Date: Fri 15-Aug-1997

Publication: Bee

Author: ANDREA

Quick Words:

Newtown-remembered-Penovi

Full Text:

Newtown Remembered: Al Penovi ... Supplying Rare Parts and Wisdom Through the

Decades

(with photos)

BY ANDREA ZIMMERMANN

To the uninitiated, Al Penovi's plumbing supply business on Route 34 in Sandy

Hook appears to be a roadside purgatory for out-of-date toilets, discontinued

parts, mailboxes, mole-traps, a Christmas tree stand and - well, everything

imaginable.

But those who have frequented the establishment during its six decades of

operation recognize it as a traditional oasis in a modern world. It is valued

not only for its hard-to-find parts, but also for the 81-year-old licensed

plumber who freely imparts advice - of both an instructional and philosophical

nature.

"You've got to understand, you can't learn plumbing out of a book - you've got

to do it," says Al, who worked for all kinds of people over the years

including bank presidents and well-known residents such as director Elia

Kazan. "And a license don't mean anything. That doesn't make you a plumber. No

way. You've got to do the work, come up against all obstacles and overcome

them. We had a truck full of parts, and when we didn't have what we needed, we

made parts from what we had."

Al says he finds great satisfaction when he takes "any old piece of junk,

renews it, and it works like a charm." Also, he enjoys the professional

involvement he has had with the community and the friends he made along the

way.

Al grew up in Port Chester, N.Y., but he came to Sandy Hook in the summer to

visit his grandparents, who had a cottage in the Riverside community. "I

remember coming up with my grandfather in a Model T Ford from Port Chester. It

was a huge trip - 49 miles!" he laughs. "I was 10 years old. The only thing we

liked to do was go swimming."

Eventually, his parents, Alfred and Gertrude Penovi, built a summer cottage

there, too. "We had three wells up on the hill and we had to pail the water.

We started out with a three-burner kerosene stove," he says.

The family shopped at Warner's General Store. "Hawley Warner's father had a

big pot-bellied stove and people would go hang around it on Sunday," he says.

"It was a meeting place. People would talk about the news of the town; you

didn't get it in the papers like you do today."

When he was growing up, there was an apple and peach orchard on Riverside

Road. "This was quite a peach country in its day," he says.

Al bought ice for the icebox at Olmstead's Pavilion on the water in Riverside.

"He used to let the kids dance on the deck; there was a juke box. He had a

candy store and sold ice cream," says Al.

Al and his friends would fish in Lake Zoar for white and yellow perch and

bass, and then stop by Lorenzo's for a hot dog. He soon starting racing Class

A hydroplanes all over the east.

In the winter, when the ice was more than two feet thick, Al and his friends

would take cars out on the lake - "just for the hell of it."

"We'd get on the ice, put on the brakes and the damn thing would go quite a

ways," he laughs.

When Al was 22, his parents decided to move to Sandy Hook and bought nine

acres on Berkshire Road from Mrs Blake, who lived across the street.

"My father owned a big plumbing business - one of the biggest in Westchester

County," says Al. "After the Depression, he and his brother couldn't make it

go, so we came out here and started a chicken business."

They bought chicks from locals such as Henry Burgundy on Botsford Road, who

hatched them in an incubator. The Penovis raised about 350 Rhode Island Reds

and sold their eggs. They bought feed from Rasmussen's feed and grain in

Botsford.

"[My father] missed the plumbing business so much - he was an expert. We got

rid of the chickens and opened the shop. This is an old New England hay and

cattle barn; it's a hundred years old," he says, pointing to the weathered

structure that holds the smaller parts, some of which came from the original,

Port Chester business. "When my father died I took over the business; that was

about 37 years ago."

During the years, Al made improvements to the lakefront cottage to "make it

livable." He and his wife, Dorothy, made it their home where they raised their

daughter, Wendy Craig. But the shop is where Al spends most of his waking

hours.

Kids who tag along to the shop with their parents tell Al his place is a mess

. He laughs as he relates the story. And in a matter-of-fact way he explains,

"That's the way the old-fashioned plumbing shops were years ago."

