Leisureville (22 page)

But Roberts grew wary when The Villages lobbied commissioners in Bushnell to approve, all at once, plans for 30,000 more homes. It concerned him that the massive expansion had too little of the sort of commercial development that keeps county coffers afloat through tax revenues. Retirees may use fewer county services than younger residents, but they still use some. Otherwise, Villagers wouldn't need their own sheriff's substation and county annex.

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.”

I
REACHED THE NADIR OF MY EXPERIENCE OF
T
HE
V
ILLAGES' 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 rope, 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.