We continue driving and merge onto a dirt road. Alas, here we are again. I never had hardened opinions concerning dirt roads, but after living on them in Costa Rica, you learn they inevitably wash out. Then you’re the jerk on the other side trying to get to the store.

The road curves, and we drive past a propped open gate, revealing homes built into the mountainside. Some have large propane tanks out front, others with firewood. A few have green cabs on rails that resemble minecarts. Is there a quarry here?

Aside from the gun billboards along the highway, I saw others advertising fun days mining for jewels. “Smoky Mountain Gold and Gem Mine. The family will love it!” promised a cartooned prospector gripping a pickaxe.

I don’t know about you, but I’m signing up for this activity. If it involves not talking to anyone, then my father would join us as well. His goal in life is to be at least fifty yards from any breathing person, and if panning for sapphires keeps him out of the human race, he’d happily move his sifter box to the far edge of the flume. But if someone moseyed too close and asked a well-intentioned, “Find anything good?” my dad would hustle us back into our Chevy Impala, still grasping our bucket of dirt dreams.

My father is a platinum member of the Let’s Get the Hell Outta Here club. Some—meaning me— might say patience is not his virtue. He wielded this power if a son of a bitch cut us in line at Stuckey’s or when overpaying for a hot dog. My dad would have left Prince Harry’s wedding if approached by a valet. Getting the hell out of places was a hallmark of my childhood, leaving me to wonder how anyone ever got the hell into places.

I got excited about sticking my dad in the mud, so I looked up this operation on TripAdvisor, and boy was Jeffrey from Okahumpka, Florida, disappointed.

After hours of sifting, the owner confirmed that Jeffrey’s gem nuggets were nothing but worthless rocks, resulting in him abandoning his dreams of dumping Debra and getting a hair transplant. “The staff was rude and unhelpful,” he complained. “I paid fifty dollars, and my kids left crying. Parking was adequate, and the bathrooms were clean.”

We’ve all been there, Jeffrey. But look on the bright side. You parked your car and whizzed in splendor. It’s the journey, not the destination.

The dirt road narrows as we wind around a switchback. Two cars couldn’t pass each other without one careening down the side. This is exactly like Costa Rica. We approach a house with a “For Sale By Owner” sign nailed to the front. Rickety decking surrounds each creepy floor, and I notice random holes in the eaves like someone drilled into the wood with a two-inch bit. We exit the car and peek around the side.

Crunch, I hear.

A ten-foot snakeskin sticks to the sole of my sneaker. Why is this remarkable? Because I just came from the land of snakes, and I have never seen one this big. There is never just one snake. This guy has a family, and if he’s like my dad, he’s not thrilled that two dimwits showed up unannounced.

“A bit of a fixer-upper, right?” Rob says, but his gleeful expression fades when he sees the snakeskin. I know what he’s thinking. His billboard reads Optimist, Doughnut lover, Convincer. He’s got to sell this Hitchcock house to a buyer who wants no part of it. My interest deflates like a whoopie cushion, tooting the rest of my good mood into the Appalachian Mountains.

“Where’s the owner?” I ask.

Rob walks to a side door and reaches up, sliding a finger over the molding until he finds a key. “He said to let ourselves in.”

Ladies, none of us would walk into this house. We’ve all watched Jason from Friday the 13th chase hapless campers into subbasements. “Don’t worry, I brought bear mace,” Rob whispers, showing me a can the size of a AA battery. Excellent choice. Watching him pepper spray a seven-foot guy sporting a hockey mask is at the top of my wish list. Where’s pantsuit Annie Oakley when you need her?

The door creaks open, and the smell of suspense slaps us in the face. I’ve owned rental properties, so I can identify almost anything: cat urine, old baby diapers, or crack cocaine (burned rubber). I’ve got a nose for it. What I don’t have is a nose for murder.

I once purchased a bargain rental property in an unsavory neighborhood. “When are you replacing the floor?” the tenant asked before lifting a throw rug, exposing a dried, blood-soaked patch underneath. It’s then I learned that the previous tenant got her head bashed in by a baseball bat. And every month, the murdered woman’s sister came to the house in the middle of the night, banged on the front door, and screamed, “You’ll be slaughtered by dawn!”

When the current tenant left for reasons I couldn’t possibly imagine, I scheduled a showing for ten qualified applicants. I let myself in the back and sat in the kitchen, but no one showed up for their appointment. I didn’t know that the town crier scribbled one of her masterpieces and taped it to the front door. “You and your family will die here!” it stated in red ink. I eventually rented it to college kids who seemed less bothered by the murderous vibe and more interested in punching two hundred holes in the walls. I sold the property soon afterward.

We walk into the kitchen, where Rob continues his Good-News Realtor Tour. “Look at these vintage appliances! How cool,” he says while opening a Brady Bunch refrigerator. It makes a clicking sound like a playing card stuck in the spokes of a bicycle wheel. “And a matching stove! I’ll turn on the oven and see if it heats.”

I wouldn’t classify these appliances as vintage. A 1946 Westinghouse refrigerator is vintage. My grandmother had one in her basement. It was as thick as a nuclear reactor and took all your strength to open it. The freezer had aluminum ice cube trays with a lever that, when lifted, promised to separate the cubes but instead launched them like bottle rockets.

“This place is great. We should check out downstairs,” he says. “Can you believe there are two more floors below this one?” I can’t believe any of this, Rob, but let’s continue.

We weave through multiple rooms, making me wonder if this was once a boarding house. But in the mountains? I imagine a bunch of bearded hillbillies, cooking squirrels, and quarreling about Vern.

“He never gathers firewood, but dang sure partakes in the heat, grinning like a groundhog shitting on a maple leaf.”

We walk down another flight of stairs to the basement and find the hot water heater, a discovery that prompts a stoic Rob to deliver his “Never Give In” speech.

“With all the challenges we are facing and the uncertainties of the world, it’s comforting to know we’ll have a hot shower at the end of a winter’s day.” My husband would make a great timeshare salesman, but the company wouldn’t appoint him beautiful properties in the Bahamas or Hawaii. He’d get the grittier assignments like the Atlantic City gig, enticing you into a windowless van before expounding the virtues of a point system more complicated than organic chemistry.

I ignore his grandstanding and scan the room. Multiple doors lead to the outside. “This house is creepy. Listen when I walk.” I stomp my feet on the basement floor. “It sounds hollow.”

We open one of the many doors and step onto more decking. This house has expansive lake and mountain views from all three stories. I hear a motor in the distance and watch a boat pull someone holding onto a tube like a chariot racer.

Weeee, she screams as the waves bounce her into the air. You can’t help but smile when you hear a weeee. Weees are from the heart. They’re better than woo-hoos. Those you hear at bars when friends urge you to drink a Flaming Sambuca. Weeeeing is finding convenient parking and clean bathrooms. It’s the simplest expression of happiness.

“This is the right house. I’m sure of it,” Rob pleads.

“Do we really want a fixer-upper?”

“We don’t have to do everything right away. We’ll take our time.”

“It’s too remote,” I reply. “There isn’t a store for miles.”

“What do we always say? The best adventures are down a dirt road.”

“It’s infested with snakes. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

A car pulls up, and a door slams. The owner has arrived.

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