Have you ever thought about becoming an innkeeper? I have. I rejected the impulse for three reasons. An innkeeper must be friendly, which I’m not. An innkeeper must like having strangers about the house, which I don’t. And most important of all, the life of the innkeeper is more often than not a 24-7 proposition, which, well, I’m sure you’ve already figured out the answer to that one.

  Still, I’ve never stopped wondering what it would be like being an innkeeper. So, I thought I’d find out first hand and spend the day with someone who’s been innkeeping for a long time. I picked my friend Harriett Sosson, who has owned Poor Richards Inn on Jackson Street since 1976. She gave up innkeeping for about ten years following her divorce but came back to it in 2001 when she bought her ex-husband’s share of the inn.
I chose her because she’s friendly. She likes having strangers about the house and, as she also lives at the inn, she’s got that 24-7 thing down to a science. Many of the new breed of Cape May innkeepers delegate a lot of the work but Harriett still does innkeeping the old fashioned way. It is Harriett who answers the telephone and books her own reservations. It is Harriett, most likely, who will greet you at the door and it is usually Harriett who will serve you breakfast. Of course, the other reason I picked her is because she’s one of the few people who could put up with a reporter following her around all day.

  Because there are no guests at the inn, I don’t have to get to Poor Richard’s until 1 p.m. My timing couldn’t have been better. When I walk in, Harriett is on the phone with the rabbi from Beth Judah Temple in Wildwood. She is explaining to the rabbi, who happens to be from Italy, why she won’t be at Yom Kippur services tonight. (You’ll love this.) Harriett has booked six rooms for a Catholic retreat and has promised to make them dinner tonight. Father Paul and another priest; Sisters Loretta and Joan; Pam, the school principal and Barbara, the school secretary from St. Ambrose Catholic Church in Baltimore, Md. are expected within the hour.

  She does not tell the rabbi that the group has requested pork for dinner. I think that was wise, don’t you?

  Kaitlin, Harriett’s assistant, is standing over the heater. It has been raining all night and into the next afternoon with no sign of letting up. A chill has come over the old circa 1882 house, so Kaitlin turns on the heat for the first time this season. Cold air is blowing up from the vents.

  Harriett hangs up the phone and is standing in the galley kitchen looking at Kaitlin. “We have to solve this problem with the heater. Every time I go from air (conditioning) to heat I always have to call the guy to come out and take a look at it. Father Paul will be here in an hour or so. Kaitlin? We also have to go room to room and make sure they have towels. Make sure the beds are made up. They should be. Melina took care of that yesterday. And make sure they have blankets. But we have to solve the heating problem first.”

  So, what do you think she does before anything else? She feeds me. A nice hot bowl of homemade vegetable soup and a slice of crusty bread. When I return my bowl to the sink, she is taking the roasting platter out of the oven. She places four pork tenderloins on the platter, then backs away from the counter and stares at them.

  “The rabbi made me feel guilty. He said we have to make choices in life.” She stares out the kitchen door at the heavy rain which is coming down. It is October. Mid-week. And it is expected to rain for the next seven days. “How could I turn them down? Six rooms? Occupied mid-week? If I have to keep dipping into my savings (to get through the off-season) what’s the point (in continuing to operate as a B&B)?” She turns her attention back to the pork tenderloins. “I haven’t made meat in so long. How should I cook this?”

  After we discuss various cooking techniques and come up with a plan of action, it dawns on me.

  “Why are making dinner? It’s breakfast that’s supposed to be included not dinner, right?”

  “Father Paul asked me to. I often invite my guests to dinner if we’re having a few people over. He knows I like to cook for people and it’ll save them a little money instead of having to go out.”

  Once the pork tenderloins are prepped, Harriett turns her attention back to the heater issue. In the meantime, however, Kaitlin has solved the problem. We’re not quite sure how, but warm air is now blasting up from the old floor vent in the kitchen. The rooms upstairs are heated from a different system and they seem to be fine. With only a half-hour left before the guests arrive, it’s time to check the rooms.

  As she turns the key to go into room #1, Harriett looks up at the light fixture in the hallway. “I bought a couple of great chandeliers but the electrical wiring needs to be updated. The estimate is $4,000 and that’s if I can get the guy to do it.”

  Room #1 is o.k. as well as #2, also on the ground floor, so it’s up the stairs we go to the second floor and then up again to the third floor. Room #7 is at the far back of the house. A small game room is adjacent to it with a nice large hinged-window, leading to the fire escape.

