Hunting Houses

The government requires a license to deer hunt. It requires a license to hunt geese and ducks. The government requires a license for hunting bear, moose, and elk. It requires a license to hunt just about anything. It’s my opinion that house hunting should require a license as well. And just like you have to take hunter safety classes to learn how to safely hunt animals, you’d have to take hunter safety classes to learn how to safely hunt houses.

You see, recently, Sweetie and I were house hunting. She found this one particular yellow house on the internet that seemed like it might be perfect for us. It was a lease-to-own, 2,100 square foot, four-bedroom-home. From the photos posted on the website the house looked magnificent and we were very anxious to see it.

Our plan was to first drive by the home. If we liked what we saw from the street and if the neighborhood checked out, we’d stop and peek through the windows to see what we could. If still interested after that, we’d call to make an appointment to actually go inside the home for a closer look. But plans don’t always come together, do they?

According to a local map the street the house was on (Groveland Farms Road) was only about six miles down the highway from our home. We had a little time before we had to be somewhere else so we hopped in the car and took off. We drove up and down the highway but the street was no where to be found. Oh well, we’d try later, after I looked up the exact location of the street on the internet, where I could get an actual satellite photo of the area. This would give me landmarks as well as exact mileage from our house to the one we were hunting.

A few days later, off we were again hunting for the house. But even with land marks (lakes, orchards, a restaurant, etc.) and exact mileage, we couldn’t find the road. You could plainly see the road on the satellite photo, but in person its entrance was invisible to the naked eye. Where the street should’ve been it wasn’t, just a dirt driveway to a home. So, back home we went for more satellite viewing.

“How about we try entering the subdivision from the opposite direction?” I asked sweetie.

“Sounds good to me,” she said.

I cranked up the computer and started searching a way into the subdivision from the east side. I found it and the first chance we got, off we went again to look for the elusive Groveland Farms Road.

Searching for land marks and street signs, we found that east entrance without much difficulty. We made a right turn onto Groveland Farms Road and started searching for the house. For the next few minutes the conversation in the car consisted of, “No,” “Uh,uh,” “Not,” or, “Nope.” It sounded more like a bunch of foreigners learning English at a Just Say No group therapy session than a family looking for a house.

Soon, the street went from asphalt to a hard, sandy, rough, washboard of a road. Sensing sweetie’s nervousness about this I assured her there was nothing to worry about. The road was maintained by the county and was safe to drive on.

But another mile or so of driving and I noticed the scenery was getting more rural and a bit swampy (think gators, folks). And that bumpy, sandy road was narrowing . . . and narrowing . . . and narrowing. Just after it narrowed to less then one lane, the hard-packed sand became soft and the road became rutty. It was then that I noticed the sign, “End Of County Maintenance.” That should’ve also been a sign for me to back up to where I could turn around and get the heck out of there. But I’m a guy. Guys rarely read signs let alone contemplate their meaning.

Finally, the ruts got so deep that if I tried to stay in them I’d high-center the car. So I did what any guy would do; I ignored that little voice in my head, the one that tells you not to do something because you’ll regret it later. The machismo in me, as it often does, drowned out that little voice. The machismo said, “You can make it. Don’t wimp out. Show your wife what a stud you are.”

I gunned the car and drove over the ruts, driver side wheels on the very edge of the road, passenger side wheels on the high center of the road. It was a good plan except for one problem; I was driving on soft sand! The weight of the car pushed the sand under the tires right down into the deep ruts and the undercarriage of the car was buried in the sand up to the engine block. We were stuck, stuck in the late hot afternoon Florida June sun in a rural area with prime swampy gator and snake habitat very near both sides of the road.

To make an already long story short, I called eldest son, gave him directions to where we were, and he and daughter-in-law--along with little Jayden, the cutest little grandbaby in the world—pulled us out of our predicament with their S.UV.

Later, after chatting with the owner of the house, we learned that there are TWO Groveland Farms Roads in Groveland. Two roads in the same town with the same name, are you kidding me? And of course, we were on the wrong Grovland Farms Road! As it turned out, once we finally found the house we didn’t like the house anyway.

Yes, there definitely should be a law requiring a license for house hunting. But then again, if the authorities learned of my latest fiasco in hunting houses, my application for a license would probably be denied.