When Covid hit in March 2020, priorities became much more crystal clear. I realized that while our busy city life was great, we needed the restorative powers of a beach place. So my husband and I started to look for a second home at our favorite beach town. We had visited several possible houses and condos and even made some bids, but no success. We had basically given up until one day our real estate agent Bob, an old college friend of my husband’s, called.
“I have been following a tiny house for a while that the owner has been on and off the market. I want you all to see it” he said. “It is at your favorite beach, 3 blocks from the ocean and 3 from main street.”
“Why has it not been been snapped up?” I asked.
“It is rather small and needs work” he said. Famous last words!
“Set up a tour” we said. It turned out that another person was close to placing a bid, so we set up for Bob to tour it and show us what it looked like on Facetime the next day.
We knew it was 1 bedroom and 1 bath and the location, but not much else. The next day we answered his phone call at the appointed time and waited expectantly to see our possible dream house.
“Good morning boys and girls” he cheerfully said as his face appeared on the screen. “You ready for the reveal?”
“Yes” I said. “Let’s see what we are talking about.”
He turned the phone around and the house and yard came into view.
Silence.
We saw a tiny (really small square cinderblock house) that was peach with yellow-green mold, broken shutters, covered with hanging vines from huge oaks and a trash-dump of a yard. It looked almost unlivable.
What the hell was Bob doing there, I thought. It did NOT look like a dream home- more like a nightmare.
TO BE CONTINUED…