That's also what he says when asked about the pin-ups decorating the walls and

ceiling in one corner of the shop. All of them were torn from a welding supply

company calendar received by the business each year; most date back 30 or 40

years. "Everybody used to get a kick out of them," he says. "If I took one of

those down, I'd hear about it!"

One of the most popular cards sold in town is one depicting the front of Al's

shop and yard; it reads: Welcome to Newtown. "That postcard has outsold all

the rest. It's the strangest thing; they can't keep it in stock," smiles Al.

"People move away and are sent that as a Christmas card."

Although he has had a few disparaging comments from residents ("two out of

every hundred"), "most appreciate it and are happy about getting this stuff,"

says Al. "You can't buy [these parts] anymore; they aren't made. And there is

a lot of knowledge here that they can't get anywhere."

The business pre-dates the Planning and Zoning Commission. Even so, town

officials could "be mean" if they wanted to, says Al, but that wouldn't sit

right with his many friends and customers in town.

"It was very easy to be in business years ago. All you did was open a business

and pay state taxes," he says. "Nothing like it is today."

Al, who has always worked as a licensed plumber, tells homeowners what they

can do to fix a plumbing problem. He instructs them and "keeps them from

spending money foolishly" on parts they don't need.

Even today, Al tries to repair pieces for homeowners. "If it comes in, I take

care of it; I don't wave a flag," he says. "I don't make a lot of money on

this; I just do it to help people. There are a lot of people who have helped

us, given us business, kept us going. Now I try to help them. That's part of

life, helping the other guy. At one time I had the keys to half the houses in

Newtown - to turn the water on or off."

There is an order to the mess, a tally of joints, hubcaps, screens, and pumps

tucked inside the "human computer." And he notices when something disappears.

"This is something I know so I stick with it - or I'm stuck with it," says Al.

"You'd be surprised what goes out of this place. They come from all over to

buy toilets. Two guys came from Fairfield. You can't buy these anymore. As

fast as one toilet goes out, another comes in."

And when the industry made the shift to plastic, iron fittings became

obsolete. Al's shop has many new parts - fittings as well as smoke pipes,

smoke elbows and Ts, and "old-time" faucets.

"I got 100 cards hanging up; people who were in business and are all dead,"

says Al. "They're turning brown, but I never take them down. It reminds me of

them."

"Not Ready For The Rocker"

"I think retirement at any age is a curse," says Al, who continues to work

most days 9 to 5. "I've seen too many people who didn't last a year and a

half. Go back three days; go back two. Keep involved, keep going. It's the

only way to do it."

Al says he loves working at the shop. "Just like a magnet, it just gets a hold

of you and you just have to be here," he explains.

Longtime friends and acquaintances often come by the shop to visit. "Then the

work stops," says Al. "I come out and talk to them. We have a good time."

They talk about how things have changed in Newtown, how the long-time

residents are being "driven to drink" over the taxes, and what the soup of the

day might be at Penovi's (a kitschy restaurant sign sits on the table out

front).

Although some find it restful to sit between the tires and pipes, quietude

eludes them. To hold a conversation you must compete with the sounds of I-84

traffic and the clucking of chickens that enter Rambo-style from the

neighbor's property through the montage of stacked PVC pipes, tires, and array

of pastel toilet tank lids to surround you. (They will even peck at your feet

if they are hungry enough.)

When the state tried to prevent Mitchell Farm from selling vegetables on state

property, Al let the farmer open a stand near the road by his shop. "I was

tickled to death -I had fun with the guy. We'd talk things over," says Al. "I

never charged him for being here. Any farmer I can help, I'll always help

because these people work very hard for what they get."

A teenager pokes his head in the door of the sagging barn, pushes his glasses

up his nose and takes in his surroundings with wide eyes. Without crossing the

threshold, he asks, "How much do you want for the brown lounge chair?"

Al follows him outside to the seats where he and his friends gather. "Is it

worth five bucks?" he asks the boy.

"That's fine." The customer removes a bill from a wallet, which is chained to

his belt.

Aren't these chairs for his visitors?

"I'll sell anything," says Al. "I'd sell my shirt."

How much?

"A dollar!" he laughs.