Leisureville Page 17

  Roberts was also concerned about the environmental impact of the expansion. “Water levels are down, and what does the developer do? He challenges the same formula used in Tampa, Saint Petersburg, and Fort Myers.”

  When he argued that the county should move cautiously and approve only one-third of the expansion at a time, Roberts says, he earned the eternal wrath of the Morse family. “The developer was moving too fast. It’s our job to protect residents of The Villages and the county as a whole from reckless planning. One day the developer will be gone and we’ll all be left picking up the pieces.”

  Taking on the Morse family has consequences. The developer helps fund candidates for county office who are friends and business associates. And all candidates are dependent on his magnanimity. No candidate can win without securing a majority of votes inside The Villages. But because The Villages’ deed restrictions forbid door-to-door solicitation (unless a resident is personally introducing a candidate to friends and neighbors), candidates must generally rely on Morse’s own monopolistic media to deliver their message.

  It comes as little surprise that The Villages’ media empire takes a dim view of Roberts. The Daily Sun seemingly goes to great lengths to keep his picture out of its pages. A recent example was a ceremonial groundbreaking at which Roberts posed with his fellow commissioners.

  “Just for fun, I sandwiched myself between my colleagues,” Roberts said. “I wanted to see how the Daily Sun would cope with me in the center of the picture. Guess what? They cut the photo in half and displayed it in two pieces. You could just make out the knuckle of my little finger on one side, and my index finger on the other. The few times I’m actually in the paper, they print the same photo where I look like I’m snarling.”

  More often than not, the only mention of Roberts is as the butt of a political cartoon or the object of an angry editorial describing him as a “big-spending politico trying to kill the golden goose” with his “inexplicable” and “wasteful” voting.

  Left unmentioned is Roberts’s dogged refusal to accept any political donations. He runs a bare-bones campaign financed with a few thousand dollars of his own money. “I always teach my students that money is the corruptor of government,” he explains. “If I take money from someone, they’ll expect something in return.”

  Roberts worries most about what he fears are Morse’s attempts to turn the entire county into the equivalent of one giant central district. Sumter County is run by what Florida calls a “constitutional” form of government—a boilerplate organizational structure generally favored by poor rural counties. In a constitutional government, all county officials are elected, including the sheriff, tax collector, property appraiser, and supervisor of elections.

  Several commissioners backed by the developer have called for the creation of a “charter” government, in which county officials are appointed by majority vote of the board of county commissioners. If such a measure passes—as is possible—the board will soon appoint all other county officials.

  “It’s like the central districts all over again,” Roberts says incredulously. “County government will just be a proxy for the developer—a developer who was never elected by the people. We’re not talking about a typical situation where there are twenty competing developers. We only have one, and he wants to control everything.”

  The Morse family’s clout in Sumter may one day end as the southern end of the county fills up with more young families commuting to Orlando. But as with the mini-districts, it may then be too late—many of the important decision may already have been made.

  It’s nearing midnight, and Roberts excuses himself. He has to be up early in the morning for school and he still has a long drive back to Bushnell. After teaching, he expects to spend the rest of the afternoon walking around his district asking for votes.

  Morse is backing a different man in the primary, the county’s former director of public works, who resigned a few years earlier after butting heads with Roberts. Not surprisingly, he is very well funded, having raised about $60,000, with many of the donations coming from companies doing business with The Villages.

  The next day, I attend a meeting of the Sumter County Republicans. Given the community’s conservative roots and active voters in a critical swing state, The Villages has become a favorite campaign stop for Republican candidates, both local and national. Jeb Bush was a frequent visitor, and his brother, the president, made a campaign swing through Sumter Landing in 2004. Tonight, Gary Lester is there, and he starts the meeting with a prayer asking God to bless, among other things, The Villages and the Republican Party. He then leads us in the Pledge of Allegiance.

