We first arrived in Pickens County in late 2007 after an exhaustive search for a home in a rural area of the Appalachians. A realty agent suggested we look at a north Georgia home in Pickens County near East Price Creek Road. We were immediately sold. The price was comparative, there was a beautiful flower garden and it was located on a scenic ridge with only one other home in sight, a home of far greater value. By late February, we were the new-comers to Pickens County, Georgia and loving it. After a long career in the building industry I planned to switch gears and become a writer, perhaps a feature writer or reporter for a north Georgia newspaper or magazine, or a freelancer – it really didn’t matter because I just wanted to write.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be, at least not in Pickens County Georgia. As the year progressed, the local and national economies plunged into a deep recession that continues today. The rural lifestyle that offered lovely views of rugged mountains and cool woods, the quiet street where deer occasionally drank from a small spring head while hummingbirds hovered over wild flowers like breathing art forms was unsustainable. After months of interviewing for jobs it became increasingly obvious that the rural setting that attracted us to Pickens County was the very issue that would eventually force us out. It seems finding a writing job in Pickens County today is as rare as significant gold strikes in Dahlonega. Ditto the surrounding communities.
So it was during a trip to Florida that the decision to move back there was made. On my last trip to the RV I was toting fifty-pounds of luggage and a small desk lamp when our painless visit turned into a painful stumble. Who knew the cabinet door beneath the dining table bench was open. I pulled a pair of underwear from my face and stared at the blood oozing from a significant scrape on the shin. The good news is that the lamp was spared as my elbow impacted the floor first thereby absorbing the shock.
Eventually, preparations were completed and we stopped in Jasper, Georgia to top off the fuel.
“That must be a mistake,” I said, pointing at the large neon sign proclaiming gas prices to have jumped 35-cents a gallon since I filled my car’s tank a week earlier.
“I don’t think so, this is cheaper than down the street,” said my wife, Leigh.
After fueling I gave her the receipt for $85 and climbed back into the cab mumbling something about sheiks and shams.
Two more significant reasons that we decided to leave Pickens County are Mason and Collin, our young grandsons. Occasionally while watching a comedic sitcom at our home in Pickens, I observed Leigh crying openly at comedic dialogue. Being a sensitive man, I know that watching King of Queens should not stir such behavior and so often asked probing questions, like, “What’s the matter?”
Usually, the conversation involved the grandsons, although other names were often mentioned. I developed a system based on counting the number of sobbing episodes during cheerful sitcoms verses cheerful sitcoms viewed in a sixty day period to create a ratio that told me when it is definitely time to head south. There was little doubt that this trip was overdue.
After docking at the Encore RV Park in Land O’ Lakes, we visited Bill and Tracee and confiscated their sons to stay a night with us at the RV Park. It was that evening, while watching the 6 and 7-year-old grandsons play outside, that we started to seriously rethink our lives. After having a wonderful time shopping for toys, and after talking, laughing and playing with Mason and Collin at the RV Park, the boys finally went to sleep. I noticed that with all of this joy, my wife was weeping as she put their toys away. Did I mention when people cry it makes me want to wrap duct tape around my head and my eyes bleed.
We talked a lot that night. I broached the subject of moving back to Florida carefully, like a member of a bomb squad cutting the wires to an explosive device. To my surprise, there was little resistance and no explosive commentary. We had arrived at the same place at the same time, so to speak. Perhaps the ability to make major joint decisions is where we shine brightest.
Before long our Florida visit turned into a search for a new Florida home, but the air-conditioner in my Jeep went out just as the June temperatures surged so we returned to the cool woods of our north Georgia home. Ironically, safe at home in Appalachia and with the Jeep in the shop, we came upon just the right new home in a desirable Tampa Bay community at an affordable price via the Internet. The Internet is cheap on gas, and can be driven from the comfort of a recliner, even if your wife requires tissues during a particularly comedic rerun of Designing Women.
We weren’t about to purchase a home that we have never seen. The situation required a quick trip back to Florida, a trip during which the air conditioner once again stopped working; it took Jasper Jeep five attempts to get it right.
We had brought our two small dogs Buster and Bitsey along but got to the kennel too late to leave them. Buster the Boston terrier is a high-strung neurotic little guy who pants approximately 250 times-per-minute normally but his pant-rate increases as the temperature climbs. I know because he leans on the back of the driver’s seat behind my right ear. Bitsey is a tiny, black Chaweenie with a shrill bark that can nearly shatter a glass goblet. My wife’s normally ebullient persona suffered greatly without air conditioning under the duress of the extreme Florida heat. The dog’s fidgeting, panting and barking ratcheted our level of discomfort.
To boot, circumstance required us to stay at a hotel that accepts pets. It is now a goal of mine to never do that again. These are actually kennels where masters are allowed to stay with their dogs, if they can stand it.
We finally visited our prospective Florida home, and at this time of this writing we are settled in. ironically, our net property expenses are lower here than in Georgia due to the sharp decline in home values and because we purchased direct from a major builder’s inventory. The Pickens County house sold two weeks after we moved to Florida for approximately 11 percent less than we paid for it. In this market, we are fortunate to have sold the house so quickly.
Yesterday we watched an Everybody Loves Raymond rerun with nary a tear from Nana and that’s change I can believe in. Nevertheless, we will truly miss the community of Pickens County, Georgia and the friends we made there.
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