March 27, 2016

Yesteryear
One year ago today: March 27, 2015, first photo, new truck.
Five years ago today: March 27, 2011, Europe rejects Google.
Nine years ago today: March 27, 2007, the decimal comma.
Random years ago today: March 27, 2010, Hallandale’s first school.

MORNING
           The starter is acting up, the sidecar tire still has a slow leak, it’s running warm, and the new clutch cable has not been adjusted. But never one to back down from adventure, mid-morning found me just west of Clewiston. You know that fancy overpass that replaced the stop signs? Well, today I thought I’d see for myself what is down that road. The sign says Ft. Meyers, but that is not where I’m going today. Get your atlas.

           Welcome to Hendry county. There’s a small imaginary band of undeveloped territory that haphazardly divides Florida into east and west, but by less than 30 miles anywhere. In this case, the pavement worsened and narrowed to two lanes. If you’ve driven the freeways, which most people do, you get the impression this is an uninhabited wilderness. Not so.
           Not that long ago, it was major business shipping through the Lake Okeechobee canal. That’s gone, but the farming community remains, and it is predominantly beef country. And rich. Every ranch is a multi-million dollar operation, with names like “Serengeti”. You know there’ll be no roadside fruit stands in a stretch where the even the farms have names.

           I tanked up in La Belle, one of dozens of formerly canal-side towns, now completely in the clutches of an historical preservation society. So you get picture-perfect mansions leaning to one side because nobody local has the cash to restore it. Years ago, in my twenties, I worked at a mill with a ratty little broad with the surname Hendry and beyond that I have no idea why I’ve never driven through this beautiful area before.

           It is too far out to be on my list, but all is price-dependent. I crossed the canal via drawbridge at a place called Alva. There I quickly found old Highway 78, so knowing where I was, sort of, I toured the town. Pretty sleep little community, nearest town in Ft. Meyers and Cape Coral. There are a number of old “fishing shacks” for sale and I looked closely at several, including this one. Now, because of that sticking starter, I left the bike running and in this picture, it began to overheat. Where am I going to find radiator fluid on Nowheresville on Easter Sunday?
           Just look at those shade trees, this place was one of those added onto and added onto cabins, I’ll phone for the price. Yes, for $5,000 I’d live there. You can make a lot of trips into town with the $30,000 you don’t spend. I cruised the old Highway 78, where just west of town I passed a convoy of around 70 motorcyclists out for a drive. The day was glorious motorcycle weather and I got thumbs up from the whole crowd. Folks, I just drove past two million dollars of motorcycles, easy.

           Pressing on, I go lucky and found a convenience store at the Highway 38 junction, north of Olga. And they had fluid on sale for ten bucks a gallon. The heating problem was solved by only a cupful and I was quickly northbound on the last leg into Arcadia. The map says the route passes through Babcock, where there is nothing but an intersection. What’s with that? I know, I know!
           Apparently Babcock was the name of an historical ranch that reverted to the public or something an is now a wilderness area. Ah, here’s the Wiki on it, ‘twas the Babcocks of Pittsburg, bought themselves 73,000 acres so they could go fishing, which apparently never happened. There was some lumbering, but the area is mostly a mix of wet and dry prairie.


          Trent has also been touring the area, including Lake Wales and Haines city this last week. He likes the easier pace of life. I hastily called him about the area around Olga and Alva to make sure he includes that. Both places are around the same travel distance from here, but those little towns along the old canal are hard to beat for scenery. Don’t make any decisions until you’ve seen both places. That, and I can’t really find any reason for Lake Wales even existing. It isn’t the rural area setting, because that is adequately served by other nearby cities.

Wiki picture of the day.
Icelandic power plant (geothermal).
NOON
Just past lunchtime I pulled into Arcadia, the city that started it all (July 15, 2015). This is the location we arbitrarily chose to attend a house auction last year. Where we found out about cashier’s checks, fake auction sales, and fed the squirrels on the Peace River. This is the city that claims to have invented the rodeo, depicted by this mural, a must for all touristy types as a photo op. It’s also a classic of the new cPod camper and completely digital lighting system, this was actually taken just before sun-up the following day.

           I found the property I was interested in on the first try and it was immediately obvious what was wrong with the place. The roof is damaged and somebody tried to just shingle it over. We learned from the big Punta Gorda trip of August 6, 2015 to immediately distrust a real estate agent that says they have not personally seen the property, so “don’t know” if there is anything wrong with it.
           That was the line of the slimeball who tried to hide behind “due diligence” about the house that had no water service. Remember that joker. He insisted he was not lying when he said the place was inhabitable. All you had to do was dig a well first. Ethics is not a big part of the Florida real estate trade. Arcadia is a small town and for the lady to say she did not know anything about the place was despicable.

           I snapped 172 pictures of the damage and e-mailed them to her, you know, to help her out about saying she had no idea if the place had anything wrong. Then, realizing I had skipped breakfast and had nothing but a coffee at the Okeechobee Inn back in South Bay, I found myself a local Burger King. They had no coffee, the gal at the counter explained that, believe it or not, nobody had ever asked for coffee before. She explained all the staff had training on how to make it as part of Burger King training. If she made it herself, would I taste it to see if she did it right. Yep, it was delicious, and no, it is not easy because I know places that do a terrible job of it.
           Since she also gave me free cookies and mentioned she was off work in an hour, I stayed put and went over my photos. I also went over to her place for the afternoon, but this is a family blog. To those who say it is PG, hey, I said family, not dysfunctional family, Patsie. For all you know, I just had a shower there to get off the road grit and we had tea.