  Harriett looks out the window/fire escape. The City of Cape May’s fire department recently turned the fire inspections over to the state. Harriett, as well as other Cape May innkeepers, fear that the state’s ridged fire code policies will adversely affect the Bed & Breakfast industry to the point of ruin. Their main concern is that the state will force them to put in sprinkler systems. The houses are mostly circa 1860s and didn’t even have plumbing when originally built – or at least not sprinkler-friendly plumbing. The B&B people fear the cost of putting such a system in would, not only be cost prohibitive, but may not even be feasible without ruining the integrity of the house.

  ”I got an estimate of $40,000 just to put a sprinkler system in the hallway. Who can afford that? And look at this place. There’s plenty of ways to escape. It’s just another nail in the coffin. First there was the (non-transferable) beach tag issue. Then the (new) room tax. Now sprinkler systems. The city is killing the B&B industry. I love being an innkeeper but how much more can you take on?”

  As she talks, Harriett never stops moving. She comes out the bathroom and looks at me. “You have to spot check everything and make sure nothing’s falling off or falling down. You think I’m kidding? This is an old house.”

  I hear the door. “They’re here.” Kaitlin runs down stairs. I walk out onto the second floor porch and look down to see who’s here. A car is parked across the street at the 15-minute unloading zone. Harriett has no parking so each year she buys parking spots from the city. Guests unload and then move their car to the lot which is about 4 or 5 blocks away. I come back in and run down the steps to help greet the guests.

  It seems that Sister Joan and Sister Loretta drove separately. Sister Joan is thrilled that she got here ahead of Father Paul and the rest of the gang. She is anxious to know what to do about her car. Harriett immediately goes out and helps her and Sister Loretta with their luggage. Sister Loretta has a cane and will no doubt take Room #1 on the first floor.

  By the time we move Sister Loretta’a luggage into her room, the rest of the guests arrive with the exception of the other priest, who will not be coming. Father Paul is a frequent guest of Poor Richard’s Inn but the other staff members are all new and couldn’t be more enthusiastic. Since they have the whole house to themselves, Harriett encourages them to look at all the rooms and decide which ones they like best. For the next 20 minutes or so, “ooooos”, and “ahhhhs”, and “oh look how pretty” could be heard up and down the stairs on all three floors. Like school girls, they peek into each room trying to decide which room they like the best. Sisters Loretta and Joan are particularly gleeful about having a big bed. Even Sister Loretta manages to navigate the steps and take a look at the upstairs rooms.

  As I listen to them, I think this is has to one of those times when you’re so glad to be an innkeeper and how wonderful it must be to open your inn/home to people who are so appreciative. As though reading my mind, Father Paul looked at and me and said “This is a lovely house and Harriett has done a wonderful job keeping the integrity of it” alive and well.

  “Now is this your art work in the rooms?” one of the ladies asks Harriett.

“Yes mostly mine but I also have a lot of the children’s artwork about the house.”

  Harriett is also an artist. One thing you must know about Cape May – we all do two things. Nobody does just one thing. We have our in-season life and our off-season life. At least it starts out that way but pretty soon both seasons collide. In addition to innkeeping, Harriett teaches art and dance to children in the community – be they residents or summer visitors.

  Meanwhile, I volunteer to carry Sister Joan’s luggage upstairs – that would be upstairs as in third floor. You just don’t realize how many steps there are until you climb them with a suitcase. Sister Joan said she’ll gladly carry it, but please…we can’t have our guests schlepping luggage. “No. No I insist.” (Dang. Listen to me? Miss Hospitality)

  When I get back downstairs Harriett says that the reason Father Paul, Pam and Barbara were late is because they stopped for lunch which means Sisters Joan and Loretta haven’t eaten. Harriett is heating up the soup. Does she have to do that? That would be no. “Why would I not feed them?” she says. “I’m sure they’re hungry and I already have the soup made.”

  So, I set the table, making sure the tea water on the sideboard is still plentiful and hot. Sister Joan and Father Paul have gone to park the car. Sister Joan was a little anxious about the car thing. “I’ve never gotten a ticket my entire life. I don’t want one now,” she said.

  The soup is ready. While the others settle into their rooms, Sister Joan (who has returned from parking her car) and Sister Loretta enjoy a wonderful bowl of vegetable soup which Harriett’s assistant Melina has made earlier.

  It is getting on to 4 p.m. and the house is quiet. Harriett told the guests that dinner will be served at 6:30. We have about an hour to fuss around. Unload the dishwasher. Load the dishwasher. Harriett advises putting all the spoons in one slot, all the forks in another.