  He introduces Gary Breeden, the developer-friendly candidate for Jim Roberts’s seat on the Board of Commissioners. Breeden speaks with an ingratiating folksy drawl, and describes Sumter County as a “diamond in the rough—now is its time to shine,” and The Villages as “an absolutely wonderful development.”

  Someone asks him about a possible water shortage. Breeden dismisses the notion with a confident smile and a wave of his hand. “There’s plenty of water,” he says. “Plenty of water.” Lester nods his head approvingly.

  Afterward, I ask Lester whether he thinks his employer exerts considerable political influence over the county. He pauses for a moment to consider the question, and then looks me squarely in the eye. “He only has one vote, just like everyone else.”

  11

  Cluck Old Hen

  I REACHED THE NADIR OF MY EXPERIENCE OF THE VILLAGES’ ABOUT halfway into my stay. It wasn’t the result of any one incident in particular, but rather a growing discomfort with make-believe downtowns, talking lampposts, and the ho-hum predictability of living in a gated community with older, mainly heterosexual white people who love to play golf. I felt trapped in another generation’s world and was becoming antsy. I wanted to hang out with people my own age. This was to be expected, but the long and somewhat creepy shadow of the developer was more surprising. It had never been my intention to write about him—in fact, I knew nothing about him when I started the project—but there was no avoiding it. Morse’s influence was evident everywhere. His seeming omnipotence, however legal it may be, still didn’t sit well with me.

  And try as I might to keep an open mind, I grew increasingly disenchanted with those—my former neighbors included—who embraced the Villages’ age-restricted lifestyle. It struck me as segregation, pure and simple, with children taking the place of previous “undesirables.” I was homesick for a more authentic world, and began counting the days to my departure.

  Back home, my family and friends lent me a sympathetic ear, but here in The Villages I felt alone in my brooding negativity. As I spoke with young families in Spanish Springs, a far different picture emerged. They didn’t see life in The Villages as selfish. On the contrary, they were relieved that such a place existed for their older relatives. They no longer had to worry about Mom and Dad, who were now more likely to be found having fun at a recreation center than sitting at home monitoring a police scanner.

  I met a man whose family was relocating to The Villages one generation at a time. “My grandparents have been here for twenty years,” he told me. “My parents have been here for six years, and my wife’s parents moved here four years ago. My aunt just bought a house here yesterday. It’s nice to know that they’re all in one place and can keep an eye out for each other. I can’t wait to retire and move here myself, but I’m only forty!”

  This man’s little boy could barely contain his enthusiasm, either. “I love visiting The Villages,” he said. “It’s the happiest place on Earth—just like Disney World!”

  How could this be? Sure, it’s comforting to know that one’s older relatives are in a safe, sociable environment where they can age gracefully, but is outlawing young families the only way to make such a thing possible? Didn’t these people recognize that their relatives’ land of make-believe is predicated on age discrimination?

  One day, at the end of my ro
pe, I found myself driving around aimlessly, and eventually I pulled into a parking lot for the local hospice. For better or worse, there’s no sugarcoating death. Even a developer can’t do it.

  I’ve spent a lot of time in hospices as a journalist and a friend, and I’ve been greatly impressed not only by the level of care, but also by what these compassionate organizations represent. A community with hospices is generally a community that makes an effort to care for its own. And isn’t that why so many seniors gravitate to The Villages in the first place?

  The Villages’ hospice is in a sunny, bright building with cathedral ceilings, lazy fans, and handsome furnishings. There’s nothing depressing about it. If it were a hotel, I’d check in immediately. As with several of the local schools, Morse donated the land for the building and helped construct it. There are plans for several more.

  On the day I visit, a spunky volunteer in her sixties, Doris, greets me at the front desk. She has a quick smile and enjoys talking about life in The Villages. “Back home, I’d be isolated by the weather and living in a neighborhood where everybody else works,” Doris tells me. “But here I can feed my mind, body, and spirit. I’ve taken so many adult education classes that I can’t even remember them all—twelve history courses alone.”

