Most of the people who retire to Florida are wrinkled and they lean on a crutch;
And mobile homes are smothering the Keys; I hate those bastards so much.
I wish a summer squall would blow them all, way up to Fantasy Land;
They’re ugly and square, they don’t belong here, they looked a lot better as beer cans.
–Jimmy Buffett, Migration
I have always had mixed feelings about Florida. Growing up in Chicago, the state always had a magical appeal as a place where it was always warm, and it never snowed. Then I lived in Florida for eight years starting in 1989, and Kathleen joined me when we married in 1991. I was studying and teaching at the University of Florida at the time, and we thoroughly enjoyed our time there. Gainesville is different than most of the rest of the state, however, as it is not on water, and it is not a tourist destination for most people. On this recent trip, as we drove south through the state, traffic became steadily more congested, and most of the coastal areas we could see were heavily developed with expensive homes and high-rise hotels and condos. Usually, the building of new residential or commercial areas in Florida comes at the expense of the natural environment and endangers a fragile ecosystem. In many ways, this has been the story of Florida since 1912, when Henry Flagler’s railroad first stretched down the east coast of the state to Key West and opened south Florida to development by wealthy northerners who wanted winter homes in a warm climate.
We are staying in the home of a friend in a subdivision called Burnt Store Isles. The area and the twenty-mile-long road that gives it its name come from a story that is shrouded in mystery and legend. Apparently, there was a trading-post store near here in the 1840s that was damaged by a hurricane and a fire. Whether the fire was from a natural (e.g. lightning) or intentional source (e.g. angry Seminole natives) is part of the mystery, but I love those place names that result from historical events in the distant past. This home is gorgeous, with most of the living space in an open, high-ceilinged room that contains the kitchen, living room, and two dining areas. The large room faces a great screened patio with another dining area, a small, heated pool and hot-tub, and a comfortable deck. To top it off, the home sits on a canal that winds its way to Alligator Creek and, eventually, to the Gulf of Mexico. This morning, I sipped coffee on the dock while watching 12-16-inch fish go airborne pursuing insects and seeing a family of alligators circling nearby in search of breakfast.
While walking in the mornings, I have been confronted by my conflicted feelings about Florida. Most days, I walked along a bike path that parallels Highway 41, also known as the Tamiami Trail (A contraction of “Tampa-to Miami”). Regarded as an engineering marvel when it was built in the 1920s, the road traversed a 275-mile route that included “America’s Last Frontier,” the Everglades. Walking next to mangrove swamps just after dawn reminded me that, no matter where you are in the state, you are never far from nature in a raw form. Let’s just say that “pest control” people around here earn their keep. Whether it is native species such as alligators, crocodiles (there are still a few remaining in brackish areas), and bobcats, or invasive critters like wild boars, you are usually within a stone’s throw of some animal that would love to prey on your pet or destroy your backyard garden. Most disruptive of all are the Burmese Pythons that grow to over 20 feet and can kill full-grown gators. Native to SE Asia, the first of these pythons were spotted in the Everglades in 1980. Their population is growing rapidly, however, and today it is estimated that over 300,000 of them live in Florida. And don’t even get me started on the insects. Needless to say, I kept a wary eye to my right as I walked each day.
Then I returned to the subdivision in which we are staying, and some startling contradictions slapped me in the face. The homes in Burnt Store Isles are beautiful and well-maintained. As the sun rises each morning, a small army of gardeners and landscapers flood into the area in the never-ending struggle to tame nature and keep it at bay. As the day unfolds, the cacophony of new construction can be heard over the soothing sounds of the natural environment. I have discovered that this sub-division was a wilderness of mangrove swamps just 25 years ago. Developers dredged out a regular pattern of canals so that every home here sits on the water and the owners can be close to nature. This all reminded me of the irony that, fifty years ago, Walt Disney clear-cut an actual jungle near Orlando in order to build an artificial one for the Jungle Cruise ride in Fantasyland. These thoughts are intended to be observations, not judgments. I don’t have any answers—after all, what the hell do I know? Lots of questions occur to me, though, and the obvious one is, How much development is too much?
Yesterday, we purchased a local newspaper and two front-page stories jumped out at me. In both cases, once-thriving communities of rental properties, small houses, and mobile homes had been bought out by developers. Now the inhabitants, many of them Vietnam vets, retired folks, or elderly people on limited, fixed incomes, have been ordered to leave so that more new, high-end homes could be built. Like the native animals and Seminoles before them, these people were being forced to move so that someone else could make more money.
I know I sound like the classic outsider criticizing the people who actually live here all the time. After all, I am staying in a wonderful house in a wonderful subdivision, and we are grateful for every minute of it. I also need to stress the fact that, despite my jaundiced view on some aspects of this state, there is still something intriguing and appealing about Florida, and I can’t help but think it’s an incredible place. The warm air and sunshine certainly feels good after a River Falls winter. The tropical breeze carries flowery scents that I haven’t enjoyed for a long time. The numerous bars around here have exotic drinks and live music, and they generate a festive atmosphere at all times. (More on this in the next installment) And no matter where you are in the state, you can drive to the ocean or the Gulf of Mexico in an hour or less. Hell, I’d like to live here all the time, despite Florida’s flaws.
So, I’d like to finish with another quote from that same Jimmy Buffett song. He was speaking of the Caribbean in general, but the idea certainly applies to my feelings about Florida.
If I ever live to be an old man, I’m gonna sail down to Martinique.
I’m gonna buy me a sweat-stained, Bogart suit and an African parakeet.
And then I’ll set him on my shoulder, and open up my trusty old mind.
I’m gonna teach him how to cuss, teach him how to fuss,
And pull the cork out of a bottle of wine.