Back in 2003, my husband, Grant, and I picked up a small piece of investment property on the coast of Georgia in a new development built around a Fred Couples golf course.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  The environment was going to be kept as natural as possible, complete with jaguars and alligators and beautiful live oaks dangling Spanish moss.  There was going to be a nice club house and a high-water marina on St. Andrew’s Sound and it just seemed too good to pass up.  So, we became proud owners of swampland in Georgia.  And, so did many other people  The properties sold out in no-time-flat.  While we didn’t expect to live there anytime soon, we were pleased with our investment.

We moved from Atlanta to Santa Fe, New Mexico in 2005 and, while we paid our taxes and association fees and utility bills for our property in Georgia, we didn’t get to see the property much.  Then, all of a sudden in 2007, we had a perfect opportunity to visit our little piece of heaven with my parents in tow.

My father had heard from an old college roommate from the University of Montana, who was now living in a senior facility in Jacksonville.  The roommate, Dawson, managed to track my father down in Delray Beach via the Internet and really wanted to see him again.  It had been sixty-five years, after all.  Nobody was getting any younger.

At first, my father, who was in his early eighties, balked. He hadn’t driven on a highway in years and was nervous about it.  I had heard about Dawson my whole life (he was a successful reporter) and I wanted to meet him before he wasn’t around anymore (he was older than my father and not as fit).  So, I made a deal with my father.  If he and my mother made the four-hour trip up to Jacksonville to stay with Dawson and his girlfriend, Pearl, Grant and I would fly to Jacksonville from Albuquerque, hang out with everyone and then take my parents on a ride up to Waverly, Georgia so they could see our property.

This all sounded like a little too much adventure for my parents but I convinced my father that the sin of omission was worse than the sin of commission.  So, it was decided: We were all going to have an adventure.

The day we headed up to our property was a bright and beautiful day in early December. We got to the subdivision and everything looked perfect.  No high-water marina yet (or, possibly, ever) but the golf course looked great and the properties were well maintained and we were all having a good time.

Each piece of property had the names of the owners on a stake at the curb, including ours.  Very nice signs.  Ours said, “The Hollands, Santa Fe, NM” and our two-tenths of an acre was lush with subtropical growth.  We were well located between the marsh and the golf club on a very civilized-looking street.

My usually-cynical father was very impressed with what he saw.  He even said, more than once, that he thought we made a very good investment.  Plus, he was a former golfer and he knew a good golf course when he saw one.

We parked the car in front of our property and got out to explore our cul-de-sac.  My mother, who has the world’s best vision, suddenly pointed a finger and said, “Look – You live next door to the Gays.”  I kidded, “Well, that’s nice.  It wouldn’t be for the first time.”  That’s when she noticed the neighbors on the other side.  They were the Dikes.  “We’re living between the Gays and the Dikes? “ I said.  “What are the odds of that happening?”

“You’re not finished yet,” my mother said.  “You have the Furbushes across the street.”

“What is this, some kind of a joke?” I said. 

My father was already clutching his sides in hysteria.   He’s been known to erupt into uncontrollable fits of laughter.  I saw him lose it several times when I was a child where he literally rolled around on the kitchen floor trying to catch his breath from maniacal chortling.  At any rate, we were definitely not done yet. 

We all got back in the car to see if our street was the only street with suggestive names.  It certainly was not.  The subdivision was a treasure trove of hilarious names.  There were Willys.  There were Hardons.  There were Pastards (hopefully not mean-spirited ones with a vicious dog).  And there were my personal favorites – the Peckers of Yonkers.  And, more!

Can you imagine the dinner party?  “Gays, I’d like you to meet the Dikes; Hardons, if you’re not too intimidated by the Peckers of Yonkers, I’d like to introduce you to the Willys.  Hey, you Pastards, you’re invited but please leave your vicious dog at home. Check out the buffet, everyone. We have delicious weenies.”

And, did I mention the Krapps?  Seriously?  What happens if you become friendly with people with a name like that and you want to go out for a bite? Where do you take a Krapp for dinner? I’m just wondering.

In the meantime, my father was rolling around in the backseat of our rental vehicle.  He damn near knocked my mother out of the car.  I was having my very own paroxysm in the passenger seat while my well-mannered husband was anxious to escape civilization and check out the marsh.  He was giggling a little, though.

I think that might have been the last laugh my father ever had – I mean the side-clutching type.  And, I was so glad to be there to share it with him.  Dawson died in 2010 and my father followed suit on October 3, 2011.  My mother still laughs about the Waverly incident. 

We still own the property in Waverly.  In fact, we visited the property (and Dawson and Pearl!) again in 2009.  Unfortunately, we never got to meet our neighbors. They probably would have thought we were silly jackasses, anyway – no matter what we brought to the party.