  Doris is a former teacher from Minnesota, and she tells me that she still finds time to tutor at the local elementary school. “I think it’s important for the generations to approach one other. I want the younger ones to know that we care about them, just like there were adults who cared about us when we were young.

  “A bunch of us volunteer, especially in the schools, but the majority of people here like to hide behind our gates and forget the world outside. They’re the ones with the parades and the Guinness Book of World Records competitions. That’s their involvement—stuff dedicated to good times. I think we reflect the community at large; apathy is rampant all over the United States. But soon as you see me stop fighting for what is right, that’s the day you might as well call the coroner.”

  I’m introduced to Gerry, a former steelworker from New York who is dying of lung cancer. He is sitting in an easy chair on a lanai with a view of a lake and a golf course. His wife of fifty-four years and their grown daughter sit nearby, enjoying the gentle tropical breeze. To my surprise, Betsy Anderson was right; The Villages, or at least its hospice, has somehow made dying a touch more agreeable.

  “I wanted to retire someplace quiet where the children could easily visit,” Gerry says.

  “It was the best thing they did,” his daughter, Erika, adds. “They did their job and now they don’t have to worry about us. They can just enjoy themselves. We can always visit with the grand-kids: they love coming here; they call it a camp for old people.”

  “It was time to pass the torch,” Gerry continues. He looks gaunt and takes short, measured breaths. “We’re older and not geared up for the faster lifestyle. You see baby boomers now, bouncing, laughing—that was us when we first came down here in 1995. Now we sit and watch the baby boomers. Then we’ll be gone and the baby boomers will be the old ones.

  “I loved my time here. I used to play golf six, seven days a week. Where else can you go where you can drive your golf cart everywhere, and dance every night to live entertainment with a drink in your hand? No other place I know of.”

  Gerry’s wife, Alice, expects to stay after he dies, but she’s anxious. “I’ve never lived alone my whole life. I’ve never filled my car with gas, I never wrote a check, and here I am and I’ve got to sink or swim. What else am I supposed to do? Move in with my kids? They’re working. They’ve got their own families. What would I do? Clean their house?”

  Erika says she contemplates moving to The Villages to be closer to her mother, and to enjoy herself. “I geared my whole life to my children, too. Now they’re in their twenties, and it’s my time. I just want to work a few more years, and wait until the kids are a little more settled.”

  Outside Gerry’s room, I run into two clowns. One’s named Sassy, the other Mopsey. Both have big bright hair and painted faces and wear oversize shoes. They trained with The Villages’ clown club and now spend several days a week volunteering at nursing homes and hospices.

  When I tell Mopsey about my project, she insists on taking my picture. I hesitate. “Please, please, please!” she begs. “You’re my first author.” Sassy also looks at me with big, pleading clown eyes. I relent. Mopsey aims the camera at me and presses the shutter. A stream of water splashes across my face and drips onto my notebook. The two clowns double over with laughter.

  They invite me to sit with them. Sassy exhales deeply and rubs her knees. “We clown around three or four times a week, sometimes more,” Sassy says. “That’s why I’m sitting; I can barely move. But I believe in this work. My husband died of bone marrow cancer. He was under care for four and a half years and was totally depressed. Sometimes people need a reason to laugh. That’s where we come in.

  “When my husband died, all my children were gathered in the living room,” Sassy continues. “It was so gloomy. I needed to lift the mood, so I said ‘OK, which one of you am I going live with?’ You should have seen the look on their faces! They were in total shock.” Sassy slaps her knees in laughter and wipes away a tear. “The minute I told them it was a joke, everyone relaxed. It worked.

  “Look, they’ve all got their lives, their own problems. And believe me, they have plenty of problems. After a while, I don’t even want to hear about them anymore. I’ve got my own life to lead. And when it comes time to die, they can ship my body north afterward, but I’m going to die in The Villages. This is where my support system is. I have loads of friends here. They say you can’t have too many friends, but I don’t know; I can’t keep up with all of them.”

  “It’s a wonderful place to die,” Mopsey adds. “The only way I’m going to leave here is feet first, too.”

