I freely confess that I have an antagonistic viewpoint when it comes to local requirements for building permits to make improvements to existing structures on your own property. I regard it as another tax on property for which you are already taxed. I support the notion of taxes on private property to support necessary local and state government programs, but just tell me how much and then leave me alone. Don’t keep creating new additional taxes under the guise of a “permit fee” or license.
I come by that jaded view of building permits honestly. It was the summer of 1965, I think, and I was sitting on the back steps of my granddaddy Geiger’s house, in town in Leesburg, FL - Floridel Avenue off of highway 27 out near the old skating rink, to be exact. Granddaddy was stripped to his waist, sweating like a lady of the evening at a Baptist tent revival, laying blocks around the perimeter of an existing concrete slab to construct an outdoor barbecue and sitting area. Did I mention it was summer? I’m talking true Florida, scorching hot, suffocatingly humid, blazing sun in a cloudless blue sky, summer. Not the type of climate conditions that encourage patience and temperate behavior when one is engaged in manual labor. I knew better than to test granddaddy’s tolerance and I was content to sit on the steps and watch his progress from a distance.
From around the corner of the house came this skinny fella in shirt sleeves and a black tie. If Barney Fife had a Florida cousin, this was him. Some folks might have called him “wormy,” he was so thin and meek looking. He shuffled nervously out to where granddaddy was working. “Scuze me Mr. Geiger, I’m from the city building department. We heard you were building you a Florida room back here and I was sent out, sir, to see if you had your building permit.” I knew this was going to be good!
Granddaddy straightened up, pulled a stained handkerchief from his pants pocket, wiped his sweaty face and inspected the little guy much like you would an annoying bug with a magnifying glass. “Humph!” he said, “yeah, it’s in hanging on my gun rack – would you care to see it?” The fella from the building department took stock for a moment or two and declared “NO SIR! I just wanted to be sure you had one! You have a nice day now.” And with that he beat a hasty retreat never to be heard from again. We enjoyed that Florida room, notwithstanding the lack of a building permit, on many an occasion from that summer on until the property was sold after Granddaddy Geiger died at the age of 97 in 2005.