Regarding why my wife and I came to Jasper, specifically, I may never know for sure. Perhaps, it was part of a much wider sketch, a portrait not painted by the brush of human perception. Or, maybe it was just dumb luck; as I said, who knows?
It’s like when Admiral James Stockdale opened at one of his and Ross Perot’s ‘92 Presidential debates with the questions: “Who am I? Why am I Here?” I’m sure that the man who survived seven years in North Vietnamese prisons knew who he was, or he wouldn’t be anywhere. I believe it was the question, “Why am I here,” that nailed him in that debate. He really didn’t seem to know, speaking from the heart.
What I do know, is that the reason we’re here in Jasper, Georgia is inextricably tied to why we left our sunny home in Florida. The sights, sounds, and smells of Florida are etched into my soul forever.
I would not trade them for any amount of money or fame. I was born there, and never intended to leave. The day that I turned 16 in January 1967, I borrowed a green 1960 Corvair and drove it to the old Highway Patrol station on East Hillsborough Avenue in (Tampa). After passing my written and driving tests, they issued me a folded piece of reddish colored paper that authorized me to drive motorcycles, cars, and just about anything else save an 18-wheeler in Florida. I took full advantage for the next forty-one years. Of course, the area beaches were a regular destination.
Until the mid-seventies, beach bum bars and aging cottages lined the shores along Gulf Boulevard from Indian Rocks Beach to Boca Ciega Bay. My friends and I spent many Saturday afternoons on the Gulf beaches admiring the latest swimwear for girls and giggling at heavier women who seemed unaware of their portliness as it related to their choice in swimsuits.
Far funnier were the aging pop-bellied men with scrawny legs striding down the beach in Speedos’ as though they were Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Saturday nights building bonfires on the beach and listening to The Ravens, Tampa Bay’s most famous Sixty’s garage band, slowly gave way to the Seventies. During the Seventies and Eighties, high-rise condominiums began replacing beach cottages and beach bums were seen less often then vacationing lawyers rapping on their car phones.
Nevertheless, some things never change. Hard bodies and scantily clad women still cause dads to don dark shades and moms to pretend they didn’t notice buffed Biff walk by - and the Florida beat goes on.
Unfortunately, home insurance rates and property taxes are threatening to make Florida home only to royalty and illegal aliens. Baby boomers, middle-class, and young professionals are being forced to leave Florida in growing numbers to protect their economic future and that of their children.
What’s worse is that the next insurance debacle is just a storm away. Unless insurance companies are forced to count their overall profits made in Florida, i.e. car insurance, instead of crying about the potential effects of global warming and future hurricanes when raising rates or dropping coverage on homeowners, the exodus will continue. These are some of the economic reasons that started my wife and me on a trail to the mountains, Pickens County, and ultimately Jasper.
There are many less tangible reasons. At some point in time, my wife and I realized that living near a small, friendly town cradled in the midst of some of the most beautiful, nature-shrouded mountains on Earth equaled the notion of living on the also attractive Suncoast of Florida. Eventually, Florida’s taxes and insurance rates, and the collapse of the housing market in which I was gainfully employed for twenty-five years, became the triggers of change for us.
Leigh and I first looked at homes in and around Murphy, North Carolina. It’s a small town where a bright light shining through your bedroom window at 2 a.m. is more likely to be a close encounter of the third kind than a police helicopter chasing gang-bangers and car thieves through the hood. By chance, we called Debra Mizell, a Coldwell realtor based in Murphy who lives in Mineral Bluffs, Georgia. After nearly a year and multiple trips to North Carolina and Tennessee, and viewing what seemed like every affordable property within each state, we settled on a mountain home five miles out of Murphy, NC on a paved street with long-range mountain views. The house had everything we wanted and could afford.
That was Sunday, and we called Debbie late the next morning from Florida to start the process of purchasing the home.
“It went under contract first thing this morning,” said Deb.
“No, no. I’m talking about the one we saw yesterday,” I replied.
“I’m sorry, but don’t worry, we’ll find another,” she answered. “Have you considered North Georgia?” Debbie inquired. “The Appalachian Mountains in North Georgia are really nice.”
A few weeks went by before we hooked up with Debbie again, this time in the parking lot at the Home Depot in Jasper, Georgia. The first house we visited had everything we wanted, and more. Still, it was early, so off we went on what turned out to be a bit of an adventure.
My wife and Debbie were discussing the merits of a home northwest of Jasper from its front porch as I galumphed around back to see the rear deck. Just up the mountain was a clay road, sort of long driveway leading down the mountain from another home. Suddenly, I noticed a woman and a girl of about eight running down the driveway toward me, screaming something inaudible. I quickly surmised that the disheveled man chasing them and screaming something audible but unrepeatable and gesturing wildly was daddy dearest. At some point, perhaps after seeing me, he broke off the chase. Mama yelled something and flipped him off. I made my way back to Leigh and Debbie.
“There’s a lot of road noise here,” said Debbie, glancing toward the highway in front of the house.
Now, generally, when one’s realtor suggests leaving the property right in the middle of a showing, well, as Bill Engvall might say, “there’s your sign,” however, I didn’t require any prompting.
Suddenly, the man sped by us in a noisy pickup truck, its engine screaming through a hollow muffler as he screeched onto the highway and shagged west.
“Yeah, too much noise,” I said. We strolled out to the car and drove away.
Long story short (editors love when writers say that) we looked at what seemed like several thousand more properties that day before deciding to return to the first house in the Burnt Mountain area.
The home looked even better than before, complete with a rose and flower garden featuring giant multicolored bushes and assorted blooms and foliage. You could land a small Cessna on the rear deck, and the amply treed acreage beckoned me, calling out, “bring a hammock and stay a while.”
Driving through town, my first impression of Jasper was that the people were friendly, but not artificially so. No tourists, just real folks with real jobs and real lives.
After driving through a few high-end mountain ridge developments, I decided that Pickens County economics ran the spectrum from poverty to riches. The town seemed somehow genuine, as in, what you see is what you get, and I liked that feeling.
So here we are, at home in Pickens County, and loving it.
[Clifton, and wife Leigh, recently relocated to the Burnt Mountain area from the Tampa Bay area. After spending twenty-five years selling building materials to major accounts.] |
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