For anyone who has travelled through the southeastern stretch of Florida, it’s hard to miss the vast number of retirement communities that make up the landscape down there. I can certainly understand the appeal for retirees: It never snows, there are lots of people your own age, and no one looks at you funny when you go for dinner at 4:30pm. My parents happen to be among those who decided to call the Sunshine State their home when they retired. However, they had a lot trouble trying to find a community where they could be happy. The problem wasn’t the other people, or the houses, or even the alligators on the golf courses. The problem was the names of the communities.
“We saw a place we really liked today,” said my mom when she called to give me an update. “But we can’t move there. The name is just too depressing.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What’s it called?”
I snorted. “Oh come on. That’s not true.”
“It is,” sighed my mom. “How can anyone retire to a place called Journey’s End? They might as well just call it Death’s Door.”
“I guess they are going for truth in advertising.” I laughed.
“I heard of another one called Heaven’s Gate,” she said.
“Great! You can move there afterwards.”
“Why would we do that?” she wondered.
“That way you know that after you make your Journey’s End, you will end up at Heaven’s Gate.”
“Ugh! “ she said. “I think we’ve had enough house hunting for one day. We’re going to go try a new German restaurant down here.”
“Cool!” I said. What’s it called?”
“The Wurst Haus.”