Old Seagrove Florida and the Showing of the Century (According to Gena)
If you’ve ever sold a home, you know that Open House days are a mix of high-stakes preparation and high-level energy. We stage the furniture, bake the cookies, and hope for the best.
But sometimes, the "best" is something you could never plan for. I wanted to share a quick story that happened about 12 years ago, which reminded me why I love this job so much (and why I always keep a straight face!).
It was one of those warmer-than-normal-for-July mornings—which, on 30A, means you start sweating while thinking about going outside.
Ronnie and I were prepping for what he dramatically called “The Big Showing of the Century.”
Now, in reality? It was a quirky beach cottage in Old Seagrove.
And when I say quirky, I mean quirky:
The front door sticks - requiring a wrestling permit to open. The upstairs shower whistled like a dolphin. Well, let's just say, the whole house had opinions. But it had unbeatable views, strong rental potential, and just enough charm to make people ignore the faults.
I reminded Ronnie,
“Hey—we’ve got the Hendersons at ten. After talking with them, they really want that old Florida charm. Think beach postcard.”
Ronnie didn’t miss a beat.
“They’ll love this house. It squeaks, it sticks, it whistles—it’s basically alive.”
“Ronnie,” I said, stopping in my tracks,
“Do NOT tell them the house is alive.”
He nodded. “Of course not. I’ll say it has character.”
Which, in "Ronnie language", means he’s absolutely going to say it’s alive.
Ronnie wanted to head out early—the cottage had a wonderful porch swing that he insisted on sitting with a cup of coffee before people showed up. According to him, “No one can say no on a porch swing.”
I don’t know if that’s science, but the man sells houses, so I will swing while enjoying a cup of coffee.
On the way to Seagrove, it was peak 30A:
A guy biking with a paddleboard (how? still unclear)
A golden retriever in sunglasses riding in a golf cart like royalty
And at least three sunburned tourists who clearly thought SPF was optional on Day One
Ronnie waved at everyone like he was running for a local office.
We arrived at the house, and I ran through the checklist:
“Doors unlocked? Air freshener? Stuck front door… handled?”
Ronnie puffed up.
“It's handled. All it needs is a little WD-40 and positive thinking.”
Positive thinking did not fix the door. He had to lift, lean, twist, and whisper sweet encouragement to it before it finally opened.
Inside the cottage was perfect.
Coastal staging at its finest:
Seashells
Driftwood
Light blue pillows
And a bowl of limes… Ronnie surmised the limes had to be for emotional support.
At exactly 10:00, the Hendersons arrived—matching 30A hats, coordinated energy, the whole look.
Ronnie greeted them with:
“Welcome to your future beach escape! Careful with the door—I mean… enjoy the unique interactive entry experience.”
I lightly touched his arm.
Translation: chill, buddy.
The tour of the cottage started beautifully.
They loved:
The wraparound deck
The loft
The water was so turquoise it looked edited
Then I opened the bathroom door.
And right on cue—
WHEEEEEEEEEEEE.
The shower started whistling like it had been waiting its entire life for an audience.
Mrs. Henderson paused.
“Oh!… ambiance?”
Before I could speak, Ronnie goes:
“Absolutely. This shower doesn’t just clean you—it serenades you.” And somehow…
They nodded. Like this was a luxury feature they didn’t know they needed.
Everything was going perfectly…
Until the chickens arrived.
Now, if you know Old Seagrove, you know this isn’t even unusual.
The neighbor, Lester, believed his chickens needed “enrichment.”
Which apparently meant unsupervised freedom and zero boundaries.
One chicken walked across the deck.
“Local wildlife?” Mr. Henderson asked.
“Very natural. Very peaceful,” I said.
Then two more chickens showed up.
Then the rooster.
This bird strutted in like he owned the place.
Ronnie whispered to me,
“Should I intervene?”
I smiled through clenched teeth:
“For all things good—yes.”
So, Ronnie goes outside and starts flapping his arms.
The chickens?
Flap back. Louder. More aggressive.
At this point, I’m pretty sure they were showing him who the boss was.
And then…The captain arrives.
The goat.
The legend.
The problem.
Captain trotted up the deck stairs, nudged the door open like he had an appointment, and walked straight into the living room.
Straight. To. The pillows.
“Ronnie,” I whispered,
“The goat is in the house.”
He says, "dead serious tone" with his mouth covered like in the old cartoons:
“Not the pillows. Those are $89 each.”
Now I’m panicking.
Ronnie?
He grabs the bowl of limes.
And starts shaking it.
“C’mon, Captain. Don’t eat the décor.”
And I kid you not—
It worked.
Captain followed him…
Right up until he grabbed a throw pillow like a prize.
There was a brief tug-of-war.
Ronnie won.
Barely.
The Captain looked personally offended.
And the Hendersons?
They started clapping.
Yes clapping.
Mrs. Henderson, rubbing tears from her eyes, from laughing so hard, bursted out,
“This place feels so alive!”
I just slowly turned my head and looked at Ronnie.
He didn’t say a word. But his face said: I told you.
Lester eventually showed up apologizing, saying Captain has “excellent taste in textiles.”
Which—honestly—felt accurate.
And then…
The magic question.
“So… what’s the next step if we want to make an offer?”
I lost it.
Completely. Laughing.
Later, we’re back home.
Ronnie says,
“You think we should add ‘goat-friendly neighborhood’ to the listing?”
“Don’t push it,” I said.
But here’s the thing—
They bought the house.
The goat is still roaming.
The chickens are still in charge.
And Ronnie?
He now claims he offers “full-service real estate and light livestock management.”
Because that’s 30A.
You come for the beaches, the charm, the sunsets…
And you stay because a goat named Captain tried to eat your throw pillows—and somehow, it sealed the deal.