting.” (They were gonna hold two.)
Didn’t attend the meeting at all, and no audible fireworks, or earth-tremors under our feet. But the Fire Hall is far down the road.

“Ty Pennington” of ABC’s Extreme Home Makeover.

RE: “‘Old guy’ with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.......” —My macho, blowhard brother-from-Boston, who is 13 years younger than me, calls me “the old guy” as a put-down (I also am the oldest). I also am loudly excoriated by all my siblings for preferring a professional camera (like the Nikon D100) instead of a point-and-shoot. This is because I long ago sold photos to nationally published magazines. (I always carry that camera with me in case I come up on an accident I could photograph for the newspaper I once worked at.)

“East and West Bloomfield” are two adjacent rural towns in western NY. We live in West Bloomfield. The “village of Bloomfield” is within the town of East Bloomfield — “Holcomb” merged back into it.

RE: “Congregational Church across the street.......” —There is a Congregational Church across the street from the Town Hall. The Town Court was set up in a new addition.

The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over three years ago. Best job I ever had.

“Grannies” are any female over 50.

My wife of 41+ years is “Linda.” Like me she’s retired, but she works part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office.

“The Peanut” is the original independently-built Canandaigua & Niagara Falls Railroad, eventually merged into New York Central Railroad. It was called a “peanut” by a New York Central executive because it was so tiny compared to NYC’s mainline. It is now entirely abandoned, although a short stub out of Canandaigua to Holcomb remained in service until the ‘70s.

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY.

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s three-plus, and is our sixth Irish-Setter. She doesn’t like being left alone in the house.

“Our recently deceased 94 year old nosy neighbor” was Vern Habecker (“HAH-bek-rrrr”), who was always watching us. —I had a good time with Vern; always giving him the business.

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live.

RE: “Won’t perc.......” —Equals “won’t percolate;” that is, drain a septic-field.