How a Verizon Cell Tower Began a Furious Debate in Wayland
Last November, for instance, an angry neighbor named John Grabill wrote a letter to the
Wayland Town Crier referring to gun-club members as a “mean-spirited, uncompromising, out-of-touch group of people who feel they have a right to ignore hundreds of family members surrounding their firing range just so they can blast away at will.” Another resident tells me that the club is a “good old boy network” and “not a good neighbor,” nor a “good citizen of Wayland.” Later, Grabill tells me the sound from rifles is so jarring that babies can’t nap and children are “scared to death.” He adds, “When we ask the gun club to build some berms or baffles to deflect the noise, they smirk and say no. Their attitude is, ‘We can do whatever we want’—whether it’s about the noise or the cell tower. They’re not willing to compromise on anything.”
Gun-club members are fed up, too. Club president Stephen Garanin says that for years they’ve tried to be good neighbors by inviting residents to visit the property, hosting community programs, and supporting charitable causes. He says members are tired of being taken to task by a vocal, “micro-minority” group for enjoying a sport that’s harmless and legal. Not to mention, he says, the neighbors “knew what they were getting” when they purchased homes there. “We have no hidden agenda. They shouldn’t be surprised.”
This month, the town zoning board is expected to decide whether Verizon’s tower deal with the club will stand. In light of recent competition from a new, much fancier gun club in Weston, an unexpected tax assessment, and legal bills from all the wrangling with neighbors, the cell-phone tower could be the lucrative lifeline the club’s been looking for—but not if the neighbors have anything to say about it.
The Wayland Rod & Gun Club was founded in 1928, decades before most of the 60 or so surrounding homes were built, as Garanin is quick to point out. Created by a handful of men who wanted a place to hunt and fish, the 15-acre club comprises a 45-foot indoor range in the basement of a stately brick Colonial and a 100-yard outdoor range built into the hillside, where members can shoot pistols, rifles, and shotguns. At first, the club had very few neighbors and even fewer problems. For 50 or so years, it remained mostly off the radar, and there’s nothing in town records that indicates objections to club activities, which included target shooting and, for the first several decades, trap shooting of clay pigeons.
Over the years, the Oak Hill neighborhood grew as young families realized it was an affordable entry point into this affluent town. Sure, there was a gun club down the street—but that was a compromise home-buyers were willing to make to live in Wayland, with its proximity to Boston and highly rated public schools.
Once the area became more densely settled, however, the complaints started. Some neighbors took issue with the way the sound of trap shooting reverberated across the wetlands. “You’d hear it once, and then the sound would come echoing back,” one longtime resident, who asked to remain anonymous, told me. “It was impossible to sit outside and have a conversation.”
In 1990, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service investigators received a tip about the club’s trap shooting and soon grew concerned about the effects of the lead fallout on groundwater and wildlife, particularly the ducks in the adjacent Great Meadows National Wildlife Refuge. At long last, the neighbors—who were likely the whistleblowers—got some respite when the agency issued a verbal cease-and-desist order to the club intended to last until the extent and impact of any lead contamination could be determined.
The club retained lawyers and hired consultants to devise a proposal for environmental services. However, as far as I can determine from both building- and health-department records, it was not required to do any major cleanup of the land and was ultimately allowed to reopen—but without trap shooting of clay pigeons.
Still, that didn’t stop complaints from neighbors, who insisted that the club had started using higher-caliber and louder weapons than it did when they bought their homes. It’s a charge the club denies, saying that, if anything, the caliber of weapons has dropped over the years. But the neighbors weren’t having it. In 2013, two dozen of them filed a petition with the Wayland Board of Health to stop “excessive noise,” which they said was exceeding the ambient noise level by greater than 10 decibels, in violation of state Department of Environmental Protection regulations on noise pollution. In a
Wayland Town Crier article, John McConnell, a spokesperson for the petitioners, said that ambient noise levels in the neighborhood measured 40 to 50 decibels, “but I have recordings of up to 120 decibels when firing was taking place at the club.” (Noise above 120 decibels can cause immediate harm to hearing, according to the Centers for Disease Control.)
In response, the Board of Health informed the petitioners that gun clubs are exempt from the DEP’s noise regulations, and then promptly passed the complaint to the Wayland Police Department to handle. McConnell met with club board members to find ways to mitigate the noise, including soundproofing equipment, but again, nothing came of it. (McConnell eventually washed his hands of the problem, retiring to Florida with his wife.)
Then, in October 2015, the town received an anonymous tip: The club’s caretaker, Paul Ramsey, and his wife had been living in private quarters on the second floor of the gun club for decades, even sending their children to Wayland Public Schools, yet the club hadn’t been paying property taxes on the residence. Instead, the club’s three parcels of land had been exempt as “real estate owned and occupied by a charitable organization.” A review by the town lawyer, however, determined that the club was not exempt and should be assessed. The club soon filed to reclassify most of its 15 acres as recreational land, reducing its taxes by 75 percent. Still, the $7,194.31 bill was a significant hit for a modest, no-frills club not accustomed to paying
any property taxes. But luck was in its favor. A few months later, Verizon came calling.