           Shown here, you can see where the roof line is uneven. I followed the water path down to a patched over opening in the soffit just above that small bathroom window. You can make out how the read of the house was added on in later years, and then the whole shebang covered over with that siding. However, this is very typical of budget Florida housing. This is not the Babcock Ranch, you know. This is a distorted iCool picture, they probably think this is normal.
           I’ve determined it is damage that we could repair, but I still want JZ’s opinion on all of it. There is a room in the attic which, if you go back to noon on the 23rd, you can see there is a beam in the middle of the floor propping up the ceiling. Again, this is nothing we cannot fix, considering the remainder of the structure seems to be in reasonable shape. There is also an unfinished rear deck.

           The yard is big, two city lots, but it is also weird shaped and the house sits where it prevents subdivision unless the house is torn down. The rooms are large, so if JZ says we can repair that roof, I will keep my offer at 55% and not budge. As the place is located in the rather more desirable north east end, it will already have been rejected by quite a number of flippers. Saying goodbye to my new lady friend, I located the library, then toured the entire south-east end of the city. Little Mexico. The city limits don’t go very far into that area, and beyond that is a large area of low-lying land full of old houses. More like sharecropper houses, but not rickety.
           Trivia. Much of the Leaning Tower of Pizza lacks guard rails. Over 260 have fallen to death out of it. Don’t panic, Ken, it has been closed to the public for over 25 years.

NIGHT
           Here’s a picture of the view into the front window, the flooring has been replaced, another hint of water damage, this time, a grow operation. When they water the marijuana plants, there is always spillage and the aroma is rather distinct. Hey, I lived in Seattle long enough to know exactly how this goes. But, if you squint, you can see the flooring job has been done very professionally. The place has potential.

           Last time JZ and I were in town, we had a heck of a time finding a place to have a nightcap. We went to the Rattler, that’s the joint where the 300 pound door lady came after me when I paid the cover charge with a c-note. Since it was early, I went around a found all the drinking spots, kind an orientation session. There are only three in town, so I stopped again at the Rattler. It was empty and about to close, but the bartender was talkative.
           And he knew the area, so I got the inside tales from the trailer court all about Arcadia. Also, he mentioned he had sung in a barbershop quartet. Other customers trickled in over the hour, so I put a couple bucks in the juke box and told the bartender to harmonize with he. Damn, the guy has talent. He can to the third above, either to me or the jukebox, or the fourth below, a harmony note that I just cannot fathom. Before long, we were the entertainment. A small crowd filtered in and stayed.
           He is also the guy who hires the bands but the venue is wrong for any duo I could put together. I left and found the other two spots, stopping for a beer in each. I have misgivings about a three-saloon town with JZ in tow. The agreement is, finally, that he will stay six months, or rather up to six months, in a small town before he sells his condo and moves to one.
           And it took a lot of near-argument to get that concession. It’s simple, he’s finally realized that nothing is ever going to happen if he stays put in Miami the rest of his life. Miami has been going steadily downhill since 1990. It is not the fun tourist destination still plugged in the travel mags. The Cubans have turned it into a shit hole, and that is not my opinion so don’t lecture me until you go there and see it for yourself.

ADDENDUM
           Two mysteries cleared up. First, the missing nautical Almanac. My black travel case has a hidden pocket. No, I did not spot the weight difference, because the case permanently contains a complete duplicate set of my toiletries, plant and animal reference books, lots of maps, and a backup set of chargers, batteries, adapters, and sunscreen. I went to open the case upside down, and lo, there’s my Almanac. The sun was in eastern Kenya at the time.
           And Cowboy Mike called. He is still in town, all he did was move his fifth wheel trailer to the establishment next door. We’ll be getting together over coffee soon, as he finally got rid of that disk recording system and invested in a Tascam with secure date (SD) cards. Of course the conversation will center on music, but there is some sad news.
           Like so many, Mike says he retired with what he thought was plenty of cash. He is now about the twentieth acquaintance who has told me about this. You see, people around me are starting to retire, but without the ten or twelve years practice I have. Nothing but hard reality can teach the money management skills, and it is no surprise that in the long run, I’m the one coming out ahead. Mike decided to go back to work. He’s still with the airboat company and he won’t say, but I’ve heard that outfit runs you ragged.
           Now be clear about this, Mike did not make any mistakes and he is not a spendthrift. He is conservative in his manners and outlook. But folks, when you retire, it is not how much you have, but whether or not you are situated so you will always have a small income that you can tweak to match inflation. That is why I want those extra bedrooms in the house I buy. Mike now reports what so many of my contemporaries are saying. Even having a few hundred grand tucked away is no longer enough to retire. You need a small but reliable income and the money management skills of an Ebenezer Scrooge.
           Or, you could just have listened to me all along, Wallace and Theresa. Then it would be you making these house-buying trips. Instead of sitting wherever you are stewing in your own juice. Serves you right. Let me give the two of you some advice. If you want to be con artists, the first requirement is that you have to be smarter than your quarry.


Last Laugh

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