  Although I remain unconvinced that age segregation is either healthy or desirable, I do find my heart opening up to many of the Villagers who are refreshingly unpretentious. I find that some of the older women remind me of my grandmother, who died when I was eighteen. She suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, so I really lost her years earlier. And she was my last living grandparent. Perhaps that explains why I enjoy hanging out with people of all ages back home.

  I have nothing but fond memories of my maternal grandmother. Spending the weekend with her in her tiny apartment in downtown Philadelphia was such a treat that it had to be carefully rationed between my two brothers and me so as not to cause fighting. The only way to score an extra visit was to be sick, and I happily obliged. Being sick at Grandma’s meant homemade chicken soup, fresh brisket sandwiches on miniature slices of bread, and comic books. If my health improved, I was rewarded with a trip to the top of city hall for a view of the city my grandmother loved so much, and weather permitting, bobbing in her little rooftop pool while being fawned over by her “girlfriends.”

  I’m quite certain that my grandmother would have never lived in a gated age-segregated community like The Villages, even if she had had the money to do so. But that doesn’t stop me from seeing a little bit of her in many of the people I meet. And while I suspect that Grandma would have had little use for the likes of Mr. Midnight and his overt sexuality and hedonism, I find him fun. I resolve to quit sulking, and make some new friends.

  The following evening, I attend an affinity club meeting for former residents of my home state, Massachusetts. More than 200 Villagers are gathered around long folding tables in a powder-blue room with fake wainscoting and a fluorescent-lit drop ceiling. The first order of business is inviting new members to come up to the makeshift podium and introduce themselves. Many of the attendees speak with heavy Boston accents. Behind them, the club’s flag is draped over a hanging picture frame.

  “Hi, I’m Annie, and I’m from Agawam,” one woman says. “I moved heah one month ago.”

  “Welcome, Annie!” the crowd says in unison.

  “Hi
, my name is Nick; and this is my wife, Anita. I was tired of the wintahs so we sold the house and came down heah and we’ve been in love evah since. My wife still likes to go back to Massachusetts, so we visit a lot. I went back for a Red Sox game but I couldn’t go because I pulled my back that mahning. They lost seven to three. But it was a good visit north anyway.”

  Next, we are treated to tonight’s entertainment: Sheldon’s Village Stompers. A handsome silver-haired man steps onto a dance platform on the far side of the room. He’s wearing white slacks, a white shirt, and a red bolo tie.

  “Good evening, Massachusetts!” Sheldon says.

  “Good evening,” the crowd responds.

  “Back when I started the Stompers in 1992, I was the only clogger in The Villages. All the rest learned it here. My wife and I are from Acton and we’re very happy to do a show for our Massachusetts neighbors!”

  Six women spill into the room, dressed in red-and-white checked skirts and frilly white blouses. They wear patent leather shoes with metal taps attached to the soles that make a delightful jiggling-clanking sound when they walk. Sheldon turns on a small boom box and “Next to You, Next to Me” flows out of its speakers. The women snap into formation and start a synchronized stomping, like elder Rockettes. Each step sounds like tiny cymbals.

  For the next song, “Cluck Old Hen,” six men enthusiastically jump onto the dance floor. They are dressed just like Sheldon, who remains beside the portable stereo directing the action. Several of the men have comb-overs that occasionally need readjusting during the performance. The men and women skip around in a sort of square dance.

  After they whoop and holler through a few more jigs, they leave the stage, and Sheldon introduces his friend Phil, who plays a medley of polka songs on a pair of short thick wooden sticks called “bones,” which rest between his knuckles. Phil flails his knuckles rhythmically, smiling at the audience.

  After the performance, the meeting is adjourned and I start chatting with my tablemates. I zero in on a woman who is dressed as if she just walked in from the Boston Common. She wears a turtleneck and a sheer pink cardigan and carries a quilted handbag with a bland preppy pattern. Her name is Carol, and all evening she has looked like a deer in the headlights.