”It’s so much easier when you go to put everything away,” she says.

I set the table for dinner while Harriett cuts the meat, dresses the salad, cuts the bread, checks on the collard greens and makes sure the sweet potatoes are done. The guests are seated and ready for dinner at 6:30 exactly.
This is the moment – drum roll please – dinner is served.

  It is so unpleasant outside and so cozy and nice in here. The smell of the roast fills the room and the heater seems to be working just fine. The St. Ambrose guests seem happy indeed and Harriett and I skip back to her quarters at the back of the house for a few minutes to have some cheese and crackers. I try the pork –it is delicious. We still have to serve dessert – pumpkin pie and coffee – and Harriett has to get ready for her Tango exhibition. Did I mention that Harriett loves to dance. Specifically the Tango. She and a couple other students are meeting their dance instructor, Tom Cupp, at (You’ll love this.) The Ballpark Café on Beach Avenue, to exhibit their Ballroom Dancing skills and to teach a group of senior citizens a few dance steps. It is a bit passed 7 o’clock. Harriett’s fellow dancing student Diane is due here by 7:30. The exhibition is at 8 p.m.

  “Come on. I’ll show you my closet.”

“Isn’t this the bathroom?”

She dramatically pushes back the shower curtain to reveal – ta da – her closet. All her clothes are on a portable rack (with wheels, of course).

One thing I didn’t tell you –her son Max is working on the house and Harriett’s living quarters are subject to change without notice. Another quality needed to be an innkeeper? Flexibility.

  After dessert is served and we have cleared off the table, Harriett dashes back to her quarters to dress and do her make-up – which must be dramatic of course – it is the Tango. Diane arrives and it’s off we go leaving the St. Ambrose Church Retreat folks sitting about the table enjoying their coffee and tea. Before we leave, I pour the water into the coffee pot and Harriett sets the timer for tomorrow morning.

  “It’s really important to get everything for breakfast organized the night before,” she says. I have a honeydew melon to cut up. I have some Danish rolls. Bagels of course and this nice bread. The basket of cereals goes out. Oh and I have some frozen mini waffles.”

  But what about all these dishes from dinner?” I ask.

“I’ll do that tonight.”

She sees the look on my face and laughs. “No. I like cleaning up the kitchen at night. It gives me time to think and organize my thoughts.”

“What time does your day usually begin?”

“7. By 3 p.m., I’ve already been on my feet 8 hours and I still have another 3 or 4 hours to go.”

  Well, here’s what I know, I’m already tired and if it’s me running the inn – I would not be getting dressed to go Tangoing, I’d be putting me pjs on and hittin’ the sack. But it’s not me. It’s Harriett, so off we go to the Ballpark Café.

  Harriett’s not happy with her exhibition. She missed a step or two. I didn’t notice that she missed any steps and her dance instructor seems happy enough. Harriett wants to start dancing more sophisticated Tango steps.
O.K. Here’s the truth folks – I’m exhausted just standing next to her. “I gotta go. Harriett. I’ll see ya tomorrow morning. What time?”

And 7:45 A.M. it is.

  I oversleep. No. You don’t understand. I NEVER oversleep. I get to Poor Richard’s at 8 a.m. Harriett says that’s all right. The table is set. The coffee is on. The kitchen is in perfect order and by the way, they came back last night and gave the group a mini-Tango demo. Then, she fed the Tango instructor.

  I laugh and ask her what she needs me to do.

  “I have everything in stations,” she explains. There’s the coffee/tea station by the kitchen. There’s the fruit/juice station with a little cupboard that opens to produce napkins and juice glasses. There’s the cereal station. With cereal bowls and the basket of cereals. And finally, at the far corner of the room – the bread/bagel station complete with toaster, butter, jams, cream cheese and plates.

  Really, there’s not much for me to do. Harriett has everything under control and is heating up the mini-waffles which she’ll put on the table. The first thing she does, though, is to make me a cup of coffee. The first thing I do is to get myself something to eat.

  And while the guests filter down for breakfast – I’m thinkin’ this is difference between the dilettante innkeeper (like me) and the pro…the pro takes care of someone else’s needs first and their own last.
When I left Harriett at around 1 that afternoon, she was busy preparing a quiche for the group for next morning. Melina was getting ready to bake banana bread, also for the next morning.

  “I love being an innkeeper,” Harriett says. “I love my guests. I love doing this. I just hope I can afford to keep doing it.”